Page 117 of Pucked Up Plans
She’s still confused but intrigued. “Whose idea was this?”
“I started it when she was super young. I’m not sure if it was for her or me initially, but now it’s kinda for both of us. It’s the only thing she packs when she goes to her mom’s, and it’s always the first thing she does when she gets back here. Takes hers and leaves mine on my bed.”
“That’s the sweetest thing ever.”
“Ha. I’m glad someone thinks so. Megan thinks it’s the most ridiculous thing and can’t understand why Lennon wouldn’t want the same blanket every night.”
I stopped justifying it a long time ago. I’m fortunate Megan doesn’t express her opinions to Lennon because then we’d have a real problem.
“She’s jealous,” Tate states simply. She rests back against the pillow, pulling the comforter around to ward off the cool air. Or to be more comfortable without clothes.
“Why would she be jealous of me?”
“Seriously, Walsh? You comprehend what a unique bond you possess with Lennon, right? How fortunate Lennon is to have you for a dad?”
“But she’s her mom. She wins by default. Who doesn’t love their mom the most?” I speak from experience. I love Dad, but Ma? My love for her is on another level. And it’s more than because I share similar personality traits with her.
“I’m sure she loves Megan, but she idolizes you. I see it every time we’re together. Hands down, you would do anything for her, and in her little five-year-old way, she knows it.”
There’s a wistfulness in her tone. I have to wonder if it’s coming from her experience with her father or with the lack of a relationship between Aubrey and hers. I curl around her, fitting her into my arms, a favorite position of mine.
“You do the work of two parents. Aubrey’s incredibly lucky with you as her mom.” I kiss the top of her head. The weight she was holding drops off as she sags more into me.
“I’m just doing my best. I got lucky she’s so easy.”
“You say that as if you have nothing to do with it.”
“I’ve never been one to toot my own horn.”
Her comment loiters around us, the truth of it hanging heavy in the air.
“You should. You have much to brag about.”
I rest my head against the pillow, my eyes fluttering closed. Tate in my arms, I’m pretty damn comfortable. It’s a feeling I could get used to.
I never appreciated the way the town decorates for the holidays until I experienced it through Lennon’s eyes. Watching her discover the world can change my mood drastically, but there’s something so magical about this time of year. Lennon’s always been about the lights. The more color, the better.
Last year, Mom decided we needed white lights on our tree. My girl was pissed, and she let her grandmother have it. And as much as we tried not to pamper the then four-year-old, two days later, the tree was undecorated and redecorated with colored lights. Lennon profusely thanked Mom, her joy evident in the way she stared at the tree for hours at a time, lying underneath it for a better angle of just the lights. And to think I almost gavemy mom a hard time for making the change. It seriously made Christmas.
Every night during the season—unless the weather’s terrible—Mom sends us off with mugs of hot chocolate for our nightly “lights viewing.” On the days we have nothing going on, I’ve driven a good thirty minutes to neighboring towns for their displays. The elation on her face makes the amount spent on wasted gas worth every penny. Plus, I’ve learned to budget for it in the past few years.
Tonight, it’s extra special because we’ve got Tate and Aubrey along for the drive. I can’t contain my enthusiasm for showing Aubrey how much fun lights can be.
When they arrive, I usher them into the house. “Dinner’s ready. We have to eat quickly so we can get on the road.”
Probing me with a lift of her brow, Tate asks, “I didn’t realize driving around to view Christmas lights was such a production.”
“You haven’t seen Lennon Keeley in action.”
“Oh, she enjoys light displays?”
“Like a cat on catnip. You’ll see.” With a wink of my eye, I disappear, hoping she and Aubrey follow me to the kitchen.
After a quick, delicious meal of chicken soup, we pile into my truck. I had the foresight to move the car seat from Mom’s van into my truck earlier. Three travel mugs of hot cocoa, cookies, and a glass of milk and carrot sticks for Aubrey, we set off. I wind through back roads, past farms I can barely make out in the dark until we come to a street about fifteen minutes away.
“Look, Keeley. It’s the Grinch,” Lennon’s enthralled voice drifts to the front. “And Santa. And Rudolph. Oh, yes! Olaf!”
My attention drifts to the rearview mirror, watching them as we stop in front of each house on the street.
