Kit (A Little Christmas Season Three)

Chapter 16

16

Parker

K it suggested Mexican food for lunch and directed me to his favorite place.

The wind kicked up as we walked across the parking lot, blowing our scarves loose. Carols played on speakers outside and inside the warm restaurant.

While we ate, snowflakes began to fall in lazy swoops outside our booth window.

After this morning with Kit showing me his need for reassurance that we truly were building a relationship, I still worried for my baby boy. Had I done the right things for him? Was he going to keep questioning himself?

For some, clingy boyfriends were turnoffs, but not for me. It was one thing that attracted me to the daddy kink dynamic. I derived incredible pleasure from pampering and spoiling my little ones.

After lunch, Kit danced across the parking lot in the snow, holding his head back and sticking out his tongue. He spun until I thought he’d fall.

“Come on, baby boy. Let’s get in the car where it’s warm.”

He skipped to the passenger door and waited until I opened it. He got in and I Ieaned inside and fastened his seatbelt.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

I was training him to wait for me to do things for him. It wasn’t about control. I would never have taken Kit’s freedoms. It was about the energy between us and what we both wanted.

When we got home, Kit ran to the snowman. Over the past couple of days, we’d added a hat, an old scarf and thin, dead tree branch arms. Kit grabbed up snow and patted him down, adding to his roundness.

“He’s a wonderful snow person,” I said.

“Yep. And he’s here to stay for a while. So we gotta feed him.” He packed another handful of snow onto the round torso.

I walked onto the porch and opened the door. Kit skipped up the steps and, like a good boy, took off his coat, hat, scarf, mittens and shoes so he wouldn’t drip through the house.

It was a great homey feeling to see his coat hung next to mine on the rack.

I brought in more wood from the porch, cleaned out the hearth and got the fire going. We could have had an electric fire, but I loved wood burning fires if I knew I would be home and in for the night. It smelled great and the sound gave off warm and alive vibes.

Kit pranced from room to room with little tasks of his own. He brought his coloring books into the living room from the dining room. He set his Christmas bear and the one bear he’d brought from home together on a chair by the couch. Under his breath, he sang, “Dashing through the snow.”

I turned on Christmas movies and we relaxed with drinks for a quiet afternoon indoors as the wind blew harder, keening around the house.

I had wine. Kit switched from apple to grape juice.

Kit colored for a long time, showing me picture after picture. I loved seeing him be creative.

Finally, he got on the couch with me, and we watched Christmas cartoons together and laughed a lot.

The sky grew dark. Kit turned on the outdoor lights which reflected like bright rainbows in the windowpanes.

“Hey, I have an idea for dinner,” I said.

Kit rubbed his stomach. “I’m almost still full from lunch.” He rolled his eyes. “Almost.”

“Let’s have a picnic.”

“A picnic? Daddy, you’re silly. It’s way too cold outside for that.”

“We’ll have it right here.” I pointed to the expanse of floor between the coffee table and hearth. “I’ll put down a picnic blanket and we’ll bring out the food and make it a little party.”

“A party!” Kit jumped and clapped his hands. “I’ll help, Daddy.”

Together, we put out a red and white plaid blanket with cushions to sit on.

In the kitchen, I prepared a tray of cold cuts, cheese and bread and butter. To a second tray, I added bowls of nuts, carrots and celery with dip, and pretzels. I brought out a bag of marshmallows and two long cooking forks.

When I set down the second tray, Kit looked at the bag. “Marshmallows? Ohhh. We can roast them over the fire.”

“For dessert,” I added.

We sat together and made little sandwiches and ate samplings of everything else. We went back to the Christmas movie channel on TV.

Just before we were ready to roast the marshmallows, I brought us hot cocoa.

“We can put some marshmallows in the cocoa, too,” Kit said.

“Yes, we can. But I love mine roasted to a soft brown crisp over the fire.”

“I like mine all burnt up.” Kit grinned.

True to his word, Kit kept catching his marshmallows on fire. He had more soot on his fingers than sticky sugar.

When we were full and the plates almost empty, we lounged back on the cushions and watched A Christmas Story.

After it was over, the fire had burned down to low. I picked up the trays and bowls, and said, heading to the kitchen, “I’ll build that fire back up as soon as I get the dishwasher going.”

It was going to take at least two trips. When I returned to the living room, Kit had the poker out and was prodding at the fire.

“Don’t touch it, Kit. I’ll build it when I get back.”

I cleaned up the rest of the dishes and left him lying on the blanket, poker in hand, staring up at the ceiling. I planned to get my phone and take some pictures. With the tree, the fire, and the lights in the window, plus a beautiful boy lying on a blanket, it was a scene I never wanted to forget.

I rustled around in the kitchen, starting the dishwasher and cleaning the counters when I heard a soft pop. Then Kit was screaming.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

I threw down my wet cloth and ran to the living room.

There, on the hearth rug right where Kit was kneeling, a mostly blackened log was burning, flames rising up blue and gold.

“It rolled out when I poked it, Daddy! It hit my knee.”

He had his hand over his knee so I couldn’t see it. But at the moment I needed to take care of things. I certainly didn’t want my house to burn down three days before Christmas.

I grabbed the large tongs and half lifted, half rolled the log back into the fireplace.

Kit was rocking, body shaking. “Daddy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m bad.”

“No—” I started.

“Oh no! I burned your rug. I wrecked it.” He sounded panicked.

“Baby boy, it’s?—”

He interrupted again, not hearing me. “I almost burned your house. I can’t believe I did that. I’m bad, I’m bad!” He jumped up. “Ow. It made a hole in my pants and burned my knee. I’m bad. I disobeyed you. Oh no!”

Before I could respond, he ran toward the front door.

“Kit,” I yelled. “Where are you going?”

“I have to go home. I just have to. I’m sorry.”

He opened the front door and a cold wind rushed straight in and all over the big rooms of the downstairs area. Without his parka, hat or scarf, he ran outside.

I got up, making sure the fire was secure, and the fire screen closed, threw down the tongs and ran after him.

What was he thinking? He couldn’t go home. He hadn’t even picked up the keys to his car.

I ran onto the porch. The lights twinkled all up and down the block making pretty reflections on the street and in the fresh snow. Flakes fell, filling the air, but not enough to impair my vision. I scanned the yard.

Kit had run out in his stocking feet and a thin pullover sweater. He was now crouched down by the snowman rocking himself and chanting, “Oh my god.”

Snow crunched as I ran up to him.

“Kit! Kit!” The wind blew my voice until I barely heard myself.

He turned. The Christmas lights allowed me to see tear tracks on his cheeks.

I dropped to my knees, the snow immediately soaking through my pants. I reached out to put my hand on his shoulder. He jerked back and scrambled away a couple feet, his hair blowing into his face.

“I don’t deserve you, Parker. You’re so perfect. But I almost burned down your house.”

“You didn’t?—”

“You deserve someone better.” He let out a pitiful moan, nearly matching the loneliness of the wind.

“What?” I reeled. We’d just had a discussion earlier about trust. About how good we were together.

He sniffed hard. “You told me not to touch the fire. And I did. And now your rug and—and?—”

“Kit.”

He hid behind his bent arms.

“Baby boy. You didn’t burn the rug.”

“I did! I saw it all blackened.”

“Sweetheart, that’s the hearth rug. It’s fireproof. It just needs a wash now, that’s all.”

He lifted his head until I could see just the glint of his eyes behind his dark hair. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying. But what I’m worried about is—did you hurt yourself?”

He hunched down, ignoring the question. “How? How can you not want me to leave now? I wrecked everything!”

“You didn’t wreck anything. I assure you.” I held out my hand to him.

“I did!”

“If you’ll just take my hand, we’ll go in and I’ll show you. No harm was done. Logs roll out of fireplaces, baby. It can happen to anyone. It’s happened to me.”

“You told me not to touch it.” His voice sounded like it was being squeezed.

“I did. That’s true. But that doesn’t mean you should leave. I would be devastated if you left me, baby boy. Please don’t leave.”

He grunted. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I am very conscious of what I’m saying. I would be the saddest Santa Daddy ever if you left, Kit. Don’t you know that?”

He slowly shook his head, eyes closed.

The trees swayed over us as the wind abruptly changed direction.

I stretched my hand out, palm up. “Come on, baby boy. Please come back with me where it’s warm and we can talk.

He lifted his eyelids, staring at my hand.

“Come with me. Please?”

He didn’t move.

“Don’t leave, Kit. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

Cold gusts stole his voice as he spoke, but I thought I heard him say something like, “…never hurt you…”

Slowly, he stretched out his hand.

I closed my fingers around his chilled skin. Snow started to fall heavier as I rose and pulled him up with me. I got an arm around his shoulders. He was shivering.

Together, we walked up the porch steps and back into the warm house. I shut the door behind us and bustled him to the couch. The fire was burning again after so much tossing of logs. It made a friendly orange glow.

I crouched on my knees between Kit’s legs as he hunched over, my hands on his shoulders. I saw a brown burn through mark on his pants at one knee.

“Calm down, now, baby boy. You’re okay. You didn’t do anything bad.” I let out a short laugh. “The house is still standing.”

He sniffled three times, then looked at me. He whispered, “Daddy, I was so scared.”

I lifted my hand and cupped his damp cheek. “I know.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over his shoulders. Then I rocked forward into a hug.

“I know you’re very sorry. But it’s over with now. No damage. I’ll just wash the rug and we’ll be good as new.” I patted his back.

He tentatively rubbed one hand against my chest, his head bent under my chin.

When I pulled back, I rested my hand over his knee and the burnt fabric. “Did you burn yourself?”

He inhaled sharply, nodding once. “A little.”

I patted his thigh and stood. “Stay right here. I’m going to make it all better. But please, just stay.”

He looked up at me with big, round eyes.

“Don’t leave,” I insisted.

“Yes, Daddy.”

I practically ran to the downstairs bathroom where I knew I had some Neosporin and band aids. I brought them back in a hurry with a cold, wet cloth. I knelt again before my boy.

I pulled the material away from his skin and stuck my finger through the burn hole.

“You did some damage here.” I wiggled my finger.

“I didn’t feel it at first. I didn’t know until it burned.”

His pants were winter sweats, easy to roll up over the knee. When the flesh was revealed, I saw a bony kneecap and just above it a small, pink streak.

“Yep, you burned the skin. But just a little.” I dabbed it gently with the cloth.

Kit stared at his knee as if transfixed.

“It’s just a little burn. I don’t see a blister yet, but there might be a small one.” I held up the ointment. “This will help keep infection away and make it feel better.”

“Okay.” His voice was hoarse, eyelashes still damp.

I spread the Neosporin over the red mark.

Kit bit his lower lip, then said, “That feels better, Daddy.”

I got out the band aid and opened it.

Kit’s eyebrows rose. “That’s blue and it’s got green cartoon dinosaurs on it.”

“Yep. Is that okay?”

He nodded.

I stretched the band aid into place, then patted his knee. “There. All better.”

Kit reached out and touched the edges of the band aid. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Good.”

“You’re magic, Daddy.”

I ruffled his hair. “Just experienced.”

I rolled his sweats back down. There was a little hole with dark brown edges at the knee, and through it I could see the blue and green band aid.

“We can get you new sweats, okay? But you can still wear these.”

“They’re like my torn boy clothes I like to play in.” Kit stretched out his leg.

“We can save them as your more rough-housing play clothes, okay?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I leaned forward and kissed his forehead, wrapping the throw more tightly around him.

My boy. How deeply I’d fallen in love with him, I didn’t know, but it was deep enough to make me think I might actually drown if I lost him now.