The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)(16)

Aunt Bobbie was one-hundred-percent correct. Twelve-year-old girls are the devil incarnate. When her father tried to explain what happened, she clenched her hands into fists and screamed at the top of her lungs. She stomped her foot, rolled her eyes and continued screaming for a full ten minutes about how he was “soooooo embarrassing” and how she’d “never set foot in public with him again,” finishing with an ear-piercing, “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”

Then she dissolved into a fit of sobbing tears, telling him she was sorry and that she just wanted to go home. He promised to not press charges and to buy her an outfit, as long as she stopped crying. She bartered for a new iPhone instead, the * quickly agreed, and then she kissed him on the cheek and smiled at all of us before grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the exit.

I can now confirm that watching a preteen lose her shit all over Target was much more horrifying than disappearing elbow porn. If Noel and I have a daughter one day, I will be crushing up Midol and putting it in her bottle from day one, just to nip that shit in the bud.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Noel finally speaks, sniffling and wiping a stray tear from her cheek when she finally turns in her seat to face me.

“I’m sorry. I know I made things worse, but I couldn’t just stand there and-”

Noel cuts me off, pressing her hand against my mouth and shaking her head.

“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, watching you stand up for Aunt Bobbie like that. I don’t think it’s possible for me to love you any more right now,” she tells me softly. “I just want you to be happy and calm, and fighting with some loser in Target is not helping with that. My family is seriously ruining your life. Maybe we should just go to Vegas and elope. Or maybe you should take my father’s advice and run. I don’t want you to die and all of this stress is going to kill you!”

She starts crying harder and I quickly lean over the center console, wrap my arms around her and pull her against me.

“What in the world are you talking about? We’re not eloping, I don’t want to run, and I’m not going to die from stress,” I reassure her, holding her head against my chest with one hand and rubbing soothing circles against her back with the other. “I think it’s time we go home and talk, okay?”

She nods against my chest before pulling her head back. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, I give her a smile. “Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll go home, I’ll pour you a glass of wine, and we can curl up on the couch and just talk. I think we’ve both been going a little crazy lately and a nice, quiet evening at home is just what we need. No fights, no arguments about guest lists, no weird comments about Mister Ed…just you and me.”

Shifting the truck into reverse, I press on the gas to back out of the driveway. I don’t make it more than a few feet before we hear a loud thump that makes me slam on the breaks.

“What the hell was that?” I mutter, turning off the engine.

Noel shrugs and we both get out to take a look. I squat down to look behind the front tire, muttering a curse just as Aunt Bobbie comes flying back out of the house, screaming her head off.

So much for a relaxing evening with Noel so we can talk.





Chapter 7




Turd Ferguson

Noel


“I can’t believe he’s really gone. He was my best friend,” Aunt Bobbie cries, as we all stand around my parents’ backyard and quietly watch Sam dig a hole in the ground at the back of the property.

After what happened at Target and the moment in the car when Sam finally admitted that we needed to talk, I thought we were finished with our excitement for the day, but I should have known better. I knew it was time for me to come clean to Sam that I saw his prescription and knew about the high blood pressure that my family caused, and I was ready. Trying to keep his blood pressure down on my own so he could forego the pills was obviously the dumbest idea in the world, since this family seems to be a magnet for drama and stupid shit. I could tell he was getting suspicious every time I suggested keeping calm, and there’s no way I’d be able to make him believe for much longer that I am perfectly fine letting my mother Shabby Chic the shit out of our wedding. Of course, right when I convince myself it’s time to suck it up and be an adult, Sam has to go and kill something.

“I can’t believe you’ve been keeping a damn cat in our house for months,” my father complains, looking down at the unmoving ball of fur on the ground next to the hole Sam is still digging.

I’m assuming the cat used to be a very pretty one since Aunt Bobbie wouldn’t stop crying about his long, shiny white fur and beautiful green eyes. Sadly, after being run over by the giant wheel of a Ford truck, his coat is now matted and covered in dirt and with his eyes wide open in death, they’re more of a blood-shot color at this point, with one of the eyeballs enlarged and looking like it’s about ready to pop out of its socket.

“I wasn’t keeping him in your house,” Aunt Bobbie complains, pulling a handkerchief out of her cleavage and dabbing at her cheeks. “Turd Ferguson was strictly an outdoor cat. He had too much pride to cross the threshold of a home where he knew he wasn’t wanted.”

I know I shouldn’t laugh, but every time she says the damn cat’s name, a hysterical giggle bubbles up in my throat and I have to cover my mouth to keep it from escaping. As soon as Aunt Bobbie came running out into the driveway, dropped to the ground next to Sam’s truck, and saw the cat lying lifeless next to the tire, she wailed to the heavens, asking God why he would do this to her, and then demanded we have a proper burial for Turd Ferguson in the backyard. I couldn’t help it. I laughed…very loudly. I was then promptly scolded for making a mockery of Turd Ferguson’s life and as penance, Aunt Bobbie demanded I give the eulogy.