Until December (Until Her/Him #8)(53)

As soon as my door is open, Gareth reaches in, taking hold of my waist. I lean into him, placing my hands on his shoulders, and then let gravity work as I fall safely into his hold to my flat feet.

“That’s December, Dad’s girlfriend,” I hear Max say from behind the open door, and Gareth rumbles a quiet expletive as he hands me my purse then puts pressure on my hip in a silent demand to move so he can shut it.

“I got the groceries, Dad.” Mitchell stops at our side then looks at me. “You wanna help me put them away?”

“Sure.” I adjust my purse on my shoulder then reach out to take a couple of bags, since he’s overloaded. But he steps back, shaking his head making me want to roll my eyes, because he’s already just like his father.

“Is only my youngest going to greet me?”

At that question, I turn slightly and experience up close exactly why Gareth had two kids with her. She really is beautiful, even with the sneer she’s trying to hide.

“Mom,” Mitchell says, and I step closer to him without thinking, not liking the slight twinge of pain and anger I hear in his voice.

Her attention comes to me briefly when I move, and then she focuses on him once more and asks, “That’s all I get? Mom?”

“I haven’t seen you in months,” he tells her, and my heart hurts. How can she stand to be away from her boys that long?

“I’ve been working; you know that.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “I’m going to go put the groceries away and start on homework. Come on, Max. You should do the same.”

“I….” Max looks around, starting to realize that everyone isn’t as happy as he is that his mom’s here.

Not liking the sudden unease I see in his frame, I plaster my best pretend smile on my face and hold out my hand. “I’m December.”

Beth looks down at it like it’s covered in toxic waste then sighs, placing her hand in mine. “Beth.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” I let her hand go. “I think these guys are just hungry and tired after work and school today. I’m sure you get that,” I say then look up at Gareth. “I’m going to get started on dinner.”

“All right, babe. I’ll be inside in a few minutes.” He touches his fingers to my jaw then looks at Max. “Go on in, kid.”

“But—”

“I need to talk to your mom. Go get started on your homework,” Gareth tells him, and Max’s shoulders slump as he turns away.

I want so badly to place my arm around him and tell him it’s okay, but I don’t. Instead, I stay behind him as we walk the path to the house and up the stairs to the porch, and then I cringe when I hear Beth snap, “Seriously, Gareth, what the fuck? Is she living here with you?”

“That’s none of your business, Beth,” Gareth replies, and then I don’t hear more, because I shut the door to block them out.

When I turn around, neither of the boys are anywhere in sight. I hang up my purse and jacket then pick up Max’s coat from where he draped it over the back of the couch, hanging it up. I then straighten the cushions, fold the blankets, put away the video games left out, and stack all the boys’ sports equipment in the corner, thinking I need to get a basket for it all to go in. When I finally make it to the kitchen, I find the groceries still in the plastic bags from the store. I turn on the oven then unpack everything, trying to ignore the urge to go peek out the blinds to see what’s happening in the driveway.

“Do you need help?” I turn my head toward Max standing at the edge of the island, and I notice his eyes are a little red like he’s been crying.

“Definitely,” I say, dumping the two packs of meatloaf seasoning into the bowl that I’ve already got the milk, eggs, and breadcrumbs in. “I don’t like squishing all the stuff into the meat, so you’d be doing me a favor if you helped me out.” He nods, not giving me even a small glimpse of his normal happy smile. “Wash your hands, honey.”

He does, and then I softly tell him what to do, and while he mixes everything together, I fill a pot with water and add the already cleaned corn, putting it on the stove. Then I place a bag of ready-to-steam potatoes in the microwave and set it for ten minutes.

“My mom isn’t bad,” he says, catching me off guard as I pull out a baking dish from one of the lower cabinets, and I look at him as I stand from my squatted position.

“Pardon?”

“My mom… she isn’t a bad person,” he repeats without looking at me.

“I don’t think anyone thinks that, honey,” I tell him gently, setting the baking dish next to him on the counter.

“She’s funny, and she tells cool stories, and she always brings me stuff.” I don’t say anything, because I honestly don’t know what to say. “She’s cool, like you, but different. I… I don’t think she really wanted to be a mom, but she does the best she can.”

“Max,” I whisper, hating that he even thinks that, let alone believes that it’s true.

“She’s just her, and when she’s around, I like spending time with her.”

“She’s your mom, honey. Of course you like spending time with her.”

“I also like spending time with you,” he says, and I can tell by his tone that he feels guilty about that.