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“What’s this flyer stuffed at the bottom of your backpack, Bug?”
Rowan looks up at Harvey. “It’s for the stupid bake sale.” She sloughs off her winter jacket and hangs it near the door.
Frank Sinatra’s Christmas album plays softly in the background.
“Why’s it ‘stupid’?” He uncrinkles the paper, smoothes it against the countertop.
“Not like I can bring anything.” She scuffs her feet, braids swinging with the motion. Her boots shed melted snow.
“You’re gonna have to give me more, honey.” Harvey walks around the kitchen island and crouches to look his daughter in the eye. His knees creak a little more than he’d like.
Tears shimmer, diffusing her hazel irises into watery browns and greens. “No store bought goodies. That’s the rule.”
Harvey waits. If nothing else, Rowan has taught him to be patient.
Rowan huffs, impatient with her dad. “You’re supposed to get your mom to help you,” she says, tears clogging her throat. “I don’t have a mom.”
Harvey stands abruptly, anger blotching his neck. He reaches to Rowan and scoops her up in his arms. She wraps her thin legs around his waist and burrows into his neck. Her quiet sobs rack his soul.
“What up, fam?” Mike calls as he enters the room carrying wrapped packages. Seeing Rowan and Harvey, he sets the packages under the tree and approaches quietly. “What’s wrong?”
Rowan raises her head to say, “I can’t make cupcakes.” Tears clog her throat. She takes a huge breath then starts sobbing again. Mike can see that Harvey’s shoulder is already wet.
Mike looks at Harvey’s face, seeking explanation. Harvey shakes his head and mouths Later.
Mike crosses the room in two long strides and joins the hug so that Rowan is wrapped between the people who love her more than life itself.
——————
“What was that about?” Mike asks. “Cupcakes?” He picks up the smoothed-out flyer for the bake sale and reads the No store-bought treats, please note at the bottom. “Fucking elitist PTA.”
Harvey pours them each a few fingers of whiskey. He hands Mike a glass and gestures toward the couch.
“What about kids whose parents don’t have time to bake?” Mike rails. “I know it’s a good school, but sometimes…”
“Lemme add some fuel to that fire,” Harvey says. Where most people would try to diffuse a partner’s anger, Harvey knows that Mike won’t be satisfied until he blazes through the rage on his own. “The reason our daughter was sobbing on my shoulder earlier is because she doesn’t have a mother to help her bake cupcakes.”
Mike’s face turns the predictable shade of red Harvey had expected; he proactively motions keep the volume down.
“A mother!” Mike whispers furiously. “What the fuck does that have to do with a bake sale?”
“Bug seems to think that she needs a mother to bake cupcakes,” Harvey says, evenly. He’s seething. “And she has two fathers.”
Tears of anger spring to Mike’s eyes. “How dare they? We picked that school for its tolerance.” His jaw flexes as he clenches his teeth.
“I know,” Harvey says, reaching for Mike. He takes Mike’s drink and pulls his husband closer.
“What did she say exactly?”
“That the bake sale is stupid—”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Mike interrupts.
Harvey snickers. “When I asked why it’s stupid, she said that she wouldn’t be able to bring anything. You heard the rest.”
“Who would tell her that?”
“I’m making an appointment with the principal,” he says. “Thinking about bringing a bat.”
Mike settles his head onto Harvey’s should, anger melting to comfort. “I’ll go with you. Poor kid. She cried herself to sleep.”
Harvey tugs Mike closer and kisses the top of his head. “Don’t worry,” Harvey whispers. “We’ll find out who upset our girl.” Mike can hear the poorly-hidden menace and spares a brief moment of pity for the school administrator.
——————
The next morning, Mike, Harvey, and Rowan cuddle on the couch. On the coffee table in front of them are cups of cocoa, mini marshmallows bobbing cheerfully.
“Sweetheart,” Mike begins. “We want to talk to you about what you said yesterday.”
“What did I say? she asks. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, of course not, Bug,” Harvey assures her. “Not even remotely. We just want to talk to you.”
Mike picks up the conversation, “You know that we both love you, right? More than anything in the world?”
“Yes,” she says. She looks up at one father then the other.
“Our family may look different from others, because you have two—”
“Awesome!” Mike interjects.
“…dads,” Harvey continues. “But there is nothing wrong with being different.”
“I know that,” she says.
“Then what made you sad?”
“It’s just that— Susie told me my family isn’t real because I don’t have a mother,” she says.
Mike and Harvey share a pained look. Harvey’s face reddens in anger.
“Well, Susie is wrong,” Mike says, placing a calming hand on Harvey’s shoulder. “Families are made of people who love each other. Ours just happens to be two dads and our favorite girl in the world.”
“And you do have a mother, Bug,” Harvey says. “She’s just not part of our lives. If you want to meet her, we can arrange that.”
“That’s OK,” Rowan says. “I’ve got you and Grammy and Auntie Donna.”
“You do,” Mike says.
“And if anyone tells you different, you tell me,” Harvey says. “I’ll take—”
“Harvey,” Mike scolds. “No threatening children.”
“You’re so funny, Daddy,” she says, climbing into Harvey’s lap.
——————
“Grammy,” Rowan asks the next afternoon. “Do you know how to make cupcakes?”
Edith looks curiously at her granddaughter. “Of course, sweetie. You’ve had my cupcakes before.”
“Oh, yeah. You made ‘em for my birthday when I turned five,” Rowan says thoughtfully. “I ‘member now.”
“Why are you asking, pet?”
“I need to bring something for the stupid bake sale and it has to be home-made.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“A girl at school said only moms do baking.”
“What an eejit,” Edith says.
Rowan laughs, “Grammy! That’s a dollar in the swear jar.”
“It’s my house. I’m exempt from that rule.” Edith’s laugh lines deepen. “That wasn’t a nice thing for her to say. Nor is it true. You’re just lucky to have two fathers. Not many kids get to say that.”
“Oh, I know that, Grammy,” Rowan says. “But I still don’t have anyone to help me bake cupcakes.”
“What am I? Chopped liver?”
Rowan giggles. She has no idea what chopped liver is, but she loves the phrase.
“Will you help me bake cupcakes?” Rowan asks.
“Of course I will, pet,” Edith says. She opens her arms to Rowan, who steps in for a hug. “But,” she begins. “Your dad knows how to bake. He could help you.”
“Dad knows how to bake?”
“Don’t act so surprised,” Edith says. “I taught him when he was your age. Probably for a—what’d you call it?—stupid bake sale at school.”
Wide-eyed, Rowan regards her great-grandmother.
“Ask him,” Edith says.
So she does.
——————
“Daddy,” Rowan says matter-of-factly. “Grammy said that Dad knows how to bake cupcakes.”
“She did, did she?” Harvey wonders why Mike had failed to mention that he can bake. “Are you sure that’s what she said?”
“She taught him a long time ago. When he was my age.”
“Honey, we need to work on your math,” Harvey jokes. “He’s not ancient.”
She twists her lips in disbelief. “Whatever. So can he help me?”
“Ask him,” Harvey says. “He’ll be here soon. We’ll both ask him.”
Mike arrives a few minutes later and greets Harvey with a kiss and Rowan with tickles and kisses all over her face.
“Dad,” she squeals. “Stop it!”
“But I can’t, Row-Row,” he laughs. “You’re so kissable. And tickleable.”
She leans into his legs, giggling. Not to be distracted, she says, “Grammy said you would teach me how to bake cupcakes.”
“She did, did she?” Mike asks, unknowingly echoing Harvey. “When did she tell you that?”
“Today.”
“I’ll need to thank her for volunteering me.”
“So, will you?”
“The thing is, Row-Row,” he begins. “It’s been a long time since I have baked. Like since I was a kid.”
“How hard could it be?” Harvey asks.
Mike hears the challenge. “Baking is a science, Harvey. You can’t just throw the ingredients together.”
“Bet I could figure it out.”
“Doubt it.”
——————
Harvey’s not used to failing at anything. He sees a goal and goes for it. He will not let baking get the best of him. After all, how hard could it be?
——————
“Daddy,” Rowan says cautiously. “There’s something wrong with your cupcakes.”
“What d’ya mean, Bug?”
She picks up the sunken cake, its edges blackened. Takes a tentative bite. “It’s, umm, chunky and burnt.”
“Nonsense,” he argues, taking a cupcake from the rack. He takes a bite, then screws up his face in disgust. “You’re not wrong, Bug. Let’s throw these away, OK?”
“They are gross,” she says and dumps the disaster in the trash.
Harvey pushes them deeper into the bag and covers them with crumpled parchment paper.
Glancing at his watch, he asks, “Should we try again?” He has at least another two hours before Mike will be home.
“Yes, but this time you have to follow the recipe.”
“Recipes are for amateurs.”
“Umm.”
“C’mon,” he says. “We have just enough time to make another batch before your Dad gets home. He’ll be so jealous—I mean proud of how great our cupcakes are.”
——————
“Mmm,” Mike hums when he walks in the door. “Smells like, uh, cake?”
Harvey has flour in his hair.
Rowan tears into the room at top speed. “Daddy baked cupcakes,” she informs Mike. “We had to throw them away. Again.”
“How come?”
Harvey interrupts, “The recipe was wrong.”
“I’ll be sure to let Grammy know,” Mike chuffs mischievously.
“No need,” Harvey rushes to say. “I’ll figure it out.”
——————
Mike does not offer any baking tips. Nor does he mention the absence of baking powder in the pantry.
——————
“Goddamn it!” Harvey yells then immediately looks around. Rowan is in her bedroom and he hopes she won’t emerge demanding another contribution to his swear jar. It’s already close to overflowing. He turns up the holiday soundtrack just in case.
Safe from censure, he slides another batch into the bin, turns on the vent hood, and takes out the trash. He wonders if he could pass off store-bought Christmas-themed cupcakes as his own.
——————
It turns out to be a week (and four failed batches of cupcakes) before they go to the school.
“Good morning, Dr. Carter,” Harvey greets the school principal. “Thanks for fitting us in.” He’s in lawyer mode.
“Of course, Mr. Specter, Mr. Ross,” she says, looking at each in turn. “I’m always glad to see our students’ parents. What can I do for you today?”
Skipping pleasantries, Harvey says, “Rowan’s participation in the bake sale should not be contingent on the fact that she has two fathers.” He’s simmering, on the verge of a boil.
“What?” Dr. Carter asks sharply. She shakes her head quickly and purses her lips. “I don’t understand.”
“What he means,” Mike says, furrowing his brows at his husband, “is that Rowan believes that mothers bake and without a mother, she won’t be able to bring anything to the bake sale.”
“That’s what I said,” Harvey huffs.
“Not exactly,” Mike says to Harvey’s scowl.
“Well, I can ensure you that no adult at this school would have said anything of the sort,” Dr. Carter says, her face reddening.
Harvey produces the wrinkled flyer. “Right here in black-and-white,” he says sternly. “‘Enjoy baking time with your mother.’ Seems like a school-sanctioned message to me.”
Dr. Carter takes the flyer and smooths it out on her desk. “The bake sale is organized by the PTA. I didn’t see this before it was distributed, but I take full responsibility. I am deeply sorry that Rowan was hurt.”
“What will you do to correct your mistake?” Harvey demands.
Mike places a what he hopes is a calming hand on Harvey’s knee. “What he means—”
“Stop translating me,” Harvey says. He glares at Mike to no avail.
Mike continues, “—is that we’d like to know what efforts you will take going forward to ensure that the school promotes understanding that families come in all shapes and sizes.”
“That’s right,” Harvey says tensely. “The little brat who pointed out to Rowan that she can’t participate in the bake sale also told her she doesn’t have a real family,” Harvey says.
“Poor Rowan,” Dr. Carter says. “I’m terribly sorry about this. As I hope you know, we pride ourselves on our inclusion of all students.”
“You better—”
“Thank you, Dr. Carter,” Mike interrupts again. He’d rather face the wrath of Harvey later than make the situation with the principal worse now. “We trust you’ll ensure that this was a one-time thing.”
“Of course. I’ll have a chat with the PTA president. I’m sure she’ll understand,” she says. “Would you like to see Rowan before you leave?”
“No,” Mike says. “She’s in language arts right now and we don’t want to interrupt her during her favorite class.”
“Don’t want to interrupt. Hmph,” Harvey mumbles.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Ross and Mr. Specter. I really am sorry.”
As they leave the school, Harvey glowers. Mike ignores him until they’re safely in the soundproof car.
“What the hell was that?” Harvey shouts.
Not the opening gambit Mike was expecting, but he responds. “That,” he says, “was me keeping you from making the situation worse.”
“By interrupting me?” His anger spills over. Fills the car.
“Threatening the school principal—”
“I wasn’t threatening her,” he says.
Mike cocks an eyebrow.
“She hurt our little girl,” he says, barely holding on to his composure.
“Harvey,” Mike says. “Stop. Just stop.”
Harvey pauses, mouth open.
“Does it suck that the volunteer who made the bake sale flyer is an idiot? Yes. Could Dr. Carter have demanded to proof the PTA’s flyer? Yes. Would it have done any good for you to make more of a scene? No.”
Harvey starts, “You made me look—”
“I helped you look like a justifiably angry and ultimately protective, loving, and stable parent.”
“Stable,” Harvey huffs. He looks away from Mike.
“Are you pouting?” Mike asks, as Harvey shifts the car into gear. “You are! You’re pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You are!”
“No harassing the driver,” Harvey says.
“Seriously?” Mike’s smile takes over his face.
“You know the rules of the car.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know the rules. The pouting is killing me is all.”
“For the last time,”Harvey says, semi-seriously. “I’m not pouting.”
“OK, dear,” Mike teases. He pats Harvey’s knee. “Whatever you say, dear.”
——————
“Daddy,” Rowan asks. “Can we go see the Christmas lights?”
“Sure, Bug.”
“In the car?”
“Of course. Do you want to go now?”
“It’s not dark, silly! We have to go when it’s dark!”
“You’ve got a lot of conditions today,” he jokes. “How about we listen to some Christmas music and turn on the lights in here for now?”
“OK,” she says, rushing to turn on the Christmas lights. She carefully selects an album from the holiday section and holds it out to Harvey.
“The Muppets? Again?”
“It’s my favorite.”
Harvey takes the album from its sleeve and gently places it on the turntable. “Muppets Christmas it is, your majesty.”
She giggles and hugs him. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“What do you say we bake another batch of cup cakes?”
“Ummm,” she hesitates. “Shouldn’t we wait until Dad gets home?”
“Why? You think I can’t bake without him?”
“I think we’ve established that you can’t bake without me,” Mike says, entering the living room.
“Dad!” Rowan shouts and runs to hug him. “You’re back!”
“I was only gone a few hours, Row-Row,” he laughs. “Not years.”
“I know,” she giggles. “It’s just that Daddy—”
Harvey clears his throat.
“It’s OK, Harvey,” Mike says. “I’m here now. I’ll take over the baking.”
“I can do it myself,” Harvey protests.
“Daddy,” Rowan says seriously. “Let Dad help. Please. The bake sale is tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Harvey huffs. “Let’s see what you can do,” he says to Mike.
Mike joins Harvey at the counter and bumps his hip. “Let’s get all the ingredients out.”
Harvey grumps to the pantry and returns with gluten-free flour, sugar, baking soda, and cocoa. Mike adds a small container of baking powder to the collection on the counter.
“What’s that?”
“If you’d read the recipe, you’d know that it’s one of the ingredients.”
“It’s not on the recipe,” Harvey protests and pulls a card from the recipe box. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
“I used baking soda instead.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Harvey demands.
Mike shrugs. Rowan, sitting on a bar stool across from her fathers, giggles.
“No heckling from the cheap seats,” Harvey smiles.
She laughs. “Pay attention, Daddy.”
“Yeah, Daddy,” Mike teases. “Pay attention.”
Harvey shrugs his shoulders and steps aside with an _all yours_ gesture.
“OK, Row-Row,” Mike says. “Let’s teach Daddy—I mean you—how to bake cupcakes.”
“Hmph.”
“Can I help?” Rowan asks.
“Of course. Drag that stool over here so you can see.”
Mike retrieves the stand mixer from the pantry and dusts it off. Harvey looks at it with confusion. Mike says nothing.
“We have the dry ingredients; now we need the wet.”
Rowan scrambles off the stool and opens the refrigerator. “We need eggs, right?”
“Yup. Grab the oat milk, too.”
Harvey looks at Mike. “Oat milk? Why not regular milk?”
“Because some kids have milk allergies,” Mike explains.
“Oh.”
“Now we need the vegetable oil, Row-Row,” Mike says. “Can you reach it?”
“Yes, Dad,” Rowan says exasperatedly. “I’m tall now.”
Mike smiles. “Sorry, I forgot. You’ll always be a shorty to me.”
Harvey leaves the kitchen to select an album to play. “Prepare yourself, Mike,” he says. “Your daughter requested the Muppets Christmas album.”
Mike barely suppresses a groan. “Awesome,” he drawls. “My favorite.”
Rowan places the oil next to the oat milk and eggs. “What’s next?”
“Crack the eggs into a bowl,” Mike says. “Be gentle so you don’t get any bits of shell.”
“When Daddy cracked the eggs, he got shells in the bowl.”
“Whose side are you on?” Harvey demands, laughing.
“I’m on the side of the cupcakes,” Rowan says. “Can we make the frosting different colors?”
“Frosting?” Harvey murmurs.
“Yeah,” Mike says confidently. “See if we have any food coloring in the pantry.”
“Food coloring?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“I’m not repeating everything you say,” Harvey chuckles.
Rowan laugh echoes from the pantry. “I don’t think we have any, Dad.”
“Run over to Grammy’s; she’ll have some,” Mike says.
“Wear your coat,” Harvey calls as Rowan beelines for the door.
“And your boots!” Mike adds.
When he hears the front door close, Mike turns to Harvey, “You OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“I know it’s hard for you to not crush everything,” Mike teases. “Don’t worry, honey,” he continues. “I’m a good teacher.”
“Haha. Very funny, professor.”
Mike opens his arms for Harvey who scoffs before accepting the hug. He relaxes into Mike.
“Why did you let me fail so many times?” Harvey whispers. “All this time you could have helped.”
“You bet me that baking is easy,” Mike says. “I took that bet.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, you did.”
Harvey pulls back from Mike’s embrace, chagrined. “If I concede, will you stop making fun of me in front of our daughter?”
“I will,” Mike says. Crossing his fingers low where Harvey can’t see them.
Harvey returns to the hug.
“Can’t guarantee what Rowan will do,” Mike laughs.
“Little squirt.”
Rowan bursts into the house, slamming the front door in her excitement.
“Door!” Mike yells.
“Sorry, Dad!”
“Are you?” Mike teases.
“Grammy had three colors and she told me how to make others. Did you know that yellow and blue make green?”
“You want green frosting on the chocolate cupcakes?” Harvey asks.
“Duh,” she says. “For Christmas.”
“Duh?”
“Sorry, Daddy,” she whispers.
“You’re OK,” he says and wraps her in hug. “Tell me more about the food coloring.”
“Nuh uh,” Mike says. “No frosting talk until the cupcakes are finished.”
Harvey and Rowan groan simultaneously then laugh.
“Who's helping?”
Rowan looks at Harvey. “I think Daddy needs to learn, then he can teach me.”
“Throw me under the bus, why don’t you?”
“Seriously, you two?”
“I’m kidding, my love,” Harvey says, embracing Mike. “Please teach me to bake.”
“Finally!” Mike says triumphantly.
“I want to help, too!” Rowan exclaims.
“The more, the merrier,” Harvey says. “Come over here.”
She climbs onto the stool again.
“Here we go,” Mike says. “Harvey, you read the recipe—carefully this time.”
“Fine,” he says.
“No pouting, Daddy!”
“Row, you measure the ingredients,” he says, retrieving a small kitchen scale from a cabinet.
“What’s that for?” Harvey asks.
“Weighing ingredients is more accurate than using measuring cups,” Mike explains. “I told you: this is science.”
“Science!” Rowan shouts.
Rowan carefully pours flour into the bowl on the scale. “How much?”
“Math time,” Mike says, delightedly. “How much flour, Harvey?”
“2 cups.”
“So we need to convert those cups to ounces,” Mike says to Rowan. “Multiply 2 by 4.5, which is how many ounces there are in a cup of dry ingredients.”
Rowan grabs the calculator from a drawer, then realizes she doesn’t need it. “Nine.”
“That’s your goal.”
“Looking at the heaping pile of flour, she says, “I put in too much.”
“Scoop some out until you get to the right number.”
“What am I doing here?” Harvey asks.
“I ask myself that all the time,” Mike jokes. “You can add the dry ingredients to the mixing bowl. Read the recipe to get your measurements.
Harvey murmurs to himself, “a quarter cup of cocoa, one tablespoon of baking powder—”
“Science!” Mike shouts. Rowan echoes him and giggles.
“There’s an awful lot of laughing,” Harvey says. “Better not be at me.”
“Don’t pout, Daddy.”
“Not pouting,” Harvey says. “I’m concentrating.”
Harvey carefully measures the remaining ingredients into the mixing bowl, adding the flour last.
“Now mix the dry together,” Mike says.
Harvey turns on the mixer before Mike can caution him about speed. The dry ingredients explode from the bowl, coating Harvey’s torso and face. “Goddamnit!”
“Swear jar, Daddy,” Rowan declares as she leans toward Harvey to brush the mixture from his face. Her little hand caresses his cheek.
Mike doubles over, laughing until tears run down his face.
Harvey stands absolutely still. Fuming. “Not. Funny.”
“It kinda is,” Mike says once his laughter subsides. “Let me help you clean up.”
“I can do it myself,” Harvey says, pivoting to leave the room.
“You sure?” Mike asks suggestively. “I’m pretty good at cleaning your messes.”
“Ewww, Dad!”
Harvey doesn’t respond as he walks out of the kitchen.
Rowan shifts her gaze between where Harvey exited and Mike who is still laughing quietly in the kitchen. She’s not sure if she can laugh or needs to stay serious.
“C’mon,” Mike says. “Help me get this cleaned up and we’ll start over.”
“Over?”
“Yeah,” he says. “We have no way of knowing how much of the dry ingredients Daddy is wearing.”
“He looked sooooo mad,” she whispers. Her face is wide open with laughter.
They prepare the dry ingredients again and wait for Harvey to rejoin them. When ten minutes pass, Mike goes to check on Harvey.
“Hey, hon,” Mike begins as he walks toward Harvey. “You ok?”
“I’m fine, Mike.”
“You don’t seem fine if you’re in here pouting.”
“For fucks sake, Mike. I’ve told you a million times: I don’t pout.”
“Slow your roll, dude,” Mike responds. “Let me rephrase: You don’t seem fine if you're in here and your bottom lip is in the pouting position.”
“Stop it,” Harvey says. “You’re trying to make me laugh.”
“What’s wrong with that? I mean, if you were pouting, a laugh would do you good.”
“I’m really fine.”
“Says the man with flour in his coiffed hair.”
Harvey rushes to the en suite to check. “Dick,” he says when he realizes Mike was kidding.
“Come back and help us with the cupcakes.”
“No more tricking me,” Harvey says sternly.
“Who me?” He opens his arms and Harvey walks into them. Mike hugs him gently. “I’m as innocent as the day is long.”
“Be careful,” Harvey says. “We’re almost to the shortest day of the year.”
“Thought you liked that I’m anything but innocent,” Mike laughs and pulls back enough to kiss Harvey’s forehead.
“You know I do,” Harvey pulls Mike close and kisses him. Mike responds hungrily but pulls back reluctantly.
“Let’s go before our daughter sends out a search party.”
Taking Harvey’s hand in his, Mike leads them to the kitchen.
“Are you all clean, Daddy?” Rowan asks.
“Yeah, Bug,” he says softly. “I am.” He skirts the island to wrap Rowan in his arms.
“Alright, fam!” Mike says, clapping his hands. “Let’s get this baking show on the road.” He hands Harvey an apron.
“Where was that thirty minutes ago?”
“Hmm?” Mike asks. “I must have forgotten.”
“I’ll remember that later,” Harvey’s eyes shift from milk to dark chocolate.
“I hope you do,” Mike wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“Dads! No flirting!” Rowan says exasperatedly.
Harvey and Mike roll their eyes in synch. If Mike’s face blotches with embarrassment, he’ll attribute it to the pre-heating oven.
“Rowan,” he says. “Why don’t you mix the dry ingredients. Remember to use the lowest setting on the mixer.” He shoots a mischievous smile Harvey’s way and is met with a smirk.
“Asshole,” Harvey whispers.
“Daddy!”
“I know, Bug. Swear jar.”
“Harvey,” Mike says. “Do you want to add the wet ingredients?”
“Not sure I trust you right now.”
“You wound me.” Mike clutches his heart.
“Fine. Tell me what to do.”
“Take the cracked eggs and fold them into the flour mix.”
“Fold the eggs?”
“Yes. Fold the eggs.”
“You going to tell me what that means?”
“What do you think it means, honey?” Mike asks sweetly.
“I think it means I’m not helping,” Harvey grumps.
“Daddy,” Rowan pleads. “You have to help. It’s required.”
“Required?”
“Yeah.”
“For you, Bug,” he acquiesces. “Only for you.”
“Lift the top of the mixer and add the eggs gently. Don’t want to cause another flour explosion…”
“Haha,” Harvey responds sarcastically. “OK, the eggs are in. What’s this folding thing?”
“Slip the spatula under the eggs and it toward the side of the bowl,” Mike says. “Lay them gently on the flour mix. It’s like folding clothes.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Harvey jokes. “But, I don’t use a spatula to fold clothes.”
“You don’t fold clothes at all,” Mike murmurs pointedly.
“Your directions suck, you know,” Harvey says.
“Here,” Mike says, reaching his arms around Harvey. One hand rests on his waist while the other guides the spatula. “This is the motion.” Together, they fold the eggs.
“You could have just told me to do that.”
“I did.” Mike leans forward to kiss Harvey’s cheek. Harvey pivots his head in time to capture Mike’s lips with his own.
When they part, Harvey looks at Rowan, who has a room-brightening grin on her face. (Despite her complaints about her fathers’ flirting, she loves seeing them love each other.)
“Did you understand what he said?” Harvey asks.
She shrugs, wisely not getting between them.
Mike steps back and says to Rowan, “Come over here and help your daddy.”
Rowan tucks herself between Harvey’s chest and the counter and grabs the recipe.
“Next we add the other wet ingredients,” she says. “I think we use the mixer now.” She glances at Mike, who nods.
Harvey lowers the top part of the stand mixer and locks it into place. Makes sure it’s still on the lowest setting to ensure he doesn’t make the same mistake twice.
“Don’t mix it for too long,” Mike says. “It’ll toughen the flour.”
“Toughen the flour?” Harvey asks. “Are you just making shit up now, professor?”
“Daddy!” Rowan grasps her cheeks, mouth dropped open.
“I know. Swear jar.” At the rate he’s going, Harvey expects to owe at least ten dollars today. “Are you keeping count?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Good job, sweetie,” Mike chuckles. “Keep him honest.”
“Speaking of honest,” Harvey begins. “Have you withheld any other ingredients today?”
Mike pulls a small jar of vanilla out of his apron pocket. “Ummm. Yes?”
“Saboteur.”
“It’s all part of the lesson.”
Rowan checks the recipe and measures the vanilla into the bowl. She turns the mixer back on and watches intently. “Is it ready yet?”
“Almost,” Mike tells her.
“How do you know?” Harvey asks sincerely.
“This is one of the things the recipe card doesn’t tell you,” Mike explains. “It’s something you have to experience.”
“Helpful,” Harvey remarks.
“Now,” Mike says hurriedly. “It’s ready now. Turn the mixer off, Row.”
“How do you know?” Harvey asks again.
“Grab your spatula,” Mike says. “See how the batter still slips from it? But it’s not too runny?”
“I guess.”
“I see it, Daddy!”
“At least one of us has a future in baking.”
“Haha. Guess I better not quit my day job.”
“Better not,” Rowan agrees. Harvey reaches over to boop her on the nose, which sends her into a fit of laughter.
“Now comes the fun part,” Mike says. “Rowan, go grab a gallon-sized Ziploc bag from the pantry. Harvey, place one cupcake liner in each space.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she says with a jaunty salute.
“I’m not calling you captain,” Harvey says, pitching his voice lower. “Until later, that is.”
Mike scoffs but doesn’t look disappointed at the prospect of later.
Rowan returns with the bag and asks, “What’s next?”
“You’re going to pour the batter into the bag.”
“What?”
“Why?”
“So many questions,” Mike jokes. “We want to make sure we distribute the batter evenly into the cups. It’s easier with the bag.”
“How?”
“You’re so curious, Harvey,” he teases. “Who’d have known?” He winks at Harvey.
Rowan messily transfers almost all of the batter with Mike’s help. Harvey helps himself to the remains in the bowl.
“If you’re good,” Mike says. “I’ll let you lick the blade.”
Harvey coughs then chuckles. “That’s the ten o’clock show, babe.”
“Ewwww.”
Mike ensures that the bag is zipped then shifts the batter away from a corner. Rowan watches, entranced. He snips a corner to make a small opening.
“Now comes the fun part,” he says.
“‘You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.’” Harvey grins at Mike.
Arms around Rowan, Mike shows her how to fill each cupcake liner with batter. “Only partway full, sweetie. Otherwise, they’ll overflow.”
“This is fun,” she says and sticks her tongue out at Harvey. “Wanna try Daddy?”
“Looks like you’ve got it, Bug.”
“Your daddy is going to make the frosting,” Mike explains. “He’s saving up his energy.” He smiles broadly at Harvey, who can’t help but return the affection.
“I am?” Harvey asks, concern ghosting his expression.
“Can you make green frosting, Daddy?”
“Of course he can,” Mike declares. “You’ll just have to teach him.”
“Maybe we should ask Grammy,” Rowan suggests.
“We’ll do just fine without any extra help, Bug,” Harvey says.
“I’m telling Grammy,” Mike teases. Winks at Harvey.
The liners filled, Mike transfers the cupcake tray to the oven and asks Harvey to set a timer on his phone.
“Maybe let’s take a break from baking,” Harvey suggests. “Have a drink and listen to some other Christmas music for a bit?”
“I get to pick!” Rowan shouts.
“Nope,” Harvey says. “It’s your dad’s turn. Although, now that I think of it, maybe I—”
“No take-backs!” Mike says. “You said I get to pick, so I’m picking.” He walks to the stereo and peruses albums. “Hmmm. Chipmunks?”
Harvey looks like he ate a lemon. Lips pursed, eyes squeezed shut.
“That’s a no?”
“Yeah. That’s a definite no,” Harvey agrees.
“Charlie Brown Christmas?”
“Perfect.”
Cupcakes baking, Harvey joins Mike in the living room. They share an extended hug until Rowan wriggles herself between them. Mike scoops her up and the three of them hug. After a few minutes, Mike reorients them to the couch.
“When are we getting the Christmas tree, dads?” Rowan asks. She’s snuggled between Mike and Harvey, looking up at one and then the other, waiting for an answer.
“We can get one this weekend,” Harvey says. “Are we going artificial this year?”
“What?!?!” Mike shouts. “Are you insane?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“What’s the big deal, Dad?” Rowan asks.
“Christmas is about tradition,” Mike pleads. “An artificial tree won’t smell right—in fact it’ll probably smell like plastic. It might even off-gas. No. We want a tree with character, lopsided or missing a few branches. Not a perfectly shaped machine-made tree...”
“You done?” Harvey asks.
“Hardly—”
“Calm down,” Harvey says gently. “You’re upsetting Rowan.”
“No he’s not, Daddy!” Rowan laughs. “He’s just being silly.”
“But he is a bit, uh, excited,” Harvey says. “Right, Rowan?”
“I’m not upsetting anyone, Harvey,” Mike exclaims. “I’m just expressing a perfectly legitimate point of view.”
Harvey smiles affectionately at Mike, eyes crinkling as his smile expands.
“How about we let Rowan decide?” Harvey asks.
Mike drops his figurative fists. “That’s a good idea.”
“How do I pick?” Rowan asks, looking at Harvey.
“Go with your gut,” Mike says at the same time that Harvey says, “Make a pros/cons list.”
“Boring!” Mike teases.
“Might be boring, but…”
“Bah,” Mike says. “Rowan’s old enough to trust her feelings.”
Harvey looks slightly alarmed.
“Because she has feelings.”
“Thin ice,” Harvey says pulling his lips into a firm line.
Mike curls his arm behind Rowan to touch Harvey’s shoulder. “That was unfair of me,” he says to Harvey. “You’re much better than you used to be.”
“What does that mean, Dad?”
“When your dad and I first met, I was, um, more—what did you call it?—robotic about emotions.”
“Hmmm.”
“You helped him change, Row-Row,” Mike tells her, ruffling her hair. “He took one look at you and fell in love. His heart grew at least three sizes that day.”
“Like the Grinch?” Rowan asks. She leans into Harvey and pats his knee, as if to console him.
Harvey smirks and rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”
“How do I decide what kinda tree we should get?” Rowan asks. She’s nothing if not single-minded.
“You could do it your Daddy’s way, my way, or another way that you think up,” Mike tells her. “You could even go over to Grammy’s and ask her opinion.”
“Grammy!” Rowan shouts and scrambles off the couch, braids streaming behind her.
“Wear your coat,” Harvey calls.
“And your boots,” Mike adds.
Mike and Harvey scoot closer to each other on the couch. “How long you think she’ll be?” Harvey asks, planting an open-mouthed kiss on Mike’s neck. He teases a few nibbles closer to Mike’s earlobe.
“Not that long,” Mike moans. “Not long enough.”
“Wanna bet what kind of tree she picks?” Harvey whispers seductively in Mike’s ear.
“Mmm. What are the stakes?” Mike’s voice pitches close to a groan.
“Winner’s choice,” Harvey says. “It’ll be a win-win.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Mike responds. “Natural tree.”
“Guess that leaves me with artificial.”
“I’m gonna win,” Mike says. “And you’re gonna enjoy losing.”
Harvey shrugs. “Same.”
They sit quietly listening to the music, each other’s soft breathing. A stolen moment of calm, which they’ve learned to savor.
Rowan bursts into the room. They quickly make space between themselves.
“Boots,” Harvey says.
“Coat,” Mike follows.
Rowan runs back to the mudroom to shed both. She’s out of breath, cheeks and nose red with cold.
“Grammy helped me decide!”
“And?”
“An artificial tree—”
Harvey grins. Pats Mike’s shoulder sympathetically. Subtly wraps his palm around Mike’s nape and squeezes.
Mike exclaims, “You wound me, Rowan.”
“Don’t interrupt, Dad,” she says.
“And,” she shouts. “Garland on the mantle so we get the smell of Christmas.”
“You win, Harvey,” Mike says, grinning because he knows he’ll enjoy whatever Harvey plans for him as the loser. “And yet, I think I’ve won.”
“Nah,” Harvey says, smiling broadly. “You’re still the loser.”
“What are you talking about?” Rowan asks. She shifts her gaze between the two men, a questioning look on her face.
“Nothing, Bug,” Harvey assures. “Just a joke between your dad and me.”
“Row,” Mike changes the subject before his blush becomes apparent. “Put on another record. It’s fun with frosting time.”
“Oh, yay,” Harvey says. “More fun.”
——————
The cupcakes bear the tell-tale signs of being home-made and Rowan is giddy with excitement to bring them to school.
“I made these with my dads,” she tells anyone who asks. Not that many people ask—the other students are busy bragging about their contributions to the bake sale.
“And I do have a real family,” she says defiantly to the girl who had told her otherwise. “You’re jealous because you don’t have two dads. And a Grammy.”
Rowan’s cupcakes sell out within an hour.