Page 98 of Just This Once

It’s an insult to me, clearly, but also to my mother. As if she raised me that way. As if I can’t take care of myself. Like he believes.

“Always needs someone cleaning up after his messes,” he says into his wine, as if he can’t even be bothered to spend a few seconds insulting me. I’m not even worth losing a sip of wine over.

But before I can argue, Taryn jumps to my defense, stepping toward him with her hand up, forcing his attention on her. “I know you didn’t just implyyour soncan’t take care of himself while he is recovering from a near-fatal accident. I must have heard you wrong because you wouldn’t insult a man in need of assistance like that.”

“You haven’t known him as long as I have, young lady.” He shakes his head, a haughty laugh right in the face of the woman I love, but again, before I can come to her defense, she sticks out her hand, pressing it to my chest, a silent message.I got this.

“My name is Taryn, not young lady, and I may not have known Dante as long as you have, but I obviously know him better. Which is a shame. Because he isyourson. The son who could have opened up his own renovation business by now but has stayed loyal to you and this family. Even after you mutter disrespectful barbs—” she holds up her finger to silence him when he opens his mouth “—and don’t try to tell me you don’t do it, because I know from the few minutes of being around you the kind of man you are, making him smaller so you can feel bigger. What I want to know is what you’re so intimidated by. His competence in his work? His tenacity and determination? His joy in life? Or maybe all of the above? Because as a mother, I can’t for the life of me figure out why a father would be so intent on embarrassing his child.”

Dad’s jaw flaps a few times until he finally sputters out, “I was joking, of course?—”

“Right. Of course,” Taryn says with a sarcastic thumbs-up that has me smiling against my fist.

God, I love her for sticking up for me, but it’s my turn now.

“She’s right. I could have left a long time ago. I have business cards and private work offers piled up. I’ve stayed because Moretti Construction is important to me. But it’s not everything.” I snake my arm around Taryn’s shoulders, pulling her back against my chest. “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t speak, but when he tries to turn on his heel, my mom is there, blocking his path. She eyes him with a scowl. “We almost lost him, Robert. If that doesn’t wake you up to what we have, then there is nothing I can do for you anymore. I’m done being quiet. I’m not gonna put up with your bullshitand your cheating anymore. I’m done trying to keep the peace. You better start appreciating everything you have and respectingeveryonein this family, or I’m out.”

There is a short standoff, one where I cannot guess which way it will go, though nothing comes of it. My father takes the coward’s way out and slinks away, wineglass in hand. When he’s out of sight, Mom yanks Taryn back into her arms, physically towing her away from me to kiss her temple and sing her praises more. Then she does the same to me, whispering about how proud she is of me, and that she is behind me, no matter what I decide to do, except losing Taryn. She warns me to treat her right with a smack to my arm.

As if there is any other way.

She packs up cookies for us to take home and then walks us all to the door, where she hugs Maddie and Jake like they are her own grandkids, and when we’re all seated in Taryn’s car, Jake blows out a big breath. “The food was good, but the people…”

“I know.” I chuckle and hold my fist out for a bump. “Thanks for coming and hanging out. It means a lot for you all to be there and meet my family.”

By the time we get home, it’s almost ten and Maddie decides she’s going to go watchWickedon her iPad, and I swear she could perform the whole movie word for word if asked. Jake heads upstairs too, so with only a few hours until Santa is supposed to come down the chimney, Taryn and I are alone in the living room with the artificial Christmas tree lit up in the corner with homemade ornaments from the kids over the years and a few gifts piled up underneath.

I pull her next to me on the couch before digging into my pocket. “I have something for you.”

“If it’s your dick, you can keep it.”

I hold out a small box in the palm of my hand. “Not quite.”

She looks from it to me then back to it. It’s too big to be a ring box, but it is still unmistakably a jewelry box.

“Dante,” she chides quietly, and I extend my hand toward her, silently urging her to take it. She does eventually, and she tears off my terrible wrapping to reveal the black box, which she opens. “Dante,” she says again, this time almost in reverence.

She carefully lifts the necklace out of the package to study the engraved gold pendants. A larger one with a violet flower, and two smaller ones with the initials J and M on each. Her eyes widen, and she peers over at me, speechless.

“I know you’re not big on jewelry. I’ve never seen you wear earrings or rings, but… If you don’t like it, I won’t be offended.”

“No, I do. I do. I love it. It’s perfect,” she says and leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Thank you.” She passes her thumb over each engraving before she places it back in the box and sets it on the coffee table. “I have a present for you too.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and cross my fingers, muttering, “Please be a boob sculpture. Please be a boob sculpture.”

She socks me in the arm, and I laugh, tugging her close for a kiss. “So, it’s not a boob sculpture?”

“No, you degenerate.” She pushes off the couch and plucks a small gift from under the tree. “But I did make it.”

Her present is wrapped to perfection, including shiny paper, a bow, and a real tag. Not a sticker from the dollar store. I almost don’t want to ruin it, but the pull is too much, and I rip that sucker open then tear into the cardboard box.

“I made it extra wide,” she says when I lift up the ceramic coffee mug with her signature sandstone look. This one goes from red to brown to black in an ombre effect. It’s extra-large with a handle I can stick my fingers through. I remember randomly complaining one day at The Nest that somany coffee mugs are made for dainty hands. And this woman went and created my very own.

“I love it. But I want to keep it here.”

She easily agrees, smiling into a kiss that quickly escalates, until we’re both breathing hard and my hands are tangled in her hair. She eventually takes my gift and puts it on the table next to hers then stands up, a gleam in her eyes that makes my pulse thrum.

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