Chapter 6

Brynley

Fine.

I’ll confess this, but only for the captain’s log.

Do I enjoy having almost our entire estate look magazine decorated ready from the day after Thanksgiving until New Year’s Day?

Yeah.

Do I enjoy the fact that I myself have to put up and take down none of those decorations?

Fuck yeah.

Do I love that Wes has a holiday tradition started by his own father – and godfather – of saving one space in our home for kid-led decorating only?

More than anything else at this time of year.

It’s one of the rare cases where “Mr. Always My Way” offers his gold shirt to our children.

Follows their leads.

Has them calling the shots even when it’s clear he hates the decisions they’re making.

Like now.

“Floss?” Wes adjusts his hold on Brae who is reaching for one of the branches near the top. “Are you trying to tell Santa he needs to visit the dental hygienist for a cleaning after all the cookies he eats?”

“That’s a bold message,” I playfully add to their conversation while tapping the chicken tangled in Christmas lights wrapping paper – that the kids picked out this year – around the pillar closest to the door. “Should we leave out mouthwash instead of milk?”

Board – who is holding my tape dispenser – tilts his head in what can only be called sarcasm.

“Don’t give me shit.” Kicking my chin across the room is instantly done. “It was her idea!”

“You know he has no clue what you’re saying, right?” Mom thoughtlessly accuses between bites of a cookie prompting our brown fur ball to whip his head over his shoulder and snuff.

“I believe our grand dog objects to that statement,” Clark chortles in the distance where he’s adding colorful candy canes into Wes’s Batman mug that usually only stores his pens.

“It’s not dental floss, Dad,” Brae dramatically sighs, calling our attention back to her. “It’s a violin string.” She lets her crystal gaze find his mismatched one. “I want him to remember it’s me that wants a new electric violin for Christmas.”

“I don’t think Santa needs a reminder, mini maestro.” Wes lets the corners of his lips warmly kick upwards. “He has a list, that he checks twice. ”

“And Mom has a list that she checks twice but still forgets to pack me a pre-rehearsal snack.”

“Don’t throw me under the Enterprise ,” I swiftly scold on a mirthful glare. “It’s not my job to pack you a pre-rehearsal snack. That’s Temps .”

“Unless you give Temps the week off because you’re on vacation,” Mom reminds on another cookie bite. “Then it’s your job .” She sassily smirks in my direction. “The next Jeri Lynne Johnson really needs proper fuel before she rehearses.”

“You’re supposed to be on your daughter’s side.”

“Why? You weren’t on yours when you sold her out to the dog.”

Board snuffs in agreement redirecting my glare to him. “You were so not invited into this conversation.”

“Mom may be a little forgetful sometimes,” my husband begins only to receive a less than clever flashing of my middle finger, “but Santa isn’t. Mr. St. Nick has everything covered. Dotted all his I’s and crossed all his T’s.”

And we have.

All Santa gifts are good to go!

“ Promise? ”

Wes uses the edge of his index finger to lift her chin up a little higher. “ I promise. ”

This.

This is what I wish the fucking media would capture.

Him being the great dad that he truly is.

Engaging with our kids.

Encouraging them.

Comforting them.

Being there for them the way a dad should be versus simply shouting at them like the monster they’ve captured him being these past few days.

Not once have they snap a shot of him laughing with the girls or fixing their bows.

Nope.

Just shot after shot after shot of him scowling at Wy.

Wy frowning at him.

Them, yelling in the parking lot of our charity play event like they were competing to be Krampus’s successor.

Yeah.

Lots of photos of that nonsense two nights ago has led to lots of demands from Evie for us to flood our personal feeds with lots of “sweet” posts from our day-to-day activities insisting that the world needs to see us spreading cheer not misery.

An undeniable grunt of disagreement leaves Wy who’s lounging in the cushioned seat next to me, not decorating.

Not drinking.

Not eating.

Not participating in anything other than being in the room.

And even that in itself is a bit of a miracle.

He slept ‘til almost noon, skipped lunch, and would’ve opted out of this if it weren’t for the fact he can’t say no to the twins.

I truly appreciate that they use their powers for evil and good.

“ Dad, Dad, ” Blake excitedly jumps to her feet, abandoning the box she was digging in as well as knocking into the ornaments on the lowest branches prompting Betty to use her nose to carefully nudge them back into place. “Can we put this old megaphone thing on the top of the tree?!”

“That’s an old microphone ,” Wes explains at the same time he puts Brae down.

“Why’s it weird shaped?”

“That’s how they used to be shaped.”

“When you were a kid?”

The unintentional dig gets me giggling under my breath.

“When Gami and Gramps were kids.”

“ Ohhhhhhhh ,” she drags out during her being lifted into his arms. “So a lonnnggg longggg longggg longgggggg time ago.”

“She could just ask for coal in her stocking,” I mutter to Mom enroute to the other pillar.

“ Seriously ,” she whispers back in amusement.

“You want this on the very top?” Wes politely inquires in tandem with inching into a better position for her to reach the area. “Isn’t that where Wy’s gonna put one of his Batman tree toppers?”

“No,” instantaneously leaves our only son.

Our eyes all cut to him, yet it’s his dad that speaks, “Do you plan to put one somewhere else?”

“No.”

“Do you plan to help at all ?”

“No.”

“ Wyland. ”

“I’m sorry.” He shoves his hands into his Star Trek hoodie pocket and snidely corrects, “I meant, no thank you. ”

“That’s not what I have an issue with.” Wes adjusts his hold on Blake to allow her to reach the top of the object. “You need to participate in the activities.”

“No.”

Irritation has me preparing to intervene when my mom gives a subtle headshaking gesture.

Damnit.

I know they need to fight it out.

Figure it out.

But I hate that they selfishly keep ruining feel-good family moments!

ForFederationsake, read the room!

Let us enjoy this shit!

“You need to be involved.”

“No.”

“You need to behave like you’re actually part of this family.”

“ Weston, ” swiftly hisses Clark in disapproval.

“ What? ” My other half snips in return while his daughter wiggles around in his grasp. “ He. Does. ”

“You mean behave like you want me to behave,” snaps our teenager, lean frame sitting up completely straight.

“Yes.”

“ Weston, ” Clark chastisingly chomps again.

“No, not like that.”

“ Exactly like that ,” Wy rebuts.

“That’s not…” he poorly retreats, “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you meant.”

“ Do. Not. Tell. Me. What. I. Meant. ”

“You meant that you just want me to do what you want when you want how you want because only your feelings matter in this family.”

McCoygivemestrength.

Or a painkiller.

I hate how fucking familiar this sounds.

“Why is everything a goddamn fight with you?” Wes struggles not to bark courtesy of Blake still in his arms.

“Why is everything your goddamn way or not at all?”

“Because it’s my fucking family!”

“ Excuse you ,” I viciously interject no longer comfortable staying off the bridge. “This is our fucking family. We all have a say. We all matter.” Dropping the tacky wrapping paper over the edge of the chair encourages Board to do the same with the tape. “And if our son doesn’t feel like decking the fucking halls, we’re not gonna force him, so you can simply feel better, Charlie Frown.”

“Why not?” sarcastically springs from Fins. “He forces me to do just about everything else.”

There’s no reluctance from my husband to bite, “ That’s untrue. ”

“Right. Because I wanted to go to that yacht dinner thing with the meat dude instead of the Leech Boys concert in Camelot.”

“ Bennett ,” Wes needlessly names.

Beach Boys covers with a death metal spin is about as fucking off putting as it sounds.

But he loves them.

Which is why Puppet Boy and Nae got him front row tickets and a meet and greet session for their upcoming show here in Highland.

They will also be taking him.

Because I’m not.

I do a lot for my kid; however, I’m not head banging to someone screaming “Good Vibrations” at me, totally missing the fucking point of that song beside him and his best friend, Jamie Washington, who always, inexplicably smells like cheap, hot dogs.

Wy sneers at the correction prior to continuing, “And I def wanted to go that tech thing for Hayworth instead of that all you can eat taco fest with Mom and Uncle C.”

“ Haworth. ”

To be fair to me…I tried to get him out of that shit.

I tried to convince Wes to let me take him for tacos and that they could bond over futuristic tech at a later time – considering how disinterested in most tech shit our son is – yet he refused.

He believed seeing some weird Jetsons wanna be kitchen would spark an interest.

It didn’t.

Clearly, it sparked additional resentment.

“And let’s not forget dragging my ass away from the waves that were begging to be carved to go watch a stupid sport you sponsor!”

“I was trying to spend time with you!”

“You don’t wanna spend time with me ! You want me to spend time with you ! Doing what you want! And only what you want!” Defiantly he rises to his feet. “So, what do you want me to do now, Dad? ” His shoulders bounce in obvious exasperation. “Decorate the window? Poke the fire? Put antlers on the dogs?”

Two grumbles of disapproval immediately come from the fluffy creatures.

Yeah.

They’re not real big on “accessories”.

The jingle bells they’re wearing are more than enough.

“I want you to go to your room,” Wes retorts without a second thought.

“ Happily ,” grunts Wy at the same time he prepares to storm off.

“But Finnnnssss ,” Blake whines while wiggling out of her dad’s grip back to the ground. “What about making reindeer food with us?”

“And the paper snowflakes for the door?!” Brae adds, dashing closer to her brother.

“And hot chocolate bombs?!” reminds Blake sprinting to her sister’s side.

His shoulders instantly sink towards his bare feet in tandem with him to a squatting position to be eye level. “We’ll do it later.” He playfully pokes each sibling in the tummy to get them giggling. “After my timeout, okay?”

“Okay,” they agree in unison around their giggles that lead to warm hugs.

Despite his obvious unhappiness with the man across the room, Wy winds his arms around the twins and squeezes.

Softly smiles.

Looks exactly like the very man he swears he hates.

Post parting, Mom sweetly suggests, “Girls, why don’t we take a peppermint bark break?” She tosses me a brief all-knowing look during Wy’s exit. “I think Mom and Dad and Gramps need a minute alone.”

“Peppermint barkkkkkkkk!” They victoriously shout on a high five further proving they possess at least a smidgen of my DNA.

I mean who doesn’t love a dude five?

“Board, Betty,” my head tips towards the threshold the girls are crossing, “go check on Wy for me.”

Both dogs trot out of the area, yet its Betty who uses to her mouth close the door behind them.

“That is extraordinary training,” Clark compliments, gaze collecting mine. “Although, Lucky isn’t the fondest of it when he’s trying to unload groceries.”

I helplessly toss him a smirk before shooting the man I married a sneer. “ Speaking of things people aren’t the fondest of… ”

He firmly folds his arms across his black “Jingle Bells, Batman Smells” t-shirt the girls picked out for him last year. “I will not apologize for disciplining our son.”

“Then how about apologizing for disregarding your wife ?” My arms take an identical position across my “Do It for The Hos” Santa sweater. “For choosing to parent like only your shitty strategy matters?!”

“Not doing anything is not a strategy!” An unexpected stomp forward is taken. “And letting him have his fucking way because he’s pouting isn’t you being strong! It’s you being weak!”

“Did you just fucking call me weak?!”

Unfortunately for me, the opportunity to let my shouting soar is interrupted by a surprising face peeking into the room. “ Bad time? ”

“It’s not the best time, J.T.,” his best friend grumbles.

“For Wes, ” I sardonically state. “The only person who matters on the USS Wilcox. ”

“This seems like a bad time,” he cringes prior to lifting the small bag in his hand. “I was just looking for Fins to drop this off. I figured he’d be in here doing the family thing because it’s family thing time, but…” Puppet Boy’s eyes swiftly sweep the scene. “Seems like…everyone abandoned ship but the main cast.”

“What’s in the bag?” Wes instantly asks.

“None of your business,” pops out of me, leaving no room for our best friend to speak.

“ He’s my son. ” Our eyes lock in a hostile nature once more. “ It most certainly is my business. ”

“He’s our son, Weston!” A crude gesture to my crotch is made. “He came out of here .” The hand motion is repeated near my tits. “He fed from here. ” It moves to my facial area next. “He spends too much time here. ” Resuming my folded arm stance is attached to a deeper glare. “He is just as much mine as he is yours, and I say it’s none of your business what he had his uncle grab him because if he wanted you to fucking know he would’ve asked you to get it.”

“How do we know it’s not drugs? Pocket glow?”

“ Snow .” There’s no stopping the eye roll that occurs. “And what part of Puppet Boy even suggests he would give our son drugs?”

“Ouch,” J.T. mirthfully mutters upon entering the room. “From both sides of the ship here.” He firmly points at Wes first. “ One , it hurts you think I’d ever knowingly give my nephew something that could harm him or keep that kinda shit from you.” The digit is flung my way next. “And two, I am the cool uncle!”

My head tilts sarcastically to one side.

“I am! I’m the one who showed him how to properly clear his browser history and search the web in incognito mode!”

“We sooooo have different definitions of cool.”

“Until you both have the very same one such as attending a yearly Trekkie convention,” Wes slyly points out.

Clark helplessly chortles in agreement. “That is true.”

Having the room momentarily filled with chuckles successfully dissipates some of the lingering irateness that still needs to be addressed.

Even after all these years, both Clark and Puppet Boy have a good habit of defusing what appears to be an otherwise non-diffusible situation.

“What’s in the bag?” Wes investigates a second time yet again, adding fuel to the dying fire.

“Something from the brand for his giftbox to Kendall,” Puppet Boy informs while still maintaining a bit of secrecy.

Here is what makes him a cool uncle.

One that Wy trusts.

And talks to.

Not just about nerd shit but dude shit.

J.T. was who the poor kid went to when he got his first ingrown hair on his junk area.

Apparently talking to me would’ve been “too awkward”.

And talking to Wes about stuff is just…not something he’s ever really done.

Is that what’s bugging him?

That our son doesn’t have a relationship with him the way he had one with his father?

“What…” fighting his own sadness over the cluelessness of the object is noticeably difficult, “giftbox?”

“You know him and Kendall typically only see each other twice a year,” Puppet Boy innocently begins, tossing me a cautious look, wordlessly inquiring if he can continue. After receiving a small nod of approval, he does, “Well, because of that , in between those times, he makes her a box. He collects things he likes and souvenirs from places he’s been or things he’s done and then puts it all together and ships it to her, so that she has ‘a piece of him’ to last until the next time they see each other in person.”

Loud, dramatic groans are accompanied by my head falling backward. “It’s painful how romantic he is.”

“He learned that from watching you, Weston,” Clark gingerly reminds. “New word search booklets left in the backseat for Bryn on longer road trips. Replacing the pizza cutter with the Star Trek one you found at a thrift store. Always bringing back something for everyone whenever you travel, even if it’s simply candy from the closest local shop you can find.”

His mouth bobs around, but no sound escapes.

“Wyland is no different.” Clark politely folds his hands in front of him. “ And he earns the money he spends to buy Kendall those objects himself.”

Surprise pulls his brow tightly together.

“Dog walking is his weekly assigned chore for an allowance-”

“Which I love because it’s teaching him to work and save,” I approvingly interject.

“-however, he walks J.T. and Janae’s dogs as well.”

“Which Nae loves because our boys can and do find any excuse in the world not to do it.”

“The groomers come for the dogs every two weeks, but Wy grooms them – aside from washing them post swims – in between visits along with J.T. and Janae’s.”

“Again, wife loves it.”

“He also does random things such as help Brae clean her violin bow, run lines with Blake when she can’t sleep before a performance, and recently volunteered to tutor a classmate who couldn’t afford one.” Pride pushes his shoulders a bit back. “For these…unprompted acts of kindness…I… in turn… often provide him …with a bit of financial kindness that adds to the funds he uses to cultivate the aforementioned box.”

“I just pay for shipping,” I innocently announce on a shrug. “There’s a loophole we can use through the company – Wilcox not The Institute – that makes international shit super cheap and super-fast.”

“It’s similar to the way your father always ensured that you – as well as J.T. – always had what you financially needed to impress or woo the young ladies who came into your lives without reluctance. You two could’ve easily been lazy, ungrateful brats who squandered every penny they were given and failed to ever show an ounce of appreciation for what it took to earn it, yet you weren’t. You were mindful whenever large purchases for you were being made. And went the extra mile to assist me in the littlest tasks despite not needing to. And never expected or requested or demanded gifts, but always expressed gratitude for them no matter how big or small. It’s why whenever you fought harder about something, Will was likely to cave.” His eyebrows lift in additional insinuation. “Because if you were willing to fight for it, it must’ve been worth fighting for.”

“ That’s where the twins get that from… ” comes out of me just above a whisper.

“Yes.” Clark battles against the grin trying to grow on his face. “Once upon a time, Weston didn’t fight tooth and nail for every decision. Once upon a time, he was exactly like the twins. Carefree. Easygoing. It was their death that shifted that behavior.” His glare glides back to the man who might as well be his son. “And it’s their death that prevents you from giving your son the only thing he’s asking for this Christmas.”

Guilt noticeably creeps into his expression.

Has him shuffling his feet.

“ You’re afraid history will repeat itself.” Sternness seeps into his stare. “ You’re afraid if you don’t tell him no when your father told you yes, that he may end up suffering the same fate.” Clark creeps closer. “That there will be a terrible accident, and he will lose this family. That he will lose you . That he’ll have to finish growing up without his father like you did; however, your fear is what’s making that a reality with or without an accident, Weston.”

“ You are what’s causing him to grow up without that relationship,” I quietly state. “I understand being afraid of bad shit happening to us – bad shit always seems to happen to us – but trying to keep us locked up whenever it snows, or the wind blows wrong isn’t the answer. And refusing to at least explain to him why you’re so hellbent against traveling right now is simply doing more damage to an already fucked up relationship.”

“Go and talk to your son, Wes.” Clark lovingly insists.

“Talk to him and with him ,” encouragingly escapes. “ Not at him. ”

Puppet Boy casually extends the bag in his direction. “Give him this, and then give yourself the gift of really getting to know the little dude.”