Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
“Night,” I said softly.
“Night,” he breathed.
I made my way out of the warm house and into the cold dark. The freezing drive back to Amos’s farmhouse was a blur, made grainy by memories and images of Hunter.
After taking a quick shower, I successfully snuck into the bunk room and fell into an exhausted sleep.
The next morning, I was awakened by various voices screaming from one end of the house to the other.
“You’re missing the parade!”
“What channel’s it on?”
“The internet, Uncle Amos! It’s on the internet!”
I blinked my eyes open to see the sun streaming across the far side of the room. Everyone else was already up, and the room was a mess of discarded bedding, clothes, and shoes. After pulling fresh clothes on—nicer ones that would be appropriate for the celebration—I made my way downstairs in hopes of finding a vat of coffee.
My mom had taken up a spot next to one of the two large coffee makers. As soon as she saw me, she poured me a cup and gestured toward the kitchen table. “Savannah picked up some oat milk for you.”
I blinked, absurdly touched, and turned to my cousin, who was sitting at the kitchen table with her feet propped on the chair beside her, demolishing a freshly baked cinnamon roll the size of her head. “Savannah, thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Easy peasy,” Savannah said around a gooey mouthful. She winked. “If we keep you happy, maybe you’ll come back. I need a partner for trivia night down at the Tavern.”
“Wait, wait, wait. No way are you bogarting Junior,” Jory insisted, coming into the kitchen and plunking himself down at the table beside her. “Not cool, Savannah. We’ll arm wrestle for him fair and square!”
My mother’s eyes danced at me over the top of her own coffee mug.
I fell into a kitchen chair and doctored my coffee before worshipping it slowly and thoroughly. Family and friends moved in and out of the large kitchen, accompanied by waves of noise and the various scents of Thanksgiving dishes. From the direction of the dining room, I could hear the clink of silverware and china, along with the whispered gossip between two of my aunts as they set the table, and in the den, Amos was already instructing the little kids to be patient because Santa wouldn’t show up until the end of the parade.
It was… nice.
Really nice.
Way nicer than I’d remembered.
For the past few years, I’d been so busy around the holidays that I hadn’t even gotten to see my mother. I’d spent Thanksgiving in Chicago, tagging along with Seamus to sophisticated dinner parties that featured plenty of vegan options, six kinds of wine, and not a can-shaped cranberry sauce in sight. I’d told myself that was how sophisticated people celebrated Thanksgiving—no meddling family to placate, no chaos, no confusion—and I’d liked it… but never as much as the other guests seemed to.
Being here now was like spraying a mist of sentimental holiday comfort around me and letting the magic settle on my skin. I’d forgotten how good it could feel to be part of the rituals of a place. To have Aunt Charli demand that I taste-test her mashed potatoes while the kids yanked at my wrists and tried to pull me outside to play tag. To sit beside Emmaline at the overloaded table and have her gnarled fingers wrapped around mine while Amos said grace and encouraged every member of our huge family to state the one thing they were most thankful for this year. To have my mom, who was seated on my other side, knock her shoulder into mine companionably as she said, “I think I’m most thankful for… niceness. Aren’t you, Charlton?” To have Amos’s eyes find mine as he said, “I’m thankful all the family’s home this year.” And to swallow down the lump in my throat as I managed to croak out my own thanks a moment later.
After that, everyone fell on the food like they’d been starving since the previous November. Butter and gravy, conversation and laughter flowed around the room and out into the sun porch, where the smaller kids’ table was set up. No one was foolish enough to disturb the happy mood by discussing politics or religion, and the only moment of controversy occurred when Jory, whose gaze had been directed at the phone in his lap for a good part of the meal, interrupted Amos’s discussion of his heritage Guernseys by standing up from the table and screaming, “Wooo hooo! Hell, yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
Without missing a beat, Amos had said, “Jory, son, I never knew you were so passionate about animal husbandry! From now on, I’m gonna make sure you help me with all the barn chores. No, no, don’t need to thank me,” Amos had added as a red-faced Jory attempted to stammer out a denial. “Your excitement is all the thanks I need.” And then he’d sent me an amused wink that said he knew exactly what Jory had been excited about and he looked forward to Jory’s attempts to weasel his way out of it.