Page 50 of Christmas Angel
“Oh, I’m glad you remembered in time for the party. Did you thank Saint?” I leave the little lie unchallenged.
“Obviously, yes. Did you give him our present?” Owen asks, bouncing in his seat with a hint of his usual bubbly energy returning.
“I did.”
“And?” Meg prompts, trying to maintain her teenage aloofness even though I can tell she cares about Saint’s reaction to their gift. In my periphery, I can even see she’s looking at me instead of her phone.
“He loved it.” I smile for the kids and they smile back tightly. It’s clear on their faces that they’re still hurting, but that’s to be expected, given the circumstances.
I should tell them where things stand with Saint. They clearly have an inkling of who he is to me, and what I want with Saint will mean changes for them; they deserve to be kept in the loop about my life choices. It’s just hard to put into words. When it was just me and Saint in the safe little self-care bubble of his home, it didn’t seem so scary to think of a future with him in it. Laying that hope bare for my children is terrifying. And Trevor’s timing is garbage.
It’s a lot for me, and I’m an adult. I’m gripping the steering wheel too tight. Am I making the right call by bringing my kids to my new partner’s house right after they got dumped by their father? I hope so.
“Good.” Meg smiles, looking self-satisfied as she turns back to her phone.
“I knew he’d like it,” Owen pipes up. “I picked the frame.”
“You did good. It’s a great picture.” I force myself to relax. Both kids seem fine with the plan to spend our holiday evening with Saint. I can bring up privacy and Meg snooping through my messages to get that photo another time. At least I deleted our more explicit photo exchanges before handing over my phone to her.
“Because you’re happy,” Meg says like it’s obvious and I’m being a ridiculous old fogey for not realizing that on my own. She might be right.
“So, what would you say if I told you that Saint and I are in a relationship?”
“Good for you. I’m not calling him Dad,” Meg says.
“You don’t have to call him anything you aren’t comfortable with,” I assure her.
“But Saint said he doesn’t date,” Owen says, sounding puzzled.
“That’s true, but we both enjoy spending time together and we agreed that we want more time with each other. And he wants to get to know you kids, because you’re the most important people in my life.”
“Cool. If he’s going to be our new step-dad, do you think he’ll let me drive his car?” Owen bats his pretty eyes at me and I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
“You aren’t driving anything anytime soon, kiddo.” I don’t address the step-dad comment because I’m not ready to go there yet, but it wouldn’t be the worst outcome by any means. I hope Saint agrees with that.
Owen sighs dramatically. “Ugh, fine. Can I at least ask him to drop me off in it again? Mikey was super impressed on Friday.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.” I try to hide my amusement at his priorities. And it’s strange to accept that my kid might ask my partner for a ride so casually, but isn’t that what I’m signing up for? Moving toward sharing our lives and responsibilities?
It’s still sinking in that Saint wants me—and my kids—in his life. Enough to make us all welcome in his home tonight. It’s just on the edge of too much. The scared and scarred parts of me can’t help seeing all the loveliness of him inviting us into his home as gilded cage bars. A trap that might ensnare me in another situation I can’t escape.
Except I can have a way out this time, my teaching certification and Gran’s inheritance, if I accept Marcus’s generosity. Besides, we discussed this and Saint isn’t the sort to lock me away or force me into a form he prefers. He’s always been more likely to stand back and admire my spread wings rather than attempt to clip them like so many before him. My parents and Trevor chiefly, but others too.
Every nosy bystander who makes it seem like I have to pick a side—masc or femme, girl or boy—to be safe in public. Rather than existing in the liminal in-between that feels the most like myself. The customers who made it easier to earn a living with a low-cut blouse emphasizing the curves that made my skin crawl and a flirty smile. It’s different working for tips these days, with my flat chest and the patchy wisps of facial hair. My beard is only now starting to fill in if I forget to shave for a few days after years of taking low-dose testosterone.
When I’m with Saint, I’m safe to be myself. I just hope that someday my kids can feel as safe and comforted by his steady caring as I do. Even if I sometimes doubt everything about myself and my judgment, I have no doubts that Saint will never let them down like Trevor has. Saint won’t take back his heart once he’s given it. His dependability is one thing I love about him. It’s why I trust him enough to let him into my kids’ lives.
Thekidsquietlytakein all the nice decorative touches as I let us inside Saint’s place. He didn’t lock up behind me earlier since I was coming right back. It’s strange to see the familiar entryway where I’ve given Saint so many breathless kisses through their eyes. It’s tidier than our place, with all the kids’ winter and school stuff piled on rickety old shelves and mismatched plastic hooks. He’s got fancy art on the walls. Pictures that aren’t family photos and crayon drawings.
From the muffled kitchen noises and smells, Saint has a pot of cider simmering on his stove. The entire house is warm and so inviting that it’s tempting to imagine making a home here as I watch my kids in my partner’s space for the first time.
The air is redolent with holiday spices and the savory aroma of the roast Saint put in his slow cooker this morning. Did he intend to feed my family when he did that? The meal I can smell simmering means something. Saint wants my kids to feel like the family we talked about trying to be to each other. It’s a tangible way of living up to a promise so lofty it’s all but impossible to believe in the abstract.
We’re all quiet with our thoughts as we remove our outerwear in his entryway. Meg places her boots neatly beside mine. Owen kicks his shoes off willy-nilly, and I have to remind him to tidy them next to ours.
“Buddy, we’re guests,” I remind him, gesturing at the offending footwear. It’s a reminder to myself too. This isn’t home and Saint might be my partner, but this is still new and tentative.
“Sure, Pop.” Owen reluctantly lines his boots up next to his sister’s, chin jutting out petulantly.