“Okay, well, I wanted to talk about Thanksgiving.” I wince, unsure how this conversation is going to go. “Nowthat you and Covey are together, things are a little more complicated.”
I knew this conversation was coming. “We’re still planning to come over to your place first.” As ridiculous as a Thanksgiving brunch sounded, it made for a good split for the holidays, especially since Covey has the opening for The Nutcracker later that evening.
“Well, that’s what I want to talk about.” My head snaps up. “Covey’s mom called and invited me to her place, so we can all be together. It makes much more sense for everyone.”
It does make sense, but that’s what I’m worried about. The last time our parents schemed behind our backs, we ended up at some entomology camp near a resort in Maine while our moms spent the days on wine tours.
“Aidan? Are you still there?”
“Um, yeah. I’m here.”
“What do you think?”
“Think?”
She sighs with the same exasperation that’s followed me my whole life. “About having one big dinner with the Gallaghers?”
“Oh, um, it’s… a great idea?” Clearly, the train has left the station. If I know my mother, she’s already said yes. This call is merely a formality. Disagreeing only sparks a stern discussion before she does what she intended to in the first place.
“Great, I’ll let her know.”
“Perfect.”
“Oh, and I told her that you and Covey would bring the pies.”
“Pies?” I don’t bake. Ever. Last year, I bought some of those ghost-shaped cookies at Halloween, the ones in the refrigerated section of the grocery store.The ghosts ended up looking like some demented creature from a tar pit. Completely inedible.
“Five should be enough, but make six so we have leftovers.” Six pies? That sounds impossible. “See you then. Oh, and tell Covey hi for me.”
The line goes dead before I can say anything else. Thanksgiving. With all of us. And pies. My brain whirrs to a stop. This is… I can’t…
I need to call Covey. I reach for my phone and hit his name in my contacts without even thinking.
“Aidan?”
“We need to make pies,” I practically yell at him.
“What? When?” To his credit, he doesn’t sound nearly as fazed as I am.
“For Thanksgiving. With our families.”
“Aidan, slow down, you’re not making any sense.” I huff at the phone on the desk, unsure why he’s not getting it. “Take some deep breaths.” I glare at the screen, but do what he asks, breathing in and out to the whispered count of three over the line. “That’s good. Now start at the beginning.”
I take another deep breath and tell him the whole thing, how our moms are teaming up against us and making us bring pies to Thanksgiving.
“I’d think they’re onto us and this is some weird form of punishment, but I think they’re genuinely excited,” Covey says when I finish.
Yeah, that’s my fear, too. It means that when this is over, walking away won’t be easy. Though after our last not-date, I’m fully aware it’s not going to be easy for me either. Even if we’re friends. I know it’s not supposed to be different from what we’re doing now, but it feels like it will be.
“It’s okay, we’ll be fine.”
“But we have to make pies,” I whine.
“I can make pie.” He chuckles as he says it.
“You can?” Covey is always full of surprises.
“Yes. You can come over the night before, and we’ll bakethem together. I’ll get all the stuff. All you have to do is show up.”
