It’s a small kitchen, but we all make it work. Jett and I are out of the way, next to the sink, chopping all the vegetables for the salad and the stuffing.
The turkey is already in the oven and has been since early this morning.
Granddad is filling the graham cracker crust with pumpkin pie filling. Mom is simmering the cranberry sauce with oranges and apples, while Grandma makes the sweet potatoes with marshmallows and the green bean casserole.
“Do you have Thanksgiving traditions at home, Jett?” Granddad asks.
“Uhm, yeah. It’s a lot like this, but only the women do the cooking. When my grandparents first moved here, they really got into American traditions. Christmas is huge. The Ivory Coast is mostly comprised of Christians and Muslims. My grandparents lived in the south, where it’s predominantly Christian.”
“Learn something new every day. I need to ask you more questions. I know shit about the Ivory Coast,” I say.
Jett shrugs. “I’ve never been. But Thanksgiving was spent mostly with my dad’s parents.”
“Th-th-th… that’s so n-nice,” Mom says.
“Yep, bonding is always important,” Grandma agrees.
Jett nods, frowning. “Instead of watching football, Dad and I would sit in front of the TV and watch all my running videos, pointing out where I could improve and… my mistakes.”
His openness with my family surprises me, and I think Mom senses the shift in Jett, too—she’s amazing like that—and touches his shoulder. He turns to face her, towering over her. “B-bonding is important, b-b-but… not p-p-picking on… mm-mistakes. It hurts.”
Jett stares at his feet and nods. “Yeah, I didn’t like it so much. I’d rather be dicing vegetables with you all. It’s… been really nice here.”
Mom instantly pulls Jett into a hug. She’s the one who taught me kindness and patience the most.
“Y-you’re always w-w-welcome here.”
“Thanks,” he whispers, holding her back.
Mom walks off to keep stirring the sauce as we go back to chopping vegetables.
There’s definitely a mood shift. You can tell Jett didn’t care for Thanksgiving. Who would when his dad was pointing out his failures all day? Fucking stressful is what it is. Being an athlete is stressful enough.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m good. Love your family.”
I smile as my heart beats a little faster for this man I’m falling for. “Thanks.”
“Jett,” Granddad says after taking a bite of mashed potatoes and gravy. “Have you seen Wes’ scrapbook?”
My fork hovers over my mouth as I forget how to breathe. I told them not to talk about what happened to him at the Olympics, but failed to tell themnotto mention the scrapbook.
“Granddad!” I screech.
“What?”
I face-palm as my cheeks burn.
Jett leans in and asks, “Scrapbook?”
“Ugh…”
“Why are you so red, baby?” he chuckles.
“‘Baby,’ I like. The teasing not so much.”
“Comeon. You can’t leave me hanging, Wes.”
