"I mean... there would be less of you to constantly be annoyed with if you lost a couple toes or fingertips..."
It wasn't meant as bait, and—for once—he didn't take it as such.
He just let out a chuckle, falling into step beside me. "Save some coffee for me, alright?" he asked, swerving off toward the back deck while I moved forward into the kitchen.
"Was that Trip I just heard?" my mother asked from the other side of the island where she already had dough nestled on a bed of fluffy flour, her giant rolling pin in her delicate hand.
"Yeah. He's going for a run. He needs to watch his figure," I added, going toward the coffee machine, knowing it was going to be a long day if I didn't start loading up early.
"I think that is the first time I've seen you talk about him without a big scowl on," she said. As I turned my head over my shoulder, I found her shooting me an odd, almost suggestive smile.
"What?" I asked, confused, not sure how to interpret her look.
"Oh, nothing," she said, still smiling as she started rolling.
"No," I countered, turning fully. "Not nothing. What?"
"I just happened to come out last night to grab some tea before bed. I saw the two of you in the hot tub. You were smiling at each other."
"Oh, my God. You don't think something is happening between us, do you?" I asked, snorting.
"Crazier things have happened."
"Have they, though?" I asked, going to grab some creamer for my coffee. "We can't stand each other."
"You know that old saying about there being a fine line between love and hate?"
"Oh, that old, outdated cliche?" I shot back, rolling my eyes. "There is a giant cavern between love and hate. There is a Grand Canyon between it."
"Oh, to be young and know everything," she shot back, swiping her hair out of her face, leaving a trail of whiteness on her cheekbone. "Cliches are cliches because they were true so often that it became annoying, and people needed to slap a title on it."
"I don't love Trip, Mom," I clarified, tone a little apologetic since she clearly had her heart set on it a little bit.
"I didn't say you loved him, honey. I said that you two—for a short while—were happy in each other's presence. And I implied that all that snapping you two do together requires a lot of passion."
"Passion. That is a new way to describe pure derision."
"Sweetheart, if you truly abhorred someone, you wouldn't bother wasting your time arguing with them."
Well damn.
She wasn't exactly wrong about that, was she?
There were plenty of people I had come across in my life that I had no use for, that I would never waste my energy on, that I knew were best just avoided rather than spending precious breath on them.
"Just a thought," she added, waving the topic away, but I didn't miss the spark in her eyes before her gaze dipped once again.
"What are you working on?" I asked, wanting desperately to occupy my mind with any thought other than a possibility of her being—even a small bit—correct about Trip and me.
"Pecan pie," she told me, smile warm. Because it was my father's favorite, because she loved making it for him.
It wasn't the first time I was really hit with the impact of their affection for each other. It was hard to be around them without being acutely aware of it. The stolen touches, the lingering glances, the way that—even when across a room—when one of them laughed, the other turned and smiled.
They were the real deal.
The hard-won happily-ever-after everyone dreams of.
Something about it felt different for me right that moment, though.
Maybe it was just getting older, maturing, seeing the world through a different light.
But I wasn't sure I had ever been aware of how much I wanted what they had until that moment.
Most of my life had been spent trying to prove myself, to show everyone that I was my own person, that I was more than a blue blood, that I had my own worth, my own path, my own ambitions.
It wasn't easy to make a name for yourself, to disassociate from the way everyone saw you, thought of you.
But, well, I was pretty sure I had finally accomplished that. My job was stable. My accounts were plump and happy. I was just a few years away from my ultimate dream.
There had never been space in my life for anything other than me and my ambitions.
Now, though, I was starting to see there was room. Not only that, but I wanted someone to fill that space, to look at me the way my father looked at my mother even after all these years. I wanted to smile down at my pie crust because I was picturing the joy my husband would feel at consuming it.
Those were worthwhile ambitions, just as fulfilling as my career ones.
"Honey, what are you going to start with?" she asked, snapping me out of my musings, making me jerk hard enough to spill my coffee on my hands.
"Oh, um... I guess apple. And then pumpkin." Those were my true specialties, where I shined.
My mother always had the pecan, and blueberry and cherry was where my mother excelled.
We got lost in our routine, both wholly confident in our practiced motions, humming along with the music, chatting here and there, but mostly lost in the process, content in our silence.
It was about an hour later when a red splash of color moved in my peripheral, making me jolt a little when it was beside me in a moment, smelling woodsy.
"Whatcha making?" he asked, reaching with one hand for the coffee carafe.
"Oh, ah, apple pie. These are the spices," I added lamely, seeing as I was literally shaking cinnamon into a bowl.
"How many pies are there going to be?" he asked, leaning against the island at my side. Close. Distractingly close. I lost count of the shakes of cinnamon. I was never a woman for spoons when it came to baking. My mother was the same way. You measure with your heart.
"Oh, usually at least five."
"Five?" he asked, eyes bulging a bit.
"We're going to spoil you for anyone else," I agreed, nodding. "Now, any table that serves less than five pies is going to be a bitter disappointment."
"I can think of worse things than being spoiled by pies," he told me, reaching out with curious fingers toward the bowl of slices, earning a slap that cracked through the mostly quiet space.
"Everything needs a taste test," he told me.
"Not my apple pie. My apple pie is perfect."
"I dunno... the one I used to get at the diner was pretty good."
"Now you're insulting me," I told him, but I was smiling while I did so.
"I'll be right back, kids," my mother cheered, voice a bit too pleased, rushing off with a smile of her own.
"You're happy this morning," Trip observed when we were alone. "I thought you'd have a killer hangover with all that wine."
"I did. Do," I clarified, still feeling wrung dry and a little wobbly in the belly, reminding me that I needed to eat something to soak up what was left of the alcohol in my stomach. "But not even that can spoil today for me."
"That's a good mindset," he agreed, watching me a bit too intensely, making me shuffle my feet. "Easy," he said when his hand reached out, thumb tracing unexpectedly down my jaw, sending a shiver through my belly—and something decidedly less tame through another area of my anatomy. "You had some flour on your jaw," he added, eyes holding mine.
"Oh, ah, thanks," I mumbled, finding it impossible to pull my gaze from his, despite knowing this level of eye-contact either meant we wanted to screw—or kill—each other.
"Oh, good," my father's voice boomed, accompanied by a loud clap and hand-rubbing he was always known for. "You guys are getting along. Trip, you ready to hunker down on the couch and be waited on hand and foot?" he asked, doing so just because he knew he'd get a reaction out of me.
"Yep. Trip, this is amazing. It is the one day out of the year where we are all magically transported back to the 1950s, where all the womenfolk are good for is beer refills and dinner ma
king. In high heels and a full face of makeup."
"Just the one day, huh?"
"All other three-hundred-sixty-four days, you have to get your own damn beer refills," I informed him.
"Oh, your mother is making my favorite," my father declared, glancing in the oven. He sounded surprised. He always did. Despite getting the same thing every single Thanksgiving since they'd gotten together. "Looks like you hit the trails this morning, huh, Trip? After your shower, come meet me in the living room. We gotta watch the parade. It's tradition," he added, moving off in said direction.
"What?" I asked, finding Trip's gaze a little far away, almost a little confused-looking.
"Nothing. It's just... this is nice," he said, shaking his head, knocking some pesky, clinging thoughts loose.
"It is," I agreed, nodding, finding—for the first time—that it was no less nice for his presence. And, maybe, it was even enhanced by it. You know, when we weren't at each other's throats, that is.
"Was your father in here poking around?" my mother asked, reemerging, her hair pulled back, knowing we were getting closer to the more serious part of the day—the preparations for the meal itself.
"Always," I agreed as Trip pushed away from the island, away from me, though still fiddling around behind me for a few minutes. I had no idea what he was doing until I saw a plate slide in at my side with two slices of wheat toast spread with butter and raspberry jam.
He'd made me toast.
He'd made me toast.
And then just kept walking like it was nothing. Like he did it all the time. Like we hadn't been yelling at each other just hours before.
"It doesn't mean anything," I told my mother whose lips were twitching as I reached for a slice, looking forward to an end of the wobbling sensation in my belly.
"No, no. Of course it doesn't, dear."
Even as she said it, though, I knew we both thought differently.
It did mean something.
I then spent the next few hours trying to convince myself that all it meant was he was putting down a white flag, that we were calling a truce, that we both decided we were done snapping at each other. At least for the day.
Because anything other than that, well, that would be completely ridiculous, right?
CHAPTER SIX
Trip
I missed my mother so much it was almost hard to breathe.
Her absence was a weight pressing on my chest, stealing my air.
Invariably, we would be sitting on the couch together watching the parade. She'd be singing along to all the songs that I never knew, grinning huge at the marching bands, regaling me with stories of her marching band days, about how it was always every kid's dream to make it to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
We'd watch Santa come while wondering aloud if the pie at the diner would be as good as it had been the year before, if the chef would be the same, if the recipe had changed.
She loved the pumpkin.
I loved the apple.
I would still get pie.
I still got the parade.
But I didn't get my mom.
I would never get my mom again.
It was a harsh reality, one I was still—at times—struggling to wrap my head around.
And it made me feel guilty, in a way, at finding a small bit of comfort, of joy in this new experience.
I knew she wouldn't have wanted me to sit around and mourn, to be alone on a family holiday. It would have broken her heart to think of that as my reality.
It still, in a small way, felt disloyal, though, to sit with Mitch and watch the parade, to hear him talk about the meal to come.
There was no denying, though, that there was comfort in the whole thing, in being a part of a family, even if I was only invited out of a bit of pity.
"You stole my spot," Jett accused, trying to nudge me out of the corner with the tip of her sock-covered foot.
"I was here first," I reminded her, refusing to budge. Maybe because I knew she couldn't see the TV from her angle, which meant she had to move closer, almost her entire body pressing up to my side.
"Yeah, but this is my spot. Historically. It has the perfect view of the TV and is just far enough away from my parents that I don't have to hear them talk about the wind and the balloons for the twenty-ninth year in a row."
"How's the hangover?" I asked, watching as she sipped her coffee, cradling the cup with both hands as she pulled her knees in toward her chest.
"Gone. I knew my body wouldn't let it hang around. Not on Thanksgiving, of all days."
I had to admit, Thanksgiving had never been my favorite of holidays. It always felt a little, I don't know, in the way. Wedged right between Halloween and Christmas, it always lacked a little of the oomph that both the holidays surrounding it had.
Seeing it through Jett's eyes, though, was starting to make me appreciate it in a way I maybe never would have on my own.
Sure, she liked the whole no-presents-required thing because she was, apparently, a terrible gift-giver, but I never stopped to consider how refreshing it was that a holiday existed without that expectation. Sure, an argument could be made for New Years or Fourth of July, but those had never really been holidays I celebrated. I always passed out before the ball dropped. And ever since I started at Kensley, I had been going to their Independence Day celebrations.
Thanksgiving was the only family holiday that I partook in that required no gifts.
All the others—Christmas, Easter, Valentine's day—required at least something small. Halloween required little gifts in the form of cheap chocolate given to dozens or hundreds of people.
Thanksgiving was simply a day for togetherness and food and the gratefulness that you could have both of those things.
It was refreshing.
And I found myself looking at it in a whole new way.
"Tired from all the cooking yet?"
"Oh, my God. We've barely even started," she told me, shaking her head like I was out of my mind.
"You've been working in there for hours already."
"All the desserts. And we've been prepping."
"Prepping," I repeated, watching as her gaze moved to me when the TV cut to commercial.
"Cutting up the potatoes, making the salad, getting all the veggies washed. The actual cooking is going to start after Santa comes and lets us know the gift-giving season is upon us."
"What's the worst gift you've ever given someone?" I asked, not quite able to believe she was as bad at it as she claimed.
"I gave my boss tickets to the opera two years back."
"That seems like a thoughtful gift."
"She's tone-deaf. Literally. Music means very little to her. Something I didn't remember until after she opened the box and gave me a very forced smile."
"Alright. That is pretty bad," I agreed, chuckling.
"I swear my mind just like... turns off when I am in a store—or online—trying to find something for someone."
"But you buy for the kids at the shelter."
"Yeah, well, kids are easy. If it squishes or talks or sings or lights or vomits glitter everywhere, they are over the moon."
"You like kids?" I asked, trying to remind myself that it was a stupid question to ask, that there was no reason I would need to know the answer to it.
"The kids at the shelter are amazing. So sweet and adaptive. I mean... no one should have to celebrate Christmas in a shelter, but their eyes still light up, they still squeal and laugh and hold up their favorite gifts over their heads with giant smiles so their moms can snap pictures."
"You want kids?"
"If my kids can be half as sweet as those ones are, yeah. And, don't," she demanded, shooting me a raised brow.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say that any child of mine would probably be argumentative and stubborn and—what else have you accused me of being?"
"I wasn't going to say any of that," I assured her. I wasn't, either. In fact, while she talked about kids
, my mind went to a couple little round-faced kids with her honey eyes and a big smile holding up their favorite gifts.
"Well... good," she said, lost for anything else to say since she'd likely been waiting for a fight.
Quite frankly, though, I was happy to be done fighting. Having a bit of a truce between us was nice. As much as I did think she was hot when she was angry, I was finding that I liked this too. The common ground, the growing familiarity.
It was nice in its own way.
Comfortable, even.
Suddenly, it felt like I belonged, not just like I was a stranger infringing upon their hospitality, taking advantage of their pity.
"Starting to smell good," I mumbled, taking a deep breath of the cooking turkey, a scent that had been wafting through the house for about an hour already.
"Just wait. Mashed potatoes, stuffing, rolls. You're going to be glad you didn't eat anything even if you are starving right now."
"What's your favorite part of the meal?"
"The stuffing. It took us years to perfect the recipe, but it is amazing. My mom's mashed potatoes are a real hit, though. She keeps the skin on and has the exact right ratio of flavors. You're never going to want to eat anywhere else again."
"I'm looking forward to it. I've always been a mashed potato kind of guy."
"People who don't love mashed potatoes are just not my kind of people," she declared with a shrug. "Oh, here comes Santa," she said, eyes bright, smile spreading.
I didn't watch Santa.
I watched Jett watching Santa, finding something unexpectedly pure in her face, something raw and real and open-- a little glimpse into her soul, maybe. "Oh, good. He's normal Santa."
"Normal Santa?" I repeated, glancing at the TV to see your typical Santa stand-in.
"I was half-worried they'd give him a makeover, put him on a keto diet or something. The world isn't ready for Sexy Santa. We like the jolly, rotund dude who we can bribe with cookies and milk."
Jett could sometimes be touchy about weight subjects. And her mother constantly calling her Pudge likely didn't help, even if I knew Kathy well enough to know she meant absolutely nothing by it. Like when an owner of a dog called it a Big Dummy affectionately.
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