Fourth & Inches Page 3

  “Your dad is coming?”

  He nods. “It’s the first time he’s been here since . . .”

  Since J.J. spiraled out of control one too many times and lost his job. J.J.’s father—better known to football fans as Bertrum Abernathy “The Abs” Sanchez—had come out to try and bring him back home to San Diego. They’d exchanged some less-than-familial words and hadn’t seen each other since.

  If his father is coming here, it means . . . well, I’m not entirely sure what it means. But it’s significant all the same.

  “You should probably head to the airport,” I say, not wanting to create any more tension between the men by a late arrival. “I have things covered here.”

  “I could stay until Brook gets here.”

  I cover his hand with mine and give it a squeeze. “I’m sure Brook will be here any minute. Besides, you’ve done more than enough. Thank you.”

  J.J. still doesn’t look convinced, and—to be totally honest—I’m not entirely convinced either. That Brook will be here soon or that I have any of this covered. But J.J. deserves a reconciliation with his father. They’ve waited years for this. There’s no sense in delaying it any longer.

  To prove that I’ll be fine—or at least give the illusion of being fine—I push myself up and resume my spot at the stroller. The line has moved. Some. But at this point, I’ll take any progress over none.

  Joining me, J.J. offers his hand to Booker. “I wish I had more time to talk with you, but I have a flight to catch.”

  “You’re flying out?” Booker asks.

  “Picking up my father actually.”

  Booker’s eyes widen. In a hushed voice he says, “The Abs is coming to Lincoln? He’s my hero.”

  A slow grin spreads across J.J.’s face. “I’d say you’re one of his heroes, too.”

  And there isn’t a hint of jealousy in his tone. My heart swells with pride. J.J. Sanchez has come a long way.

  Inspiration strikes. “Why don’t you go with him?”

  Both men turn to stare at me. I plaster a grin on my face. “You wouldn’t mind dropping—” I pause to glance around and make sure no one is listening, “—him off at his hotel after?”

  “Sure.” J.J. lifts a shoulder idly though his eyes sparkle. “It’d be our pleasure. And maybe we can grab a bite.”

  “Dinner with both Sanchezes?” Booker’s face lights up. “So cool.”

  My nausea long forgotten, my mood brightens considerably at their enthusiasm. “Booker has been craving a burrito.”

  “I think we could come up with something better than that.”

  I lower my voice. “Just as long as he isn’t recognized.”

  Seeming to understand the situation, J.J. nods. “I feel guilty taking all of your help.”

  “We’ll be fine.” And with a wave to both men, it’s just the boys and me.

  With both boys dozing idly, I keep myself busy by checking my line-up. I shake my head in disbelief, still not quite able to wrap my head around the fact that my starting quarterback had been standing next to me only a few minutes ago. More, I’d managed to get through the whole exchange without doing anything too embarrassing. Well, besides the vomiting incident. Still, I hadn’t said anything about fantasy football, which is a win for me.

  I get a new text from Brook.

  Just got pulled into a meeting. But I’ll be there soon.

  I eye the line ahead of us and frown. The good news is it appears we won’t have to wait much longer for our meeting with Santa. The bad news: There’s just about no way Brook will be here in time.

  Not wanting to pick a fight, I ignore the text and take out my annoyance on Wade. I punch in a few words and send a text to him.

  Are you still on track to be salesmen of the year at the car dealership?

  Yeah. Why?

  Good. Because it’s the only prize you’ll be winning this year after my team beats you down.

  Then I put my phone away, a grin on my lips.

  As we inch closer, I consider a plan of attack for our meeting with Santa. I’m not worried about Tate. He’s still young enough and—frankly—a cool enough customer, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Clay is another story. Last year he cried, but this year, he hasn’t been able to talk about much else. I’d hate for him to have a meltdown and be disappointed.

  Our pediatrician says the average two-year-old knows more than two-hundred words.They can string together short sentences, like “Me want cookie.” “Me not tired.” “Me won’t go.”

  It’s all very Tarzan.

  Naturally more than half of Clay’s vocabulary comes from his father’s football playbook. Words like “touchdown” and “go for two” and “leave it all out on the field” have a whole lot of meaning for my oldest. I wonder if there’s a way of combining his football knowledge with his enthusiasm for Santa to get a good picture.

  By the time we reach the front of the line—sans Brook, which I’m not going to think about right now—I have an idea.

  An elf helps me unstrap the boys from the stroller. Tate’s eyes have gone wide, and I can’t resist smiling at how much he looks like pictures of his father at this age. Clay—of course—is fighting any assistance.

  “I’m a big boy,” he insists, as he slaps the elf’s hand away.

  “We don’t hit,” I remind him before apologizing to the elf, who seems unphased.

  “It happens all the time.”

  I don’t know whether to be relieved or sad by that remark. But I don’t have time to dwell as I take my boys by the hand and guide—or in one case drag—them to Saint Nick.

  The red-suited man has obviously seen better days. His hat droops to one side and his beard must have been dislodged by a previous visitor, because it’s slightly askew. I say a quick prayer that might kids don’t leave him in a worse stay.

  Belting out a raspy “ho ho ho” Santa takes a still awed Tate on one knee and a squirming Clay on the other.

  “And what would you little boys like for Christmas?”

  Tate’s jaw drops open and nothing comes out, while he gapes up at the man. Clay wriggles and shouts out, “Football.”

  Santa gives another weak “ho ho ho” and nods to the photographer. That’s my cue to get the boys posed. I can’t believe I haven’t tried this before. But there’s one word both Clay and Tate know, and it’s one to surely make them appear excited instead of shellshocked and petulant.

  The photographer counts down and as he reaches one, I shout, “Touchdown.”

  Both boys’ arms fly up in the air and their legs go out as they shout the word in reply, joy on their faces. But I can only stare in horror as Tate’s little fist connects with Santa’s already red nose and Clay’s foot connects squarely with Jolly Old Saint Nick’s jolly old you know whats.

  Santa yelps as I lunge at the boys. My face grows hot while I stammer an apology. I’m vaguely aware of the children crying behind me as I grab hold of each of my children.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say for the twentieth time, but Santa waves me off.

  “Put up the sign,” he calls out to the elf, who has a smirk on his face.

  The “Santa will return in 15 minutes. Off to feed reindeer” sign goes up and the children’s cries turn into wails. Unable to meet anyone else’s eyes, I strap the boys back into their stroller and shove it away.

  “That was definitely a penalty,” I say to no one in particular. “If there were refs, we’d all have yellow flags.”

  “Damn refs!” Clay calls from his seat. “DAMN REFS!”

  A passerby darts me a dirty look, and I’ve never wanted to disappear more in my life.

  Chapter 5: Off Sides

  With my face still red, I push a sobbing Tate and a still kicking and flailing Clay toward the food court. Neither of them ate much for their late afternoon snack—or first dinner, as Brook calls it—and I’m hoping I can bribe them into submission with tater tots and chicken strips.

  I know. Mom of the Year right here. Like so many
others before me, when I was pregnant with Clay I swore I wouldn’t feed my kids fast food or convenience foods like boxed macaroni and cheese or frozen mini corn dogs. I didn’t last long with that plan. I also caved on screen time. I’d vowed to keep tablets and touch screen phones away from them until kindergarten, but that ship sailed the first time I had Wade and Amelia’s kids over for a day with no other adult supervisor.

  Right now as I stand in line to buy my kids their bribes, it all feels like a metaphor for my life somehow. Nothing has turned out the way I planned. Most of the time, that’s a good thing. But right now, in this instance, more than anything I wish just one thing would go the way it should.

  With a tray of junk food perched on the handles of the double stroller I stare blankly ahead of me. It’s like every ounce of energy has been zapped out of me. I’m numb. And maybe that isn’t the worst thing.

  “You look like you could use a friend,” a deep voice booms beside me.

  Despite my fogginess, I turn and come face to face with Santa Clause. My eyes widen and I brace myself for a tongue-lashing. Only I realize this isn’t the man my boys humiliated and nearly emasculated moments ago. With his hat jauntily perched atop his head, a fresh crushed velvet suit, and a cheerful grin, this Santa hasn’t yet been jaded by the crowd awaiting him.

  I open my mouth to speak, but that familiar—and unwelcome—scent from before overwhelms me. I clench my mouth closed and nearly drop the tray.

  Santa springs into action, grabbing the tray with one hand and guiding me to a nearby empty table with the other. Setting down the food on the table, he reappears a moment later with a high chair and booster seat, which he helps the boys into.

  Having apparently forgotten their previous run-in with the other Santa, both Clay and Tate happily accept his help as he places the food in front of them. I’m vaguely aware I should be doing something, but I can only watch.

  Now turning is attention to me, Santa gives a worried look. “Can I get you something to settle your stomach?”

  I nod stupidly, still not quite sure what’s going on. Once again, in a flash, Santa materializes with a paper cup.

  I reach for my purse with my one free hand. “Here, let me get you some money.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, waving a crisp white glove. “In this get-up, all of the stands will pretty much give me whatever I want to drink.”

  Apparently being Santa has its privileges.

  “I’m not sure what it is,” he says, handing me the cup. “I can never remember who sells which kind of products, but I asked for a citrus pop.”

  “Thank you,” I say, hoping it’s of the lemon/lime variety and not grapefruit. After an unfortunate incident involving puking into a trash in front of Brook’s offensive line when I was pregnant with Tate, I’ve been too scared to try it again. Which is too bad. Those used to be my favorite flavored sodas and pops to use as vodka mixers.

  And—though I probably shouldn’t admit this right now given what’s baking in my utero oven—I could really go for a shot of something—anything—to take the edge off of this evening. Cautiously, I raise the cup to my lips and sip.

  I take another sip of whatever lemon lime soda this fresh-from-break Santa has found me. My sense of smell and taste are already so screwed up, I can’t tell. It’s just sweet and—for the moment—it appears to be keeping the nausea at bay.

  Seemingly sensing that my stomach and mood have settled, Santa gestures to an empty seat at the table.

  “May I?”

  “Please.” It’s all I can say, as my head continues to spin with bewilderment.

  Once seated, Santa folds his hands over his belly and reclines in his seat. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you’d like for Christmas.”

  Not detecting anything sinister or ironic in his tone, I let out a sigh. “I wish my husband would be here when he says he’ll be here.”

  My stomach drops and shame washes over me. I can’t believe I’ve said that out loud.

  But Santa nods in understanding. “Tell me about your husband.”

  Though it’s highly irregular, and I still can’t quite believe this is happening, I give Santa the finer points and highlights of Brook and I’s relationship and everything that has brought me here to this food court alone. I even confess to the bun in the oven—which means there are now three men in on this secret before I’ve even told the father. But I can’t seem to help myself. The more I speak—and the more Santa nods in understanding—the more I find myself saying.

  Now stroking his long beard, Santa arches an eyebrow. “You’re worried.”

  Mall Santa is good. He’s seen right through me and my fears. There’s no point in denying it now.

  I nod, sniffling again. “I am worried. Not about whether or not Brook will be happy about the baby. I know he will. And,”—I place a protective hand over my belly—“I already love this little one.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  I let out a breath. “I already feel like I’m struggling to make it work.”

  “Make what work?”

  “My life.” Another tear slips down my cheek. “My business is steady. Growing actually. I’m at the point where I need to hire more help to keep up with it, but I’m not sure I can totally afford the salaries.”

  Amelia says we can. I almost laugh at the irony of that. For years, I’ve been the brave one. The one who says we can and should push the limits to see how far we can go. Now I’m the one pulling on the reins, saying we need to slow the whole ship down again.

  And if that isn’t a mixed metaphor—reins and ships—I’m not Harper MacLaughlin.

  “Then there’s the boys,” I continue, looking over to the two light-haired toddlers chowing down on tater tots. “I love them so much. But my hands are already full. And I only have two of them.”

  “Boys?”

  “And hands.” I give a humorless laugh then. “I’m already worried I’m not being a good enough mother to them. Or a supportive enough wife. Or a reliable enough friend. I feel like I’m barely treading water in this pool of life. What if I can’t stay afloat?”

  Santa gives an understanding nod, and then clears his throat. “Can I let you in on a little secret?”

  “Sure. Why not?” At this point I’ve basically spilled my guts to the guy. He might as well have his say.

  Leaning forward, he lowers his voice. “No one really has it all figured out. All any of us can do is our best.”

  It’s advice I’ve seen in hundreds of Facebook posts over the years, but somehow spoken in his sincere tone, they take on new meaning.

  “It’s obvious you love your family,” Santa continues, glancing toward the boys who are miraculously eating their food without causing a scene or creating a mess. “Now do me a favor. Make sure to save a little of that love for yourself. Because you deserve it. We all deserve love. It’s the most powerful, magical force in the world. Can you do that?”

  My eyes fill with tears, and I nod. “I can.”

  “Good.” He reaches over and pats me on the shoulder before rising to his feet. “I hate to leave you, but I’ve got a line of children awaiting me.”

  “Thank you, Santa. For everything.”

  A full grin spreads across his face. “Merry Christmas, Harper.”

  And he leaves just as suddenly as he appeared. He’s gone a full minute before I realize I never told him his name. My eyes widen, but before I can do anything or fully process what’s happened, I hear my name called again. Only this time it’s from a voice I recognize all too well.

  I turn in my seat to see Brook jog across the food court with the agile, athletic ease of his. All of my earlier annoyance toward him is gone.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” he says a moment before pressing a quick kiss to my lips. They’re still cold from the outdoors. He ruffles the hair on both of the boys’ heads before taking the seat next to mine. “I went to find you in the line but realized I’d already missed you.”


  I arch an eyebrow. “How’d you figure that out?”

  He pulls a card out from his pocket and hands it to me with a hint of humor on his lips. Cautiously, I turn my gaze toward it and groan. There, in full color are Clay and Tate—arms thrust in the air, bright grins on their face—sitting on a furious Santa’s lap.

  Dropping the picture on the table, I bury my face in my hands. “What a nightmare.”

  “It’s kind of hilarious,” Brook says, but winces as I raise my head and glare at him. It’s then that I notice the guilt in his eyes. “At least we know it’ll be one of a kind.”

  I’m tempted to tell him exactly where he can shove the picture, but remembering my exchange with Santa, I let it go. Though he may drive me crazy, I love Brook MacLaughlin. And there’s no point in making him feel worse than he already does.

  Besides, he isn’t wrong. The picture is kind of hilarious. And it’s definitely one of a kind.

  Reaching for my hand, Brook’s thumb runs back and forth across the smooth skin, sending a shiver of delight down my spine.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks, concern plainly written on his face.

  “Fine.” I study his expression and get the sudden suspicion he might know something. “Why do you ask?”

  Not answering, he reaches into his pocket with his spare hand and pulls out a small bag. “I brought you a little something.”

  I tear my gaze away from his and look down at the package of dried ginger. Dried ginger. It was my favorite snack—and at times the only thing I could eat—early in my pregnancies with Clay and Tate. For Brook to have brought it, he’d have to . . .

  “Who told you?”

  “That we’re having another baby? No one.” A bright smile spreads across his face, and his eyes go shiny. “I noticed how uncomfortable you looked making the eggs this morning—and how fast you ran out of the room once they were on the table. Plus, you’ve seemed a little distracted.”

  “You put it together from all that?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Sure. I notice everything about you.”

  I hadn’t even realized he’d been paying that much attention to me or anything outside of the game. I should have, though. No matter how busy his job keeps him, he’s always been able to read me better than anyone else.