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“Things with just your mother went a lot smoother, I think.” August peers back at her brother and my father while their voices continue to rise.
Other Christmas light viewers skirt all the way into the crowded street just to avoid them, and I can’t stop myself from sagging.
This really isn’t in the spirit of Christmas at all. I mutter, “I can’t believe Dad keeps insisting I’m pregnant.”
“Name your baby August. It’s gender neutral.”
Dryly, I regard my friend. “To be so clear, I’m physically incapable of being pregnant right now.”
Adjusting her glasses, she fixes her wide eyes on me. “I once, years before I was married, named a late period after you, so I don’t see where you not being pregnant right now is relevant information.”
“I’m…” I blink. “…honored?”
“Yeah.” August sniffs, arms folding in her puffy coat. “You should be. I cried when I learned I wasn’t miraculously pregnant and going to give birth to December Jr. within many months’ time.”
“I can take care of December just fine,” Wynnter grits, drawing my attention as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.
“The way she deserves? Or the way you want to?” My father throws his arm up, knocking the device into the road before Wynnter can show him the screen.
Wynnter, my mother, August, the rest of our family, and I all watch as a car rolls over the black box, sending a harrowing crunch out beneath the music and the night and the laughter all around.
I pale.
My mother covers her mouth with both hands.
August swears.
Wynnter’s eye twitches, and he shoves past my parents, heading toward me.
“What are you doing?” my mother yells, breathless, gripping my father’s arm.
Wynnter pays her no mind as he takes me by the shoulders, twists my body toward him, and performs a pat-down until he finds my phone. Glaring at it, he taps around, turns on his heel, and shoves the glowing box in my father’s face. “I can—” He swears. “—take care of her however she—” Another swear. “—pleases.”
My father balks, stares at what I’m going to assume is Wynn’s bank account, reboots, and stammers, “Well, n-not if you die on a job.”
Wynnter’s hand closes into a fist, and he spins right back around to me, marching until he can hunker down an inch away. Nose to nose, he hisses, “Sweetheart, your father is on my last nerve.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Raking me into a hug, he frees a breath, loosens up, and drops my phone back in my pocket. “I need to take five. You good to step in?”
I circle my arms around him. “Yes, coach.”
He mutters a swear. “—you’re cute.” A deep breath presses his body into me. “Okay. Good luck, team.” Pulling away, he grabs a candy cane out of the birdbath and marches up the street, into the wonderland of lights.
Watching his back get smaller for a solid minute, I rally my resolve then I clench my jaw.
Scowling, I stomp out onto the field—or into the street, as it were—ignoring my parents’ protests as I stop a car so I can get Wynnter’s crushed phone. Flecks of screen glass fall onto my gloves as I step back onto the sidewalk near them.
“Honey…” my mother’s wispy voice breathes, “…careful. Don’t hurt yourself.”
My eye twitches. Facing them dead-on, I flail the useless device in my father’s direction. “You happy?” I snap. “You happy now? You’ve had your yell and your—” I swear, in the variety of lady dog.
“Devina,” my mother whispers.
“Watch your language, young lady!” my father states.
A deranged laugh seeps free. “No. I won’t. If you’re going to act like a child, I’m going to act like a teenager, and we can both behave beneath ourselves.”
