“D’ess.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Ashton stops fighting, lets me diaper and clothe him. The second I drop my hands, however, he’s gone again, scooting toward the toy bin. I sigh, watching him tug toys out of the box, then I push to my feet. Tristan holds a shipping box in his arms when I turn around, and I gesture toward the countertop. Luci passes over a knife, and I cut through the tape while my best friends wait with bated breath.
A tag attached to one of the bags catches my eye, and I read it quickly. A quiet huff of laughter escapes, and I pull my phone from my back pocket while Tristan digs through the box.
Dealla
Did you REALLY send Ashton birthday presents?
Babe, you didn’t have to do that
Seriously
Holden
I was just about to ask if you got it yet. I got the notification that it was delivered, but I wasn’t sure if you’d noticed.
And I know I didn’t have to get him anything. I wanted to. He deserves nice things, and I figured he might like these.
Dealla
You are seriously amazing. Thank you! I’ll put them in a pile for him to open once his grandmother gets here. And don’t worry—I’ll send you pictures xx
Holden
I would appreciate that xxxxxx
Luci bounds toward the door when someone knocks, but I stand still, staring at the screen of my phone with a soft smile on my face. Holden cared enough to remember Ashton’s birthday. He’d sent presents. He put thought toward Ashton and his happiness, and this fact only solidifies the knowledge that Holden is one of the most generous and caring men I will ever know in my life.
Ashton screeches delightedly over each gift that we adults help him unwrap—a child-sized broom and mop set, a large look-and-find book, and an adjustable easel—but they all go largely forgotten in the wake of Ashton opening the ones Holden sent. He immediately tosses the rubber balls, jaw dropping when they light up and flash in different colors. Tristan hides the sticker book under the couch cushion; we all know Ashton doesn’t need total freedom with stickers. Luci sets the mess-free coloring book on the shelf.
“Who are you texting?” my stepmother asks as she sets Ashton in his highchair. I look up guiltily from my phone, where I’m busy attaching images to a message. “Is it the someone who sent Ashton such wonderful presents?”
“How do you know I didn’t just go overboard?”
“Dealla Taylor, you should know better than to keep something from me.”
Tristan snorts and flashes an impish grin when I glare at him. “Yeah, Dealla, you shouldn’t keep things from your mama.”
“You’re not helping, Tristan. Fine. It’s, uh, it’s my boyfriend. And yes, he sent the gifts.”
Mama listens as I give her the basic information about Holden and our relationship. I don’t mention his job, just that he travels for work and came through Austin roughly seven months ago. I trail off in the middle of describing the wonderful week I’d spent with him when my phone vibrates in my hand. Holden’s contact photo fills the screen, and my heart immediately races in my chest. She and Tristan exchange knowing looks; Luci cackles from the living room, and I ignore them all to answer the video call.
“Lemme guess, you wanna talk to the birthday boy.” Holden’s grin is answer enough, and I giggle and shake my head. “Of course. He’s most important today. But, hi, it’s nice to see your face.”
“Hi, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you as soon as I’m done talking to my buddy.”
Smiling, I lean the phone against the paper towel holder so Ashton and Holden can see each other without my phone falling victim to cake and frosting. My stepmom gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, and I take it for the approval I know it is. That Ashton is so willing and excited to chatter on is the biggest endorsement Holden could ever receive.
Breaking Tradition
Isigh,wipingmyhands on the dishtowel as I make my way to the door. It’s not even six in the morning—no one should be here yet. When I pull open the door, Tristan grins brightly at me with a casserole dish in hand, pushing past me. I laugh quietly, lock the door, and follow him into the kitchen. He sets the dish on the counter and turns to face me.
“What do you need me to do?”
“I… have no God-forsaken idea.” I run a hand through my hair, staring around at the half-started meals littering the countertop. “Tristan, why did I do this?”
