When I walk into the kitchen, Benson’s at the island in a hoodie and sweatpants, eyes at half-mast, and a coffee in his hands. There’s a second mug poured on the counter. His truck keys are sitting next to it.
I stop in the doorway.
“Reeve.”
He lifts his mug. “Stan.”
I walk in and pick up the second mug, and the coffee is, somehow, the best coffee I have ever had in my life.
On the counter, next to the bananas, there’s a Tupperware. A pie under plastic wrap. A yellow Post-it on the lid in Rowan’s handwriting.
Stan —Good luck on faking it. You owe me.—R
I read it twice and toss it.
Benson says, “He made one for us too.”
“I can take it on the plane, right?”
Reeve shrugs. “Hopefully.”
“What if they confiscate it and eat it for themselves?”
“Then say Happy Thanksgiving,” he says, lifting his mug. He looks down at my bag. “Do you have a ride?”
“Yeah, Reeve. I have a girlfriend now.”
He smirks. “How does it feel?”
I glance down at the counter and adjust the strap on my shoulder. “My brain started a podcast about it this morning.” I nod and grin. “I’m calling the first episode:I would never –– by me, when I might.”
He laughs. “You know what’s crazy?”
“Me.”
He nods. “You. Happy Thanksgiving, Stan. Good luck faking it.”
“Tell your mom I’m sorry,” I say.
“I will.”
He adds, “You’re missing the game.”
I blink. “I’m not missing the game.”
“You’re flying back Friday morning. Wheels-up six. Hartford to Albany to Burlington, you land ten-thirty. Coach has skate at eleven. You’ll be lacing up in the room ten minutes beforeeverybody else hits the ice.” He finally looks up. “I checked your itinerary.”
“You checked my itinerary?”
“Stan. I’m the captain. I had to sign you off. We’ve got a Friday game against a top-ten team and our first-line right wing is in a different state pretending to date some NHL coach’s daughter. Yeah. I checked your itinerary.”
I set the mug down. “I’ll be there, Reeve.”
“I know you’ll be there.”
I chug the coffee and set it down in the sink. “Reeve.”
“Yeah.”
