Page 16 of Sheep Calm and Merry On
“I understood the assignment. Anyway, don’t think you can just change the subject.” She speared him with a knowing stare. “Why haven’t you called the man who spent two hours staring at your fingers as you wound a ball of yarn yesterday?”
Devon fumbled the cheese. “He what?”
“It was not subtle, Devon. I thought he was going to launch himself at you mouth first. I felt like I should leave the room.”
Now that she mentioned it, it was kind of rude she hadn’t. “Why didn’t you?”
“Uh, because I’ve heard your ‘oh no what if a one-night stand sends me back on the road to perdition’ spiel.”
Recovering from the unexpected assault on his imagination, Devon protested, “Okay, first of all, I have definitely never used ‘perdition’ in a sentence.” He paused and then added, “And anyway, it was morning, so….”
“Oh, of course, it wouldn’t have counted. Silly me. But the point stands. You didn’t call him because…?”
For fuck’s sake. “It’s not rocket science, Amber. He’s cute and I’m nervous. That’s all.”
“Hmm.” She squinted. “You promise you’re not in a shame spiral where you keep repeating to yourself you don’t deserve good things because you used to be addicted to drugs?”
He held up his hand as though taking an oath. “Garden-variety butterflies. Promise.” Had Devon had those thoughts from time to time? Sure. Just because he’d done therapy didn’t mean he was all better.
But he was also, as previously mentioned, a romantic. Sometimes good things happened to you and the right thing to do was hold on and be grateful.
“Fine,” Amber said with a gusty sigh. “But if you haven’t called him by tomorrow I’m going to duct-tape you to a kitchen chair and put him on speakerphone.”
“I accept your terms.” He’d probably even thank her for it. “Do you think I could…?”
“What, here?” She looked skeptical, but then she seemed to reconsider as she looked around the den. “I mean, upstairs would be a disaster, your sister would take the phone and one of the crotch goblins would hit you with a hockey stick and start screaming. But here… yeah.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “I’d have to go back upstairs, though, so—pass.”
“Amber,” Devon whined. He rolled off the couch onto his knees—ow, mistake, he forgot he got addicted to painkillers for a reason—and folded his hands as if in prayer. “How am I supposed to woo Noah if you don’t get out of my face so I can call him?”
That earned him a gentle kick to the kidneys. “It’s Christmas. He’s probably with his family. You can’t call him when he’s with his family. It’ll be awkward.”
Right, right. He could see how that might be self-sabotaging too. He’d have to wait until, like, after dinner sometime? Like eight?
Jesus Christ, why hadn’t he called Noah yesterday?
“Devon? Are you down here?”
Damn. “Yeah, Ma.”
Footsteps on the stairs, and then she peered around the bulkhead into the basement. “Are you hiding from the children?” she asked after a moment, her voice laced with amusement.
“If I say no, will you believe me?”
“No,” she answered, tone of voice changing not at all.
“Then yes. What’s up?”
“If I promise to run interference with the ankle-biters, will you come help peel potatoes? Bronwyn’s a bit overwhelmed.”
Well maybe if she hadn’t invited half the state to spend Christmas here…. But Devon could hardly fault his sister for her generosity, even if it came heavy-handed sometimes. (“If you don’t show up I will send Gable to come get you, Devon, and I’ll tell him to make sure you wear the itchiest sweater Amber’s ever knitted.”) “Coming!”
“Oh, and Amber, sweetheart”—Ma only called her that when she wanted something, and unfortunately for Amber, the sucking up worked every time—“a few of the little ones have it in their heads to go play on the rink Gable built. They could use an extra set of adult eyes for supervision, if you’re up to it?”
Sucker, Devon mouthed, content in the fact that his back was to his mom and she couldn’t see him. They both knew Amber would rather have peeled the potatoes, but his mother would never ask him to supervise kids playing hockey.
Amber, unfortunately, had her face towards her, so she couldn’t even covertly give him the finger. “Of course, Mrs. Hughes.”
Devon didn’t think anything of the request at the time—why would he? Nobody wanted to peel twenty pounds of potatoes by themselves—but then his mother handed him a peeler and an apron and a potato, and not thirty seconds later, she said, “Did you know Gable’s stepbrother is back in town?”
