She widens her eyes, calling me out.
“Kyle was a blip. A hung blip. Do you know how many houses this Goldie Locks had to break into to find the right size? It’s a shit show, a toss of the dice. Seriously, and I didn’t want to run up more mileage without a good stick to drive.”
“Your analogies are a lot like a man’s.”
“Probably because I’m starting to think a little like one.”
“Do you think Eli’s the reason you never marr—”
“Don’t you dare. No dick has ever or will ever have that much power over me.” Even as I say it, I feel a slight gnaw in my gut. “All hearts break differently, and God, it hurt, but I haven’t not given other men a chance because of him.”
No gnaw. That’s the truth. She continues to stare at me and hesitates.
“What?”
“Do you feel like me bitching about Thatch has affected the way you view marriage?”
The slight shake in her voice has me squeezing her hand. “No, babe, you and Thatch are fantastic examples of marriage done right. Even when you ugly fight. I promise you, even if you can’t see it, it’s just a rough patch.”
She brings watery eyes to mine.
“I want the za za zu back.”
“Don’t we all. Maybe a dose of it would be good for me too,” I admit. “Maybe it’ll stave off Miranda a bit longer. But Eli is not the solution.”
“We’re a perfect example of grass is greener syndrome, aren’t we? Polar opposite lifestyles and neither of us seems to be content.”
“I think that’s just life, right?”
She nods while taking Peyton from my arms and stands. “You know…he didn’t tell Brenden you two dated, so there’s more to why he’s here. When I confronted him earlier, I asked him if he knew you would be here, and he refused to answer me. There’s more to this than you think.”
“Pack it up, Sherlock.” The threat in my tone is enough to shut her up for the moment. “Get it out of your head. There will be no reconciliation. Christmas is business as usual. No projecting your za za zu hopes on me.”
“Everything isn’t always what it seems. And let’s face it, he’s spending Christmas with our family.” Her chest pumps. “Ha! He’ll be regretting that shit decision with or without our help.”
I smile. “That’s so true. Dumbass. He has no idea what he’s in for. Just remember, we broke up for a reason—a very good reason—I saw stars, and he stole them from me and ran. So no, this is not a second chance with him. This is not some awesome twist of fate.”
“I’m here for you if you need me.”
“I’m fine. This is about the kids. Period. He’s not ruining my time with them or our Christmas.” Serena nods, retreating with our baby toward the door, and I speak up, eyeing the table-top-sized Christmas tree Mom put in the corner just for me, lights, ornaments, and all. “Mom is so awesome, isn’t she? She made everything perfect.”
Serena nods. “She did.”
“You know,” she starts, “I was your age when I had Peyton—”
“Get out, immediately, get out of my bedroom.”
“Fine,” her shoulders slump.
“Serena. You’re overly concerned and have already driven me to drink one too many tonight, okay? I love you, and I know you love me, but there’s a slim to zero chance I’ll ever be a mother or even marry at this point. I think I accepted it long before now, and you need to as well.”
“K,” she says, stroking Peyton’s back and stopping at the door. “Light on or off?”
“Off, please.”
She clicks it off and turns back to me, her profile lit by the soft glow of the tree lights. “You know, you might think you believe what you said about the cycle or whatever, but I also know if the right man came along, you’d still go through with it. All of it, because that’s your heart, Whitney. You’re a believer.”
When I don’t reply, she sighs in defeat. “Love you. Night.”
Cracking my neck due to the shit condition of the twin mattress, I pad lightly down the stairs, parched due to the amount of heat I’ve endured in the Raggedy Ann sweatshop.
At the threshold of the kitchen, a groan stops me. I peek around to see Eli, shirtless, in pajama bottoms scratching his perfect ass while opening the fridge. At thirty-nine, he’s still rocking one hell of a body, which is lethal to my senses. Muscular biceps, the perfect smattering of chest hair, cut pecs and between them…I squint in the dim light focusing on the tattoo strategically placed where his heart lay just beneath. I make out an EKG showing two distinct heartbeats. That’s new, or maybe it’s not, but it’s new to me. Just below are cut abs, a taught, toned stomach, and a hint of the dark happy trail that leads to—what I remember to be—the perfect cock. Eli set the standard, long, thick and veiny, with an oversized, mouthwatering tip. Time hasn’t been kind enough to rob me of that image. With one long, bittering drink of him, I decide we do hate him.