Becoming His (41 page)

“Ace, did you watch that documentary last week on space travel?” Dad asks, puncturing my barrage of thoughts as he enters the kitchen followed by Jenny, Lilly, and Zeus.

I lean down welcoming Zeus as he buries his head in my hands. “I feel they grossly took some facts about the government conspiring out of context. I was looking up some of the remarks that they made the next day and even though they were calling themselves a documentary, they had to retract it because there were so many opinions stated that it’s now classified as a mockumentry. I can’t believe how many of these are being made!”

“I know I was watching something on mermaids—”

“No geek talk. It’s a holiday,” Jenny interjects with a warning, eyeing us both.

“This isn’t geek talk.” Dad scoffs innocently.

“Yes it is. You’re going to begin discussing theories and people that we’ve never heard of, and how they somehow relate to something political. Then Caulder will be here, pounding his chest about how republicans would never have let blah, blah, blah happen. Then Ace will start pulling out facts that most of us have never even heard of, and Caulder will be demanding proof and people will start Googling dates and quotes, and then Caulder will lose, because Caulder always loses, and then he’ll start on his anti anti-gun control spiel and get Mom on board to try to take back some of the control, and then it just becomes a free for all. No geek talk.”

“She’s right. Save it for next Sunday,” Mom says, pulling groceries from the cupboards.

“Can I just hear about the mermaids?” I plead.

“In the den. You have fifteen minutes.” She turns to rummage through the spice cupboard. “Ace, before you go can you come see if there’s any crystallized ginger up there, sweetheart?” My shoulders fall. My mom’s notorious for forgetting groceries and I know that a store run is about to be requested.
So much for mermaids.

Standing on a barstool, I hear the door open followed by Kendall yelling “Happy Thanksgiving!”

A chorus of greetings echo from the kitchen as Kendall, Jameson, and Wes make their way into the kitchen. Max had invited Wes when he learned his parents had gone to Barbados and he was planning to spend Thanksgiving alone at his apartment.

“How was Yakima?” I ask as I climb down empty handed and hug each of them.

“It was so cold! Seriously, like frigidly cold! But it was a good time. Jameson’s mom made some of the best pies and jams, and we got to visit a lot of his friends and family. I’m really glad I went,” Kendall says, smiling at Jameson for a moment as though they’re sharing a secret.

“I’m glad you guys had such a great time!” Dad remarks.

Kendall beams in return, looking blissfully happy for a moment, before she claps her hands together. “Alright, the boys are prepared for cookie making.” She rubs her hands together with excitement.

“Oh good, I made extra dough since there will be so many this year. It’s in the fridge ready to go.” Mom runs her nails over her forehead, “I need to run to the store. Sharon do you want to join me?”

“I think I’m going to go take a nap. We had a late accident that required me to go in and I want to make sure I have all my energy for tomorrow.”

Max looks at her, concern etched across his defined jaw scrunching the skin between his eyebrows. “Are you okay? Do you want me to go with you?”

“Just one of the many side effects to getting old,” she says with a grim smile. “I’m fine, you stay and have fun.” She kisses Max’s cheek before saying goodbye and following my mom to the front door where dad’s waiting to go with her.

“You were serious about the cookies?” Wes’s eyebrows rise.

“Yes!” Kendall cries exasperated. She goes to the fridge and pulls out multiple large discs of dough, wrapped in plastic wrap.

“I carved a pumpkin last month for the first time in like fifteen years. They mean business when it comes to the holidays and traditions,” Jameson confirms.

Jenny washes her hands and gets straight to rolling out a disc of cookie dough after sprinkling some flour on the countertops as Kendall retrieves cookie cutters and I set the oven to preheat and retrieve cookie sheets and sprinkles. Kendall instructs the guys to wash their hands and arranges them in an assembly line, giving them each a job. I smile and shake my head as I make a watered down egg wash so that the sprinkles will adhere to the cookies. It amazes me how easily Kendall can get others to follow her lead.

“If you do this, you’re in trouble,” Jenny says, keeping her eyes focused on the large cylinder of dough in front of her. We all turn to look at her.

“Do what?” Jameson asks, leaning forward to see over Wes’s shoulder. Kendall and I begin giggling before Jenny throws a handful of flour at Jameson, dusting Wes in the process.

“You knew she was going to do that!” Wes cries accusingly to Kendall who’s standing on Jameson’s other side. He grabs a handful of flour and doesn’t hesitate before throwing it. It disperses into a white cloud. Kendall moves surprisingly quick, avoiding nearly all of it as she ducks. Max is exposed. The flour lands on his chest, leaving a large white mass on his dark shirt. My hand instantly covers my mouth as I work to stifle a giggle as Max stares at Wes with contempt.

“Okay, okay, enough with the flour,” Kendall says, lifting up a cookie cutter.

“Yeah, enough, boys,” Jenny says, rolling another disc of dough.

Kendall begins demonstrating how to get the most cookies out of the dough, when Jenny flings another handful of flour at Kendall, who squeals as the white powder dances across her chest and neck. She instantly heaves a handful of flour at Jenny, hitting Wes and Jameson in the crossfire. Flour flies in all directions, coating everything with a silky white powder.

I’m still standing on the other side of the bar, not far from the battle, but far enough I haven’t been hit. I slowly edge myself back, knowing from experience that moving bodies are usually the first to be targeted.

I make it a safe distance back and reach for my phone and ensure that the flash is off, before I begin snapping pictures of them as they exchange threats and fists of flour while laughing.

“Ace, you better delete those!” Kendall yells.

I pocket my phone and duck as the attention turns to me, bringing with it a cloud of flour. I’m not sure who gets me first, but within moments my clothes and hair are all coated in the fine powder.

“No more! No more!” Jenny laughs, sealing what’s left of the bag of flour.

“Seriously, you still haven’t outgrown this?” Mom’s voice draws every pair of eyes on her as she and Dad enter the kitchen holding bags of groceries. She walks to the sink and washes her hands silently, and I can feel the trepidation roll from all three of the guys as they look around at the mess of white surrounding us. Without warning, she turns, opens the bag of flour and throws a large handful at my dad who’s standing beside me.

He cries out in protest, releasing a slew of threats, as he grabs my arms and pulls me in front of him as a human shield, making us the target. I shriek and close my eyes until something distracts them from us, and they begin throwing the flour at each other again.

The fight continues until the bag of flour is completely depleted, and the kitchen is nearly completely coated, making the hardwood floors slippery. I peel off my sweatshirt, causing billows of flour to fall to the ground, and wipe my hands on the front of my jeans. As I watch the flour fall, a large glob of flour lands in the center of my chest.

“You looked a little too clean.” Jameson shrugs innocently.

I shake my head and grab an acorn-shaped cookie cutter and make quick work of stamping a disc of dough that Jenny had rolled out.

When we finish making cookies, which is quick considering how many we’ve made, the kitchen’s a disaster. The mood is vibrant with everyone smiling happily as jokes are made and stories are shared. At one point I look up to realize that Jenny is holding her beloved camera taking candid pictures of us all as we finish stacking cookies on cooling racks.

She then forces us all to pose for a few shots, making Kendall grumble and whine about her hair before Dad grabs her and hauls her to his side, waiting until she finally gives a smile.

“Okay, you kids have one hour while I get this place back in order, then you girls are back in here on pie duty,” Mom says, returning with the vacuum. “If you’re going in the pool go hose off first, last year y’all clogged the drain with all the flour.”

“Last year?” Wes asks shock evident on his face.

“They love food fights, the messier the better,” Dad explains, shaking his head in defeat. “They learned it from their mom. She taught them that goofy trap of ‘whoever does this will be in big trouble.’”

“Who fell for it?” Mom asks with a grin.

“Jameson,” Kendall responds with a laugh that my parents share with her.

“Don’t worry, Caulder still falls for it,” Mom says, patting Jameson on the shoulder.

“Yeah, he’ll be happy to hear there was a new sacrificial lamb,” Dad jokes, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s the role I’ve always worked so hard to fill,” Jameson replies with a straight face, and I feel my heart grow a little bigger as I watch him joke with my family. I know he’s a member of my family. No one could be better for Kendall. It’s as though he was artfully and specifically created just for her.

“T-minus ten minutes until you’re in that pool.” Jameson looks directly at Kendall before the three boys make their way to the door.

Kendall and I aren’t about to take the chance of them using the hose on us, and therefore change dangerously fast, working to make sure everything is properly covered as we dash outside and assist one another in getting the flour out of our hair before we immerse ourselves in the pool that even in November is nearly as warm as bath water.

The boys come barreling through the yard, bare chested and in their swim shorts. Even though I see Max without his shirt on a daily basis these days, I still turn to check him out and feel myself swoon over his deliciously sculpted body.

Jameson goes for a cannonball and slides at the very end, barely making a safe entrance into the pool.

“What in the hell was that?” Max asks when Jameson emerges whipping his head back.

“It was slippery,” he says, swimming over to where we’re standing in the shallow end. His chest rises out of the water and his movements change as he starts walking rather than swimming toward us. “Did you see how smooth I pulled that—”

His words cease as his head falls under the water for an instant before he pops back up, running a hand over his head. “I’m right on the ledge,” he quickly states, and I can’t help but laugh at him as Max and Wes give him a hard time.

The five of us play around, shooting the basketball and bobbing in the warm water, still laughing about the flour fight as Wes retells his perspective of the battle that has us all bent over in laughter because Wes is that kind of storyteller, a natural with tones and voices, knowing exactly when to pause and how long to hold it for suspense.

“Pie time!” Jenny yells out the back door.

I leisurely swim my way to Max and wrap myself around his chest.

“I love you,” I say, kissing his soft lips before pulling back and looking him straight in the eye. “Don’t let Jameson drown. I kind of like having him around.” I vaguely hear Jameson brush off my comment as Max smiles and wraps one hand around my lower back and another between my shoulder blades, pressing me tightly to his chest as he kisses me as though the others aren’t feet from us.

I give him one last parting kiss before swimming to the edge of the pool and pulling myself out. I walk the few steps to my towel and wrap it around my bright coral printed bikini, and smile as I look back to see Max closely watching my every move.

T
hat night Sharon and the boys join us as we order pizzas for dinner. Mom has a strict rule about not cooking the day before Thanksgiving. I discover that it must be a prerequisite for Max’s friends to be fluent in cars, because Wes seems to have an endless amount of knowledge about them as well and is thrilled to hear about Clementine and the chance to see her. They start her up and rev her engine in the driveway, admiring her as us girls shake our heads at their enthusiasm and go back inside to discuss Kendall’s trip to Washington.

“I’m beat,” Dad says, rolling his head back as they return inside. “You ready, mon moitié?” he asks, looking to my mom as she smiles at him.

Sharon stands and asks for Max to come help her with getting a few things prepared for tomorrow. She hugs each of us goodnight and then leaves for next door, followed by Max after he gives me a quick parting kiss.

“What did your dad say?” Wes asks quietly as my parents make their way up the stairs talking in hushed tones.

“Some term of endearment,” Kendall answers with a shrug.

“In what language?” he asks, furrowing his brows.

“French,” she answers, standing to help me clear the remaining plates and garbage from the table. “Our grandmother is Puerto Rican and our grandfather is French.”

“His English is perfect.”

“Yeah, he grew up here in the states. Our grandfather travelled a lot before ending up in Ontario where he worked as a translator. He had gone to Puerto Rico for business and met our grandma. They moved to the states, got married, and had our dad. They lived in Colorado for twenty years and then moved back to France when our great aunt got sick.”

“So he speaks French and English?”

“And Spanish,” I add, taking the empty boxes to the garage for recycling.

“That’s crazy.” Wes says, looking at us in disbelief. “Can you guys speak French and Spanish as well?”

“I know some of the basics of French, but no. Ace speaks French though,” she says, nodding her head to me as I open the fridge to get some fruit sliced up for the morning.

“You never told me that!” Wes accuses as he comes up beside me and grabs a large knife and a cutting board for himself.

I shake my head, slicing up some strawberries. “I’m not that great.”

“Say something in French.”

“What do you want me to say?”