surreal, I’m not sure I’ve fully processed it yet.
Yeah. And you also haven’t fucking told anyone but Billy…
The inklings of guilt start to swirl around in my stomach, but I redirect my focus to a few text message notifications I missed yesterday.
Thatcher Kelly: Luke, my man, I’m running a little behind schedule. Mind working that ATC magic of yours?
Shit. I cringe when I realize I forget to tell him the dates for when I’d be heading to Vermont with Ava. Or that Barry would be flying in my place.
About thirty minutes after that initial text, he sent this.
Thatcher Kelly: What. The. Fluff? Who is this bastard Barry? He sucks, Luke. He fluffing sucks. Bitched at me for being late and shit.
And then, five minutes after that, he sent these two beauties.
Thatcher Kelly: Trevor tells me you’re not coming back until AFTER the 1st of the year???? And that I’m going to have to deal with this bum Barry for the next few weeks??? Say it isn’t fluffing so…
Thatcher Kelly: Just got confirmation that it IS so, and it’s because you’re in Vermont with Ava. I’ll be honest, Lucas, ole Thatcher ain’t happy about it, but he understands. ;)
I smile and shake my head. Goddamn. Sometimes, Thatcher Kelly really is a handful. Before I step into Ava’s parents’ house, I shoot him a text back, choosing to ignore the topic of Ava altogether.
Me: Sorry I missed your texts. And try to go easy on Barry, will you? He really isn’t that bad when you get to know him.
I’m surprised when I get two texts back in record time.
Thatcher Kelly: You might as well give up on that pipe dream, Lucas. There is no way me and Dingle-Barry are ever going to get along.
Thatcher Kelly: Yesterday, Wes and I were trying to watch the Mavericks game on the way home from LA, and Dingle-Barry made a fluffing announcement over the speakers to tell us to turn down the volume. Wes was so pissed, I thought he was going to murder him in the cockpit. No doubt about it, we’ll all be fluffing relieved when you’re back.
Apparently, Barry incites the same reaction in everyone—an instant dislike.
Truthfully, I think he’s a nice guy, maybe a little odd and stuffy and set in his ways, but a good guy, nonetheless.
Also, from here on out, a guy Thatch will probably be seeing a lot more of…
Obviously, there’s no need to break that news to him just yet. I’ll let him enjoy the holidays before I deliver that doozy.
When my post-run, heated skin starts to turn cool, I step out of the brisk morning air and back inside the Lucies’ house.
I’m pleased to find Ava standing in the kitchen alone, wearing a tank top and Santa Claus pajama pants. She clutches a fresh cup of hot cocoa in one hand and a buttercream-frosted snowman cookie in the other.
“Mornin’, Ace.”
She smiles around a mouthful of cookie. “How was the run?”
“Horrible,” I answer through a chuckle and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “I feel like I did a Michael Scott carbo-load.”
She snorts. “Yeah, that was a big meal last night.”
I eye her knowingly. “If that was last night’s dinner, what in the hell am I supposed to expect on Christmas?”
“Christmas and Christmas Eve.”
I tilt my head to the side.
“My dad makes his biggest meals on both of those days.”
His biggest meals? Pretty sure the only way those meals of his could get any bigger is if he buys a fucking crane and has food dropped in through the roof.
“Good God,” I mutter as I chuckle and take a sip of water. “I might have to buy an extra ticket for the plane ride home.”
“Whatever, Mr. Six-Pack Abs.” Ava rolls her pretty blue eyes. “Your metabolism can handle a little indulgence.”
I wink. “Speaking of my glorious abs, you want to help me?”
“Help you do what?”
“Finish my workout.”
Confused, she just stands there.
“C’mon, Ace,” I cajole and gesture for her to follow me into the living room. “Since I have to skip my weight workouts, I need a little extra resistance.”
Even though she still has no idea what I’m talking about, she sets down her cup of cocoa and follows me into the living room, the half-eaten cookie still held in her hand.
I get into a push-up position and flick my head toward my back. “Hop on.”
“Hop on?” She scrunches up her nose, staring down at me. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” I retort. “While I do