God forbid they ever needed me—I would be entirely too far away in Colorado to do anything about it, and that was something I couldn’t think about without getting anxious.
“You’re not being a kiss-ass, you’re being persistent,” Mateo said. “Another one of your long list of qualities.”
“You could say that again,” Ophelia agreed.
“See?” Mateo shrugged, licking the flat end of a scraper clean.
The entire kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off in a bakery, and I was certain we’d used pots and pans I’d never seen before in my life.
When we first moved in, Mateo’s mother bombarded us with appliances. Air fryer, coffee pot, dehydrator that I wouldn’t even know what to do with if someone gave me a step-by-step instruction. If it wasn’t odd enough that two men in their thirties were moving into a house together, add in gifting us things you’d only find on a fucking wedding registry and it all started to feel like we should just take it to the courthouse.
That ridiculous line I’d fed to Ophelia about being common law married might have made that flirty little dimple on her cheek shine, but I was hardly joking.
The oven door closed and Tally turned around, wiping her hands on her shorts. “All right, first batch in, second batch chilling.” She set a timer on her cell phone and slid it in her pocket.
Silence swelled between us. This entire night was built on the understanding that Mateo and his girlfriend would be occupied with one another, therefore leaving Ophelia and me to our own devices. I stood there with my hands in my pockets, waiting for one of the two of them to hold up their end of the agreement so that I could get back to negotiating mine.
Mateo made a clicking noise with his tongue to get my attention and vaguely nodded his head in the direction of the hallway.
Yes, dumbass, I insisted with my eyes.
“We’ll be back.” He grabbed Tally by the hand and pulled her toward the bedroom, mumbling something that made her laugh.
Ophelia had started busying herself at the sink, touching and cleaning things, running the dirty mixing spoon under the tap and soaping up a sponge.
“Leave it,” I instructed her. I didn’t want her thinking she had to make a fuss over the mess, and I absolutely didn’t want to give off the impression I expected a woman to clean up anything in my kitchen.
“It’s the least I could do,” she said with a soft smile. “Thank you for setting this up. I can’t remember the last time I made Christmas cookies for fun. I used to do it with my parents all the time before the divorce.” Her little smile evened out.
I could never identify with the toll it must take on a kid to feel like an outsider in their own home. When my dad passed away, my mother made sure we never went a day without saying “I love you.” Things like that were so vital to the unit we built in the absence of a father figure. It was strange to understand a family dynamic with a lack of communication, or lack of undoubted love.
While my mind raced with the prospect of continuing that hot and heavy segment with Ophelia, I cared more about making her laugh again at that moment than anything. I cared more about making sure she knew I cared, rather than getting under her.
And this way, we could talk without the raw temptation of sleeping together being the focal point. Friends with benefits didn’t mean anything without the friends part first.
“What’s in the bags, Trouble?” I motioned to the tote the size of Santa’s sack on the couch. “Hiding a body?”
She lightened up again and my chest unclenched.
“My weight in presents to wrap.” She giggled. Then she said, “I thought you wanted to talk…？”
I walked over and dropped onto the couch cushion next to the bag of gifts, waving her over. “I can talk and tie bows at the same time.”
16
I already thought Frankie was attractive. Now he was somehow even more so while I watched him try with fumbling fingers to crease and fold a sheet of Mylar. His eyebrows knitted together in the center of his forehead, and his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Those deep brown eyes focused like he was trying to thread a needle. He’d measured and cut an entire piece of sparkling red and silver paper, centered the box of saltwater taffy on top of it, and then growled— growled—when he realized the sides were two inches too short.
I reached over and rotated the box diagonally, then handed him the roll of tape. “Have you never wrapped a gift before in your entire heckin’ life?”
“You’re sitting across from someone that made a career in the military. Please refrain from using the term heckin’， Ophelia.” His voice was terse and distracted. I curled my lips into my teeth, amused.
Tasking Frankie with the smallest, squarest items was my first mistake. Especially after seeing that every cut of paper he managed came out an unnamed oblong shape that would better suit a circle. As I was busy wrapping more intricate gifts with tissue paper and burlap bows, Mr. Smooth was accidentally ripping the decorative side of the wrapping off with Scotch tape.
“Need some help?” I teased.
“My fingers are much more useful for other things,” he grunted, tearing the tape and snapping his digits together until the clear plastic flung across the living room. “Who’s the poor kid that gets this sad wrap job?”
“My stepdad.” I giggled. Josh was a simple man. Where my mom was a busy bee bred for social interaction and planning, her husband was a laid-back stoner. He kept her grounded and filled her cup, and she fed his artistic soul with endless projects. They yin and yanged.
“What about all these other ones?” Frankie gestured to the floor.
I went on to explain how my two oldest half-brothers were near impossible to shop for nowadays, so they were getting sweatshirts and gift cards, because they’d probably hate anything I tried to pick out anyway. Teenagers.
But Gavin was always barricaded in his room playing video games, so I bought a few of them despite knowing absolutely nothing about it, or if he even played those ones in particular.
Leo loved fishing with my dad on the weekends, and Florida had some amazing bait and tackle accessories in a little shop I found walking around downtown. I bought those with some stickers to add to his tackle box because he was always collecting.
The twins were obsessing over makeup, so I splurged on the good stuff that I usually bought for myself so they weren’t stuck with my stepmom’s used drugstore palettes to play with anymore. Then I went a little crazy at the thrift shop because for some reason every twelve-year-old was dressing like Fran Drescher in the goddamn nineties.
Finally Laila, who was only seven but already over her head in books in the second grade, was getting the full collection of Junie B. Jones that I’d already secured back home, and one of those collectable name keychains that said LAILA in all capital letters across a Florida license plate.
Frankie listened with rapt attention the entire time, leaning back on both palms on the carpet with a smile on his face. “They’re very lucky to have you as a sister.”
I waved it off, blushing.
“No, seriously,” he continued. “It’s obvious how much you care about them, your attention to the little things. They’re young, and maybe they don’t understand now, but one day they will. You’re making them feel seen and special, which is something kids really fucking need.”