Chapter Twenty-Five
Zadie
I’d never celebrated American Thanksgiving in my life. Hell, Canadian Thanksgiving had barely been a thing in my family.
Most years, we couldn’t afford a big meal. The first proper turkey we ever had was one I’d bought. I was fifteen, and for the first time, I’d spent part of my paycheck on something that wasn’t rent or my mother’s cigarettes.
That was the year my parents nearly killed each other over the last scoop of instant potatoes. After Jenni’s threat of death by butter knife, both she and my dad had stormed off, leaving me alone with a half-carved bird.
That was one of the better years.
So when Chantel told me her family celebrated the holiday in November, a tradition kept alive by Caleb’s dad, who’d grown up in the States, I’d shown up early to help.
A handsome, dark-haired man had answered the front door.
“Welcome to the madhouse,” he’d said, as the sound of rambunctious children blared behind him. “Is that a pie?”
His voice was deep and his blue eyes were so achingly familiar that I’d gone temporarily mute.
I’d never met him, but I’d known instantly he was Caleb’s brother. He was taller, broader, with shorter hair and a bearded jaw. He also looked a lot older, sounded a lot harder, and was missing Caleb’s unguarded warmth. But the resemblance was unmistakable.
“They don’t bite, I promise,” he’d added, nodding toward the chaos behind him. “And they’ll burn themselves out eventually. You’re Zadie?”
“Yes, hi. Are you Eric or Marc?”
“Eric. And if that pie is lemon meringue, you and I are going to get along just fine.”
“It’s apple.”
“That’ll do.”
He’d welcomed me inside, where his two girls ran through the house like miniature tornadoes. They raced between the kitchen and the front hall, shrieking with delight, while the most beautiful pregnant woman I’d ever seen chased after them.
Jamie had a mane of silky blonde perfection, a glowing complexion, and an incredibly large, perfectly rounded belly. The sight of her magnified every imperfection and fear of inadequacy I carried.
I’d offered to help in the kitchen, but Chantel’s mother, Solange, who’d flown in from Montreal for the week, had taken over like she was organizing an evacuation effort. She moved between the stove and the counter with a precision that made cooking look like choreography, barking orders in French that Jamie somehow understood and obeyed without complaint.
Between the two of them, every surface was covered with something that smelled incredible, and there was absolutely nothing for me to do.
“Sit,” Solange had told me when I’d offered to help for the third time. “Eat the bread. Stay out of my way.”
So, I sat. I ate the bread. And I watched two women who clearly had their lives together do the thing I’d never learned how to do—make a home feel like one.
Chantel had arrived straight from work, cutting it close as usual. I hadn’t seen her since she’d ditched me for my ultrasound. We’d spoken through text in brief, clipped exchanges that left a lot to be desired. Her apology had been half-assed at best, and it made me wonder when exactly my definition of best friend had started to shift.
I still loved her. But when I needed someone I could trust, someone I could count on, it was Caleb who came to mind first.
Now I was sitting across the dinner table from Jamie and Eric, with Caleb beside me, questioning a lot more than my capacity for motherhood.
Despite the friendly conversation and the cuteness of Mia shoveling handfuls of corn and peas into her mouth with both fists, my head was stuck back in the front hall. On Caleb, and the way he’d kissed me before laying down his dare.
And then try to tell me I’m not serious about you.
I couldn’t. Not when my lips were still tingling and my underwear was damp from a kiss that hadn’t even involved tongue.
That kiss had been earth-shattering and ended far too soon. Why was it that every time his mouth found mine, my world ignited and I wanted to throw reason out the window?
“Where’s Hunter?” Caleb asked before taking a massive bite of turkey.
