Surprise Daddy

“Five…four…three…two…one! There it is, Happy New Year!” The screaming grin on TV disappears into the thick of Times Square, Auld Lang Syne strumming its bittersweet notes in the background.

It’s now past midnight. Another year lost to time’s ashes, and a new one in the making.

It’s fitting that I spend the first few minutes alone. That’s all I’ve wanted since I came home, saying a few words to Mia. I parked myself in front of the TV as soon as I knew she was in daddy’s hands.

I haven’t seen Marshal since he took her upstairs. The poor thing didn’t last past nine o’clock, passed out on the sofa, a half-eaten candy cane still tucked in her hands. He sent a questioning glance my way before carrying her up, as if to say, everything all right?

I just nodded. Whispered something about an upset stomach, and told him to holler if he needed anything. He didn’t hang around to check in with me again. After he came down from tending Mia, he walked straight past the living room, into the kitchen, and then I heard the door click shut.

He’s been out there ever since.

I see the soft orange glow of the light illuminating the chill space between the house and his sanctum in the work shed.

It feels wrong that we’re both spending the New Year’s zenith alone.

But I can’t shake the unease I’ve had ever since I returned.

My stomach growls. Far from upset, I’m starving. I shuffle into the kitchen, searching for any snacks he might have left out. Too bad he’s so meticulous everything is in the fridge, the cheese ball he rolled with his huge hands covered in foil.

I grab a box of crackers off the counter and scrape a few bites. It’s nutty and flavorful. Surprisingly delicious.

Same with the dips. His homemade salsa nearly bowls me over with how good it is.

One more mark in his sexy column. A man who can make food earns default brownie points, but damn it, I don’t need him wracking them up on a scoreboard that shouldn’t exist.

I haven’t bothered to flick the lights on in the kitchen. The window above the sink catches the light outside. It oozes in from his workshop, another reminder he’s out there.

Alone.

Sighing, I put the snacks away and dig through the fridge. There’s a six pack of beer in the corner so frosted over it probably hasn’t been touched for weeks. I yank off two cans and stuff them into my coat pockets before throwing it on.

I’m not sure what I’m getting into, knocking on his workshop this late. I almost don’t expect an answer. But Marshal cracks the door with the same fierce stare I’m slowly getting used to. “Yeah?”

“Happy New Year. It’s past midnight. Here’s a present.” I reach into my pockets with both hands, holding up the beers. “How about a quick toast? Assuming I’m not interrupting anything, of course.”

A low growl shakes his throat. I wonder if I’ve barged in on another secret ritual, another part of his life that’s meant for his eyes only. He answers my question, stepping aside so I can enter, snatching one of the beers out of my hand.

“Grab a seat, Red. Happy to see your bellyache is better.” He drags a chair out of the corner and props it in front of his bench, where he plops down next to me. He waits to sip his drink until I’m facing him, a glint in his eye that says he knows the upset stomach thing is BS. “Why are you really out here?”

“I didn’t want you to be alone. Nobody should ring in the New Year without some company.” My voice is so quiet, popping my beer open sounds like a bullet ricocheting. So do our cheers.

We clink cans and then take long sips. Another growl slips out of him, but this time it’s a satisfied one.

“How thoughtful,” he rumbles, clasping his can between his legs. “Too bad I don’t need your sympathy, Red. Don’t tell me you feel guilty for wanting a night by yourself? Everybody needs a break sometimes.”

I look down, eyes to the floor so they don’t get lost deeper in his storm blue eyes. “It isn’t that. It’s just…what’s the matter, Marshal? Really? You spend so much time out here by yourself. I know you’re not working.”

His eyes darken a shade, bright skies becoming stormy seas. Guilty.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” I tell him. He’s in no rush to answer my awkward questions. “If it isn’t any of my business…if this is your private retreat, or something, just say so and I’ll –“

“It’s bullshit, is what it is.” His words are as deafening as an avalanche. “I spend half my time with Mia. Another forty percent with memories of men who died in combat years ago. The last ten goes to clients who don’t give a shit beyond getting their machines fixed, and jackoffs in town who’d love to see the Sheriff fish my carcass out of the river one fine day.”