Page 20 of Hampton Holiday Collective
Chapter 16
Jake
White-knucklingthesmoothleatherof the steering wheel, I eye the road warily. Snow whips across the turnpike in billowing waves. Visibility is limited to just a few yards, and I swear the vehicle rocks as another gust of wind blusters over the road.
Typically, I wouldn’t be concerned, but we’re on the third showing ofLittle Baby Bum, and my nerves are fried from listening to those stupid kittens whine about their goddamn mittens. Plus, the traction of a minivan doesn’t compare to the all-wheel drive of my beloved Jeep.
“I have to unmute again,” Cory mutters in warning.
Fuck. I’m up.
“Okay, kiddos—Papi has to talk on the phone. Let’s play the quiet game. Winner gets a Goldfish snack.”
I lower the volume of their show, only to be met with brute protests.
“I can’t hear da baby bum!” Matteo screams.
At the same time, Stella gripes, “I don’t even like Goldfish!”
She liked them just fine yesterday.
I glance back at my kids through the rearview mirror and huff out a long breath. I’ll have to up the ante if Cory stands a chance of being heard on his call.
“Hey! Shh-shh-shh. Be quiet for just a few minutes, and I’ll give you M&Ms.”
They both cheer, victorious in the art of small child manipulation, while Cory reaches over and gives my thigh an appreciative squeeze.
I do my best to smile back and mean it, but damn, I’m already exhausted, and it’s only two in the afternoon.
I got the kids fed and ready this morning like usual. Then, after I cleaned up the kitchen and wrapped a few more gifts, it was a mad dash to double-check that we hadn’t forgotten anything important and pack up the car. Every time I turned around, one of the kids was pulling out something I packed, adding in a few extra toys, or—worst of all—trying to get a peek of their Christmas gifts.
Christmas at the cabin used to be a helluva lot simpler when my only responsibilities were bringing a case of Christmas Ale and getting Tori and myself safely to Michigan.
“I expect it to get worse before it gets better,” Cory says into the phone, indicating that he’s no longer muted.
I give another quick remindershhto my children.
“If last year’s numbers and data from this Thanksgiving are any indication, we’ll be slammed over the next few days. Our first priority is fulfilling our mission, but not at the expense of any of our staff or volunteers.” He clears his throat and goes on. “I want the break room fully stocked, with lunch and dinner catered in each day from now until January first. Break periods are not to be missed, and mandatory respite days still need to be honored, no matter how much someone might insist they’re fine. I refuse to let anyone on the team burn out this week—we take care of our own, because that’s the best way to take care of the people we serve.”
Hot damn. I love when he goes all bossy executive director like that. Especially when he’s advocating for his staff and volunteers.
My husband clears his throat and gives me the side-eye, almost as if he can sense how turned on his stern conference call voice is making me.
I raise my brows in challenge and smirk before focusing on the road again.
Dozens of people will keep the phone lines and text message service running twenty-four seven this week for Better Yet, the non-profit organization Cory founded. It’s one of their busiest times of the year—at-risk LGBTQ youth rely heavily on their support because many are in more vulnerable situations during the holidays. Whether it’s sitting across the dinner table from a bigot uncle or being forced to attend a church service where who they are as human beings is condemned, there are unavoidable situations that threaten their mental health and general wellbeing.
It’s a struggle each and every year to convince Cory to take time off for his birthday and Christmas. He’d be manning the phones himself twenty-four seven if he could. So this is our compromise: we keep up our tradition of going up to the cabin to spend Christmas with Tori and Rhett, but he stays connected and in constant contact with his team.
“Daddy,” Stella says in a hushed voice behind me, and before I can respond, she’s whisper-yelling, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
“Daddy. Stella needs you!” Matteo informs me at full volume.
My son is never more like me than when he wants someone’s attention.
“Shh!” I remind them again.
Cory holds up one finger with an apologetic grimace.