There Better Be Pie

by Jessica Gadziala

  I envied people who didn't have minds that worked that way. People like my parents who could go right to sleep even after a major dip in the stock market that could potentially really impact their savings and Kensley Automobiles. I would have managed to worry myself to an ulcer over the whole thing only to wake up the next morning—after a scant forty minutes of sleep—to find the market right back up, and realize I had made myself sick over nothing.

  But that was just how I worked.

  I worried.

  I considered all the ways any potential situation could be worse. Then imagined each and every one of those things coming true.

  "Princess, what is the worst that could happen?" he asked, shrugging.

  "I could stab you to death with a very dull kitchen knife," I told him, watching as he smiled at that.

  "That is a possibility," he agreed, nodding. "I won't lose sleep over it, though. What else?"

  "We could run out of food."

  "And, what, Donner party each other? I think we're safe in that front too, Jett. What else?"

  What else?

  Well, I could lose my freaking mind and jump him again. Get rejected by him again. Die of complete and utter mortification over the whole ordeal.

  That could happen.

  But I couldn't exactly say that to him, now, could I?

  "Exactly," he said, nodding. "We will hang out here, watch the snow, eat food, shovel out the driveway, and hopefully not resort to using dull butter knives to eviscerate each other."

  "I mean... the last one is going to be difficult," I told him, lips twitching.

  "You'll just have to try your best, Princess," he told me, eyes dancing.

  Alright.

  Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

  He was right.

  If you had to be trapped by an epic snowstorm, there were much worse situations to find yourself in. Stuck in your car at the side of the road. At work, surrounded by coworkers you just barely managed to tolerate for eight hours a day. Or with your therapist who increasingly lost their professionalism until they were on the floor sobbing about how their father had two families at the same time while they were growing up, and you realized that if you ever get out of said situation, you would need to start all over again with a new therapist because you would never be able to get the image of them hugging a pillow to their chests and calling for their absent fathers to come save them out of your head.

  Shit could always, always be worse.

  We had a beautiful house, food, water, firewood, and working cable. At least for the time being.

  All said and done, it wasn't a bad situation.

  I just needed to try to take a page out of my mother's book, and try to be more optimistic.

  Besides, if things did go south, it wasn't like we were trapped in a closet together; we could each go off to our own rooms and avoid each other like the plague.

  It would be fine.

  "How's your head?" Trip asked as the silence trudged on.

  "Better. Thank, God. That was a good one. And by good, I clearly mean bad."

  "Maybe triggered by the crying," he said, choosing his words carefully, trying to—I don't know—probe a bit without seeming like that was what he was doing.

  He wasn't wrong.

  My migraines had a lot of triggers. Some more obvious than others. Drastic changes in temperatures, coming rain, too little sleep, too much eye strain from being on the computer without enough breaks.

  And, well, crying.

  Not just tearing up over a greeting card commercial about a sad old man or a lonely dog.

  No.

  But the kind of bawling that left you red-streaked and swollen.

  Like I'd had the day before.

  It may have been cathartic, something that lifted a weight, eased a burden, cauterized a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding, destroying everything I knew and loved.

  But that didn't mean I felt great after.

  In fact, I felt wrung out and tired.

  Then the tension in my jaw started, followed by the tight feeling across my forehead, the little specks in my vision—auras—that were always a precursor to a really bad migraine. The kind that crippled your whole life until it finally decide to release its grasp on you.

  "Yeah," I agreed, turning to pretend that getting out some leftovers required the utmost attention. "That can be a factor."

  "Look," he said, voice suddenly serious, deep, firm. "I get that I maybe bruised your pride a little, but there really is no need to cry over that situation."

  "Oh. My. God," I said, each word its own sentence, momentarily making me resemble the most misunderstood—and unfairly criticized, in my humble opinion—character from Friends. "Are you serious right now?" I asked, face scrunching up. "I mean... how arrogant do you have to be to think I was off in the woods crying over a nothing kiss with you?

  "I'm not judging you for it," he went on, shaking his head.

  "Wow. You need to get over yourself," I told him, putting the lid back on the food I had been opening, suddenly finding I had lost my appetite. At this rate, I would be the only person walking away from Thanksgiving weighing less than they had going in. "Not everything is about you."

  "No? What were you crying about then?"

  "I don't owe you explanations."

  "Then I will have to go on assuming it was about me."

  "It was about my father!" I snapped. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of the truth, but the idea of him thinking I was heartsick over him was even more unpalatable. "Not that it is any of your business."

  "Mitch made you cry?" he asked, eyes scrunching small.

  "Not intentionally," I clarified. "But yes. We had a talk. A long overdue one."

  "Well, good. And also, you're welcome."

  "For what?"

  "For encouraging you to talk to him about it."

  "You mean snap at me and make me feel really silly and childish for daring to have feelings about my upbringing?"

  "I didn't make you feel anything. You chose that. You can't blame someone else for your reactions to what they may say."

  "We're not talking about someone else. We're talking about you. And I do think I have the right to feel like crap about something you said when your sole intention was to make me feel like crap."

  "If you really think that was my intention, Princess, you don't know anything about me."

  "I know you seem to have this sick need to provoke me whenever you find a chance."

  To that, he was silent for a long moment. Almost as if he was, I don't know, searching for a lie or evasion he could feed to me. Since we both knew it was the truth. For some unknown reason, he liked poking at me, getting a reaction, starting a fight then seeing it through until we were almost ready to strangle each other.

  "Maybe you're just too easily provoked," he suggested, shrugging.

  "You're literally the only person who provokes me like this."

  "So stop giving me so much real estate in your head."

  He made it sound so easy.

  It was not that easy.

  That wasn't how the brain worked.

  At least, it wasn't how my brain worked.

  I took a breath so deep it burned, letting out slowly.

  "Okay. How about we start over?" I suggested.

  "Start over?" he asked.

  "Hi, I'm Juliette Kensley. Yes, that Kensley. But I work at a makeup company and use coupons when I shop. Also, everyone calls me Jett," I said, reaching out my hand toward him.

  His brow raised, but he decided to play along. "Trip Martin. I hear that some people call me Trip Freaking Martin," he added, and I felt heat rise up my neck and bloom across my cheeks. "I work with cars. Most people think I am a pretty pleasant guy. Oh, also, I like apple pie."

  "How interesting. I make the best apple pie known to mankind."

  "You really do," he agreed, giving me that easy smile so many others got graced with, but I had only been given a handful of times over the
years.

  "Is there any left?" I asked, watching as he went sheepish as a little boy caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. "You ate the rest of it?"

  "I wouldn't be opposed to you baking another."

  "You're not going to fit into your pants by the time we get the hell out of here."

  "I have that giant driveway to shovel a foot of snow off of. I need sustenance."

  "I'll help with the driveway."

  "You will?"

  "Try not to look so shocked, Trip. I also do my own laundry. And even change my own oil in my car."

  "Bullshit," he said, shaking his head.

  "Not bullshit. My father refused to let me drive a car until I knew the basics of how one works and how to take care of it. That car out there might be a POS, but that oil is fresh, the air filters are clean, and the tires are rotated."

  Something crossed his face, a look that I was finding hard to place. Interest, maybe. But there was something more lively there. Something, I don't know, maybe even a little heated?

  No.

  Clearly, that didn't make any sense.

  "You change your own oil? You. Who is worth millions."

  "Really, we're back to that again?"

  "I'm not judging you, Jett. I'm trying to understand. Why get your hands dirty when you could pay someone to change it?"

  "Because it is the one way my father and I have been able to still bond after I left the company. I drive back to Pennsylvania to visit. We take my car out to his garage, get it up on some ramps, look it over together."

  "That's a nice tradition," he told me, nodding. "But I think the two of you are going to have a lot of ways to connect with each other in the coming years."

  It sounded like he knew.

  "Did my father talk to you about his dream for Kensley?" I asked.

  "Yeah, he did. Only for a minute. He knew your mom would be pissed if we talked business over a holiday, so we didn't get too far into it."

  To that, my lips curved up. "If you think my mother is even remotely capable of being 'pissed,' then you don't really know her very well."

  "That's true. You'd think she'd have more. With the life she had led before Mitch."

  "My mom has been through a lot of therapy. Before I was born, especially, wanting to make sure her trauma didn't negatively affect me. But she continued it on even after. And then when they opened the clinic, she started going to the weekly group sessions on top of that. She has really worked on herself and healed the wounds of the past. And, I think, having something like she and my father have is its own kind of healing too."

  "I've never seen anyone like them. Not with so many years in."

  "Me either," I agreed. "He looks at her like she is the sole reason the sun rises in the morning."

  "That is exactly how he looks at her," he agreed. "And she is always leaning into him, reaching for his hand, finding some reason to touch him."

  "It's something to aspire to, that's for sure," I agreed, feeling the ache of longing.

  "You want that?" he asked, eyes guarded.

  "I have a full life," I told him, knowing it was true. "I have a rewarding career, friends, an amazing family. I, yeah, I would like a partner. It would be nice to have someone to share all of that with, build on that with."

  "In your fixer-upper?"

  "Yeah. In my fixer-upper."

  "Why fixer-uppers?" he asked, genuinely curious.

  "I don't know," I admitted. "I think a case could be said for my mother's background. She went to school for decorating. But I think there is something about, I don't know, seeing the potential that everyone else misses, I guess. It is easy to love something that is already perfect. But sometimes, you can see what is perfect underneath all the crap when no one else can. And that is more rewarding, I think. Things you have to work for always end up being the most rewarding."

  "I think I am starting to get you, Princess," he said, eyes thoughtful, voice softer than I was used to.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I dunno. You were kind of born into the perfect house, y'know? It was perfect. It required nothing of you. You could have easily stayed there, gotten comfortable, let everyone come in and look around in awe. But that wasn't good enough. You wanted to earn it, to get the reward of all that hard work. I get that. I respect that."

  "Do you feel that?" I asked, reaching my arms out a bit dramatically.

  "Feel what?" he asked, tensing.

  "I think hell is freezing over," I told him, watching as his shoulders fell again as he snorted. "Trip Freaking Martin respects me. Oh, how far we have come from that time you once told me to go cry in my private plane."

  His head ducked at that. "I didn't say that."

  "No," I agreed. "Actually, I think you said my yacht."

  "In my defense, Princess, I didn't know you then."

  "You didn't want to."

  "I did, actually," he corrected.

  "Wait... really? Why?"

  "Because everyone loved you. And I figured if you were Mitch's kid, you must have been pretty amazing. But then you decided to hate me."

  "You insulted my idea!"

  "I was trying to agree with Mitch. I have nothing against electric cars. Some luxury companies are doing well with them. But I think we both have to agree that most people—not even those who could afford them—are going to want electric cars. There are too many dead zones where you can't charge. Repairs cost several limbs. They're great. But not overly practical just yet."

  "So you could see Kensley having an electric car in the future? Not to replace an old model, but to add to the fleet."

  "In another five years, yeah, I think I could see that."

  "Are you just agreeing with me because, in the future, we will have to work together, and you think kissing my ass might work in your favor?"

  "Jett, babe, if there is one thing you can always count on with me, it is that I am going to give you the truth. No matter how much you might hate to hear it. I am not going to lie to you or kiss your ass in order to try to save my own. That's not who I am. And, I don't think that is someone you want working beside you either."

  "No," I agreed, nodding, pretending to ignore the little flutter in my belly at the word babe. "I like the truth. Even if it hurts."

  "The truth right now is, if this shit keeps up," he said, waving an arm behind him toward the windows, "our arms might fall off from exhaustion while shoveling that driveway."

  "My father always claims it is best to go out in shifts, getting ahead of it before it all falls. I don't know if there is actually any validity to that plan, though."

  "Then let's err on the side of laziness," he suggested with a mischievous smirk. "We still have leftovers to finish before they go bad."

  "That's true. And it would be really terrible to waste food."

  "And a perfectly comfortable couch is useless if no one is sitting on it," he agreed.

  "You know what, I like the way you think," I told him, finding I actually meant it. "If you want, I can introduce you to my personal favorite invention," I told him.

  "Well, now, I have to know what that is, don't I?"

  "I call it a Thanksgiving pierogi," I told him.

  "I'm not hating the sound of that."

  "You make the dough for pierogi, then you layer it with mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn, turkey, and gravy, then pinch it all closed, bake it, and eat."

  "That sounds so awful that it has to be amazing."

  "It is. My mom hates it. But my dad and I usually eat them when the leftovers are winding down. It uses up all the ingredients, but tastes different."

  "How long until I can have one?" he asked, placing a hand on his stomach.

  "That depends. Are you a 'breakfast is for breakfast and dinner is for dinner' type of person, or do you throw all the food rules out the window?"

  "Breakfast-for-dinner was always my favorite as a kid."

  "Oh, good. A fellow food rebel. Well, then... I can make them now."
>
  "What can I do?"

  "Not get in my way," I suggested, making him smile. "And maybe pick out a good Christmas movie."

  "Die Hard it is."

  "That is not a Christmas movie."

  "Is so. The best one."

  "Bruce Willis says it isn't a Christmas movie."

  "What does he know?"

  "He's the star of it!"

  "If being the star of something makes that person an expert in that field, Princess," Trip shot back, "then Russel Crowe must be great at gladiating."

  "'Gladiating' isn't a word," I told him, rolling my eyes.

  "The movie takes place on Christmas."

  "Goodfellas has a Christmas scene. But I think we can all agree it is not a Christmas movie."

  "You're a pain in the ass, babe," he said, but he was grinning while he did it.

  "You should be used to that by now," I shot back.

  "I think I am," he agreed. "Alright, fine. How about... Trapped In Paradise."

  "Oh, an obscure one. I like it. Sounds like a plan."

  "I'll go find it."

  "Hey, Trip," I called as he started away, making him turn back.

  "Yeah?"

  "We just disagreed without jumping down each other's throats."

  "It's a nearly-Christmas miracle," he agreed, shooting me a smile that made my knees forget how they worked for a second. Luckily, he was already turning away and making his way toward the living room, and didn't see me have to hold onto the counter to keep myself upright.

  Alone, my gaze slid over to the nearly-forgotten note on the island.

  That mother of mine was a devious woman.

  It hadn't simply been wishful thinking on her part.

  About Trip and me.

  She'd seen something there.

  She knew that if we could just stop screaming at each other, we might actually find we really enjoyed each other's company.

  And she knew that the only way for us to come to that realization on our own was to book it out of town, and leaving us abandoned and trapped by an epic snowstorm.

  My mother, the hopeless romantic.

  My gaze slid over toward the living room, looking at Trip, feeling a warm sensation spreading across my chest.

  Apparently, like mother, like daughter.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN