No way in hell was I gonna retreat to Dane’s office and have a drink—I know better—precisely the reason I stay to help my wife, and the others, clean up… Armageddon.
As do Dane and Sawyer, the other two “wise men.”
While working, we may take advantage of their absence, and of course discuss Zach and Bennett’s relationship.
‘Cause if your friends can’t dissect you behind your back, who can?
I don’t protest, though; everyone here wants nothing but the best for them.
“He has the ring; had it for a while now. Why he still hasn’t proposed is anybody’s guess,” I say.
“Maybe he’s afraid she’ll say no. I would.” Sawyer imparts his wisdom. His being the operative word there.
“Why would she possibly say no?” My pretty girl’s voice trembles with sincere, empathetic worry. “Short of the piece of paper, they’re as good as married and obviously very much in love. So why would she say no? I could talk to B-”
“No!” Five protests ring out in unison.
Laney continues on, “Whit, I know you mean well, and if anyone could approach it correctly, it’d be you, but…” She pauses to choose “Whitley wording,” which I’m praying she succeeds— my wife has a delicate heart-of-gold. “Bennett can be… unpredictable. Has been ever since… well… I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
We all know what she almost let slip out, then completely botched the recovery. Since we lost Tate, Bennett’s first love and Dane’s brother—better left insinuated than said, for Dane’s sake—but caught herself a little too late.
“Maybe they’re happy with the way things are,” Laney speaks fast and loud, covering the gap. “I think we should let them figure it out themselves. You know what they say, ‘if it’s not broke, don’t fix it.’ We need to leave it be.”
“I agree with Laney,” Emmett nods and adds.
“Okay, I won’t interfere. I just… I want them to be happy. And you’re right, they are, so, nose back in my own book.”
With that delicate heart-of-gold comes easy acceptance, forgiveness, and a straight line back to cheerful. An absolute doll; my wife. I hug her tiny frame against me and lay a kiss on her even tinier mouth. “Atta girl. Sure is sweet of you to care so much though.”
“Eleven-sixteen,” Dane randomly barks out of nowhere.
“If you’re not gonna take me up on that go have a drink offer, then make yourself useful. Quit watching the clock and get to cleaning faster,” Laney zings right back at him without missing a beat, shoving trash in the Hefty she’s holding with aggravated gusto. “At the very least, it’d be nice if my Christmas tree was in an upright position and the coffee table remnants were in the trash outside before going to bed. And for God’s sake, would someone please fetch the infamous carrot down from the ceiling fan!”
“Eleven-eighteen.”
“You heard me, Dane Kendrick,” she hisses at him.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’re y’all talking about with the countdown shit? Another bomb due to explode?” Sawyer asks, another example of his impeccable timing, while balancing—for lack of a better term, and the fact he’s yet to fall—his big ass on the arm of the couch to retrieve the talk of the night… the dangling carrot.
“Since it somehow escaped your attention that they’re havin’ a thing, and it’s probably best not to provoke them into elaborating, I’ll take a crack at it for them and say Dane’s reminding her of the ‘midnight cap’ he set before we got here. The time this shindig is to end.” I’m dead-on; guaranteed.
“Like Cinderella,” Whit coos.
Laney, upon hearing the word ‘Cinderella,’ forgets she’s mad and falls in line with a dreamy sigh and far-away eyes. “Oh my God, you’re right. I didn’t think of it like that. Well then; midnight it is, Caveman.” She gives him an easy smile.
Slick bastard.
So slick, he didn’t even have to do anything—Whitley laid the grease for him.
And thanks to my wife, just like that… he’s all smug grin and silence… knowing he’s now getting laid… for not knowing he made it about Cinderella.
Whatever works.
It was so long ago, it seems like… tomorrow, not yesterday, and no longer stings to admit—he’s perfect for Laney. He loves her in a way I never did, or would’ve been able to. A way that only he can, or could ever— as though possessed; in the best possible way, of course— a madness, combustibility, to their connection that more than obviously works for them.
And I love Whitley in many ways I never did Laney. Sometimes the journey’s unclear, no sense in sight, and often the climb can hurt; but if left in the right hands, things work out as… meant.
It was fated, etched in ancient stone, out of our control… we all ended up exactly where we fit best.
And for that—God, Laney, Dane, perhaps even a little myself—taking it from me, so I couldn’t screw up what was to be my wife, son, forever… I send up another one of many a ‘thank you.’
Then snap out of it, ready to get this show, and my truck, on the road. “Dane, for real this time, come help me hoist up your tree. Sawyer, haul the trash bags that are full and what’s left of the table to the big cans outside. What else needs done, ladies?”
“Kitchen’s clean and everyone’s piles of food and presents going home with them are sorted by the front door,” Emmett sounds a little relieved, more so excited, to announce.
“I’d say all that’s left is a quick sweep, once the tree’s standing, which I can do in the morning. So we’re done!” Laney’s so happy she claps her hands.
“Now it’s a merry Christmas. On three,” Dane counts off, and together, we get their monstrosity of a tree— seriously, same amount of presents fit under it whether it’s eight or eighteen foot tall— upright and brushing against the ceiling.
What’s the famous Christmas song, poem, story… whatever? Something about “there arose such a clatter?”
Yeah, that’s what happens.
Some of, okay, almost all, the ornaments don’t make the trip intact, falling, rolling and breaking… with such a clatter.
“It’s okay! Everything’s fine! Nobody panic!” Whit panics, shrilly, to say the very least. “I’ll have the… uh… survivors hung back up in a jiffy. Just as soon as”—she’s a’ searchin’—“I find some. Any one. Em, why don’t you go ahead and grab that broom now?”
I’m stone-still, braced for incoming, identical expectation transmitting, loud and clear, off an also frozen-in-place Dane. Any second now… Laney’s gonna detonate. Blast off. Crying, shrieking, ‘everything’s ruined’ female fireworks, the likes of which the Chinese Dynasty and their festivals have never seen. It’s what Whitley would do. For days. Weeks even, depending on which of our three trees took the beating.
Without looking directly at her, now’s not the time for eye contact, I keep a close watch on Laney—wanna see the blow before it lands—from the corner of one eye… and wait. Ready to duck. After I shield my wife.
I take a quick glance at Dane too; that smug confidence he was wearing from before no longer anywhere to be found, replaced with pissed-off dread. Yes, it’s dawned on him—what I could’ve told him—no more “sure thing” tonight, my friend. Not even Cinderella can fix this shitastrophe.
Ever the “hummingbird,” Whit flies into action, flitting across the room so fast you can’t see her wings move. Where she’s headed, I don’t know, but she’s stopped mid-flight by… Reverend Laney? No really, that’s the first thought her pose brings to mind—head down, one arm raised, palm up to the sky— as if ready to preach about something like it ain’t never been preached before.
“Stop,” she snaps… bit too brusque for a sermon.
“You ‘bout to pass around an offerin’ plate there, Gidge? No need, we’re all more than willin’ to chip in. And, please, no hymn. I’ve heard ya sing. You can’t. Definitely not anywhere near being able to take it to church, sister.” Sawyer laughs alone, the rest of us too afraid, or wise. It’s funny as hell, though… and, I nailed it—not the only one who thinks she’s impersonating an evangelist. A serious, one of the all-in, “lay hands,” may bring out some snakes, made for a T.V. telethon variety.
“Fuck you very much, Sawyer Beckett.” Alrighty, never mind. Not gonna let ‘er on T.V. with that mouth. “I sing like an angel. Plus, I get the words right! Yeah, I heard ya earlier, butchering “Away in a Manger.” It’s ‘no crib for his bed.’ Why wouldn’t there be room in a manger for a crib? It’s a manger, not a coat closet. And the cattle? They’re lowering, not mooing! So shut it!”
Wow, I didn’t realize she was so passionate about her singing. Which, he’s right again… she cannot do.
Hold up a sec; not done. There’s more.
“Oh, and while I’m at it, you know the Katy Perry song you love, but try to act like you don’t? Uh huh, that one. It’s ‘let your colors burst!’ Again, why would she need to let her ‘conscious work’?”
“You done?”
“Sawyer, honey-”
“Got it; do the inside my head thoughts thing,” he finishes for Emmett.
This, the end of “Battle of the Lyrics,” places us smack dab back in the even more exhilarating game of trying to guess, When. Where. Or. How. Badly. She’s. Gonna. Flip. Shit, and its accompanying cone of silence. The eerie calm before a F5 tornado drops down outta nowhere.
Super fun.
And just when I think she’s tipped her head back to let it all out—a battle cry that’ll shatter the windows (which we’ll have to stay and help fix too) —I catch a glimpse of her. The Laney I’ve always known. Laney Jo, the girl I grew up with, who never quite “fit the mold” of her peers. Her own laid-back, level-headed, “look for the sunshine” drummer.
And accordingly, she sets her beat… by busting out in laughter. The laugh—the one that once you’ve heard it, she’s forever, in one way or another, embedded in your soul.
The rest of us take turns eyeing one another, wordlessly, gathering and gauging the collective opinion on our safety, best escape plan, chances of survival, and who’s in charge of hiding the knives… while Laney keeps right on laughing. Which calls for another “group discussion”—speaking via arched brows, subtle head shakes, and enlarging of one’s eyes—on whether we believe the laughter to be the warning bell of a mad woman or a long, healthy “sometimes you just have to laugh so ya don’t cry” release.
“I swear, I’m gonna write a book,” she wheezes. It’s the latter; we’re safe. “About us, The Crew. It’ll have to go under Fiction, even though it’s not, since no one would believe even half the things in it… but damn if we make good print.”
“Before you beg,” Sawyer sighs, as though put out, “yes, you can use a picture of me on the cover.”
“Baby,” Dane speaks softly, approaching her with caution, “you good? Really? Not about to go postal?”
“Over what?” She shrugs. “We got to spend another holiday with our healthy, happy, amazing kids, friends, family. Opened presents we’re all blessed enough to be able to be able to afford, bought with love, thought. Have delicious food in our stomachs. No, I’m not gonna go postal. Far too blessed to throw a fit over a tree. Did our thing; we were done with it anyway, right? Only important things on it were any ornaments the kids made. And yeah, those were memories, but I was there, with them, when they made most of ‘em, so… I’ve still got the memories.” She taps one finger to her temple. “The best versions. Plus, I’ve laughed more tonight than I have since… since the last time we were all together. So yes, I’m A-Okay. I’m great and stocked with some new memories now too.”
“That was beautiful, and prophetic, Laney, but are you sure? If this is you masking-”
“Pretty Girl”—I stop my wife from diagnosing—“she’s sure. Time to go home. End on a high note. How ‘bout you say your goodbyes, and I’ll load up the truck?”
“What he said,” Sawyer whoops, racing toward his own pile needing loaded.