A Thankful Heart

by Shawn Lane

  “You don’t have to decide this moment, of course.” My father patted my hand. “You have all the way until Sunday.”

  “All the way until Sunday,” I muttered. I glared at my sister, who turned red and looked away. No help there.

  “Anyway. Eat up, Fabian. You’re too skinny. Tomorrow you can help me make food for Thursday.”

  “Like what?”

  “The pies. The pasta.”

  “Pasta? Do we really need that with turkey and stuffing and all that?”

  She sniffed. “We always have pasta.”

  Pop slapped the table and got up. “Let me show you the size of the turkey we got, son.”

  Mama got up, too, to follow him into the kitchen.

  Denise looked at me. “Sorry.”

  I knew they meant well. They did. And I also knew I should be grateful for them. They had always been loving and accepting. And at this time of thanks, I should feel that way especially. And my heart was thankful.

  Really.

  * * * *

  On Wednesday, I went shopping with my mother and sister. Grocery shopping, that is. And in the car ride to the market, they both tried to talk me into Black Friday shopping once Turkey Day was finished.

  “You can get a jump on your Christmas shopping,” Mama said.

  Denise was driving and had nothing to say, but she did nod.

  “Actually, you know, with money tight right now, I’m thinking I’m going to skip Christmas this year.”

  Mama, who sat in the front seat, turned to stare at me in the backseat. “Skip it? You can’t skip it, it comes every year.”

  “I know. I just mean the celebration of it.”

  “But you’re coming here, right?” She paused. “Unless you move back, of course.”

  “No, I’m not coming up to San Jose again. Not that soon.”

  “Fabian—”

  “Mama,” Denise interrupted. “Don’t pressure him. If he doesn’t want to move back, then that’s the way it is. He’s a grown man. And it’s his right not to get into Christmas and all that, if he doesn’t want to or can’t afford it.”

  “Thank you, Denise.”

  “My children. Ganging up on me.”

  But she dropped it and I was glad.

  We got more stuff at the store for her to make pies. And more coffee and half and half for the coffee. The place was packed with last-minute Thanksgiving shoppers.

  I couldn’t help but compare this year to last. I hadn’t met Michael yet, but I’d just been cast in a small part in an independent movie. I had been hopeful and optimistic.

  The part went well, but the producers couldn’t seem to get any studios to pick it up, and it remained unreleased. I’d had a couple of extras work since then, and a commercial, but not much else.

  In the beginning of my relationship with Michael, he’d remained encouraging. Giving me the usual expected platitudes of “You’ll get there,” “The parts will come,” and stuff like that. Once he got busy with his own case, though, all that encouragement had dried up.

  I hadn’t made it home last Thanksgiving, though. I hadn’t been able to make the time. And so I had spent Thanksgiving alone, roasting a small chicken myself and serving it with instant mashed potatoes and jarred gravy. I bought a store-made pumpkin pie and sipped pumpkin spice lattes.

  This year, of course, my meal would be about a thousand times better, and the house would be full of family and laughter, as well as love, so yeah, when I got to think about it, this year was better for some things.

  Once home, my mother put me to work helping her bake pies. We played music and sang, so I didn’t mind. For the moment, talk of moving, Christmas, and ex-boyfriends went away.

  For dinner Wednesday, we had a small meal—small for us, anyway—consisting of hamburgers Pop grilled, heated frozen fries, a salad, and ice cream. No one wanted to fuss too much, considering Thursday would be one big fuss.

  It was after ten when I finally got away from them all and into my parents’ exercise room, where my cot had been set up the night before. Not the world’s most comfortable bed, but it was manageable.

  I’d brought my tablet with me, and before going to sleep for the night, I checked my email. The only thing of interest was from my agent, who kindly—and I mean that sincerely—informed me that I was not going to get an audition for a role I had inquired about. Apparently, I was “not the direction they were wanting to go.” Whatever that meant.

  It shouldn’t have been a crushing disappointment, given that it was a small part in the scheme of things, and yet it felt like the sky was falling and I was Chicken Little. Just one more failure in a list of failures that had been my life lately.

  I turned to the website for the nursing school I had been attending in San Jose prior to deciding to follow my acting dream. It had a stellar reputation and really was a great university.

  And it wouldn’t take that much to finish. At the moment, the voices in my head definitely belonged to my folks.

  Still, I closed out of the website for the time being, put my tablet to sleep and turned off the lights, then got into bed.

  I’d make a really good nurse. I had no doubt about that. But even if I went back to that, it didn’t mean I had to do so in San Jose. I liked living in Southern California. There were great schools there, too.

  As much as I loved my family and had that gratitude in my heart, I’d been anxious to put some distance between us. They meant well, absolutely, but they were kind of smothering. And that even included my sister, Denise. I’d enjoyed the independence I now had.

  One of my earliest dates with Michael had involved me complaining to him over pizza about them. After I’d spent a good twenty minutes venting about everything they wanted me to do, Michael had turned to me, one hand gripping a slice of pizza, the other covering my own hand, and said, “Fabian, you should do what you want to do, not what they want you to do.”

  And now here in the dark, lying on my back and missing him—more than I cared to admit, actually—those words still rung in my head.

  I also felt like I had been far too hasty in breaking up with him. I had definitely cut off my nose to spite my face. Sure, we’d had problems because of the distance that had formed between us, but I could have been way more understanding of the pressures he was facing for his case.

  I fell asleep, resolved to apologize to him when I returned home, which I absolutely was going to do. We might not be a couple anymore, but I still owed him that apology. And then, maybe, I could move on as he clearly had done.

  * * * *

  I woke early to the sound of my mother banging pots and pans in the kitchen, which brought back fond memories and a smile to my face. I got up, showered and dressed, and went to join her.

  “Here you are, Fabian.” She handed me a steaming cup of coffee as soon as I appeared.

  I smiled. “How’d you know?”

  “I heard you in the shower. And you always have gotten out of bed before anyone else.” She sat at the dining room table and gestured for me to join her.

  “Except you.”

  She pushed a basket of cinnamon rolls at me, which were still warm. And even though I knew I’d be eating all day pretty much, I took one and tore off a hunk.

  “Mama, I’m going back to Los Angeles on Sunday.”

  She sighed. “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “I figured. You couldn’t wait to get away from us all.”

  “Mama, that’s not—”

  She waved her hand. “It’s all right. I know you like your independence.”

  “I do. And I don’t know, really, if I’ll ever make it work as an actor, but if I don’t, I’ll go back and finish nursing school in LA. And I’ll make you and Pop proud. I swear.”

  “We’re already proud, dummy.”

  I laughed. “This is good.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, what all is on the menu? And don’t tell me ‘a little bit of this, a little bit of that.’
”

  “Well.” She shrugged. “Your father showed you the turkey. And stuffing. Potatoes and gravy. Cranberry sauce. Real, not that canned stuff. Spaghetti and meatballs. Dinner rolls. Three kinds of pies—”

  “Oh, my God.” I held my stomach. “I’m going to be so sick.”

  “You don’t have to eat it all, you know.”

  “It’s Thanksgiving, of course I do.” I took her hand and squeezed. “You know when we go around the table and we say what we’re thankful for? I’m thankful for you. For all of you.”

  * * * *

  “Fabian.”

  I glanced at my sister, who stood on the edge of the kitchen, looking at me as I stirred the cranberries, as instructed by my mother.

  “What?”

  Denise looked a little strange. She was pursing her lips, too.

  “There’s somebody here to see you.”

  “To see me? Huh? It’s Thanksgiving.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I know what day it is. He’s waiting outside.”

  “Who?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  “Just go see. I’ll stir the cranberries.”

  She pushed me away from the pot on the stove and toward the exit of the kitchen.

  I had zero clue who would have come to see me at my parents’ house. This was a new house to them, so it wouldn’t be any friends I’d known from growing up. Or I didn’t think so, anyway.

  My father, who had been noisily watching the games on TV, seemed to have turned them all off, because the house was eerily quiet. Even Denise’s kids and husband, playing a board game, seemed to have quieted down. That had to be why I heard my heartbeat thrumming so loudly in my ears.

  I glanced at the coatrack, wondering, briefly, if I’d need a jacket. But it wasn’t really a cold day. In the high sixties and a little overcast. I turned the knob and stepped outside.

  His back was to me when I hit the porch, but I would recognize that broad back anywhere. He wore a beat-up leather coat that had seen better days. But I knew it. I knew him.

  “Michael?”

  It came out like a reverent whisper without my meaning it to do so.

  Michael spun around, his deep, dark brown eyes going wide. “Fabian.”

  For a second, he looked torn between wanting to punch me and wanting to worship me. The expressions warred across his face, before he was suddenly moving toward me. And before I could back up a step, if that was my intent, he was pulling me to him, into his arms, tight against his chest, as those big strong arms closed around my back.

  “Fabian,” he said again.

  “What—?”

  He pulled back enough to look at me. “God, it’s great to see you. And you look…amazing.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to…I don’t even know where to begin.” He released me and took a step back, raking his hand through his hair. Besides the jacket, he was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt.

  I shook my head. I felt more than a little dazed. “How did you even find this house?”

  He smiled a little. “You told me where your folks lived, months ago. I remembered.”

  But back then, yeah, I had. But probably, what, in June?

  “You…did you drive here?”

  “Yeah. Damn, that’s a long trip.”

  I laughed, both because yeah, it was, and also because I thought maybe I was a little delirious. My heart was pounding.

  “I just…God, Fabian. I’ve missed you. So much. I’ve been such a jerk. And I couldn’t wait one more day to tell you how sorry I am and how much I love you and want you to forgive me.”

  “Wait. Wait. You…love me?”

  I tried to think over the last few months if he’d said it ever before. And I didn’t think he had. I think he came closest with, “I care about you so much.”

  “I do. Yeah. And I know I’ve been…” He stopped and raked his hand through his hair again. Something he did a lot, actually. “The worst. It took me a long time to get to this point. I thought, I mean I kept thinking, he’s going to come back. He’s going to talk to me. Let me explain or something. Only you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “And I thought I’d lost you because of…because of everything.” Michael shook his head. “I’ve been stressed out by this case—I’m losing, you know, or I was—and it was a big case, and I was taking it out on you, and that’s the last thing I should have done. I should have talked to you, leaned on you some, maybe—”

  “You can, Michael. I’d be there.”

  He swallowed and nodded. “I’ve never really had a successful relationship. Until you. And then I went and blew it.”

  I took a step forward, trying a smile. “You haven’t.”

  “No?” There was hope in his eyes, painful hope. It tore at my heart.

  “You came all this way,” I whispered. I put my hand on his jaw. “I love you, too, Michael.”

  “Yeah? After everything?”

  “I…I haven’t been blameless. I could have been more understanding. More patient. I knew you were struggling. And I shouldn’t have gone to your office like that. Put you on the spot while you were working. That was really selfish of me. And I’m sorry. Coming here for Thanksgiving could definitely have waited for us to talk about it. When you were ready to do so.”

  “You forgive me?”

  “Yes. If you forgive me for being taxing. I never meant to drain you.”

  Michael grimaced. “I really was an asshole to you. No wonder you left me. But, please, don’t leave me. Give me another chance. I swear I’ll never shut you out like that again. I want you with me. In my house.” Michael paused. “Our house.”

  I leaned in and kissed him, deeply, thoroughly, trying to show all my love and hope and gratitude in that one kiss.

  Michael groaned and pulled me against him, into his arms, returning my kiss.

  When he came up for air, his eyes sparkled. “Stop that. It’s Thanksgiving and we’re in the front yard of your parents’ home.”

  I laughed, feeling myself turn red. “I know. The neighbors will probably be talking about this scandal for weeks.”

  “Scandal?”

  I shrugged. “You know. Two men kissing.”

  “Mm.” He kissed me again, but just a short one. “Your family is watching us, too.”

  I stilled. “What?”

  Michael laughed. “They all have their faces plastered to the front windows. Um. I see six. Four adults and two children.”

  “Oh, crap.” I buried my flaming hot face in his shoulder. “Sorry.”

  “It’s cute.”

  “Sure. It’s not your crazy family.” I pulled back and looked toward the house. Yep, they were all there. “I guess it’s time to subject you to them. At least the food’s good.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “The food?”

  “That. Meeting them. Having you back with me. Living with me. Everything.” He grinned. “This might be the best Thanksgiving ever.”

  “You really are delirious,” I joked, taking his hand. “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Coming here. Making this right. Loving me.” I thought about it. Laughed. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”

  “About?”

  “This being the best Thanksgiving ever.”

  We approached the house, and though I was a bit nervous introducing Michael to them and them to Michael, my heart felt lighter than it had been in weeks.

  And my heart was thankful.

  THE END

  ABOUT SHAWN LANE

  Shawn Lane is a multi-published author of gay romances and believes love and passion know no boundaries. Happily Ever After is for everyone.

  She has been published by Loose Id, Ellora's Cave, Amber Quill Press, Dreamspinner Press, and Evernight Publishing.

  Shawn lives in California and holds down a boring day job in a legal department of a giant corporation dreaming of the nights and weekends when she can create new stories. />
  For more information, visit smlgr8.blogspot.com.

  ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

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