Hot Stuff

After meeting Cap’s five rambunctious grandkids outside when I first arrived, I’m happy to hear they’ve settled down enough so Cara and Shell can sit at the table and eat without having to wrangle wild children.

Between the three boys under the age of ten running around the front yard like banshees and Addy and Aiden, Cara’s two adorable toddlers, keeping their mom busy by continually doing everything she told them not to, it was a literal three-ring circus in the front yard when I’d pulled my Suburban into the driveway.

“And what about the shitheads?” Cap questions, slamming his fork down on the table. “Are you expecting me to wait for them too?”

“Dad!” Cara shouts while Shell sighs.

Lauren shakes her head and tries to tuck her smile behind a fake cough and her hand. Apparently, this is a regular enough occurrence that no one feels uncomfortable fighting it out at the dinner table.

Except for me, of course.

I’m dying inside.

And it’s only partially because of the familial storm brewing in front of me.

Lauren is the real problem—I can’t take my eyes off her.

Lauren

I pick up another empty dish from the table and carry it to the kitchen sink to pile it up with the others. My dad grabs a beer from the fridge and heads for the living room to turn on a football game. Dinner was…long. Once the toddlers woke up and Shell’s boys decided to bring their wildness to the adult table, and we all had to watch on as Pete and Phil did nothing to help out their wives, it also became pretty chaotic. Which, honestly, is the norm in the Carroll household, but there’s no doubt ole Jimmy needs a few minutes to decompress.

It’s not like anyone in my family has animosity toward one another—well, except for my dad and the “shitheads,” as he calls them—but family dinners are like a mushroom cloud of emotions. They spread everywhere, pushed on by the explosion of stress caused by the holidays. Not only is Thanksgiving a marathon of work and family and butting heads, but it kicks off the season into Christmas and strained paychecks and expectations. I don’t like to be such a pessimist about what’s supposed to be the most joyful time of the year, but it’s just the way I know it.

When I was a kid, my dad was always busy with fires started by Christmas trees and faulty lights and chestnuts roasting on an open flame, and my mom was always stressed by the pressure to create all of the holiday magic for my sisters and me on her own. We’re older and grown now, but the basics are the same.

And as an added bonus, the holidays never fail to serve as a reminder that I’m very much single and alone.

Don’t get me wrong—I don’t think there is anything wrong with being a strong, single, independent woman. I cheer it on with both hands in the air. But no human on earth can deny the internal, deep-seated need for other human interaction, affection, love and how the holiday season only magnifies your singledom.

It’s an unavoidable fact of life and probably the biggest reason why I consider myself a lover of all things spring and summer. No holidays. Sunshine. Warm weather. It’s the perfect mix.

I glance down the hall where Garrett disappeared to use the restroom and then will myself back over to the sink.

Why I care where he is or what he is doing, I haven’t a darn clue.

There’s something about his presence that just draws me in.

Honestly, it makes zero sense.

Focus back on cleaning up the dishes from our Thanksgiving dinner, I turn on the water and rotate the handle to get it hot. Since I was a kid, this sink has always taken forever to heat up, even though it’s not that far from the water heater in the utility room. It’s a weird fact of the house, but in this case, it gives me a little time to daydream.

I think about how nice it might be if my mom were alive or if my sisters weren’t already worked to the bone or if there were someone who might actually help me every now and—

“Hey there.” Garrett pushes in beside me, surprising me enough to interrupt my thoughts and make me jump.

The water runs suddenly hot on my hand, and I pull it back before I get burned. It steams in the space in front of me, the water soaking the dishes I need to wash, as I watch Garrett with avid eyes.

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans a hip into the counter, and I glance from the window to the living room to the fridge and back again.

Does he want something or…?

I’m good at math. I had to be to get through medical school. But nothing about this is adding up.