I put down the knife I was using to cut the ginger, staring at my sister. “You’re going to help?”
“Of course. We all cook on this holiday.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can.” She hugs me, resting her head on my shoulder. “I’m not doubting that for a second.”
“But aren’t you—I thought you didn’t like the San Diego idea.”
“I still think Diamond Bay is the spot for you.” She hums as she pulls away, accepting the cup of coffee and kiss that Caroline gives her. “But of course I support you.” She sips her coffee, looking at me over the rim of the mug. “Speaking of Florida, have you...?”
“No.” I busy myself with a gulp of coffee. “It’s over.”
“Okay, okay.”
I clear my throat. “If you want to help, you can start by peeling the sweet potatoes.”
Julia and Caroline are good assistants, it turns out. Mom, too, when she walks downstairs in a robe and slippers, Miso trotting after her. Finally Dad comes in, and if he’s taken aback by the organized chaos, he doesn’t show it.
He rolls up his sleeves and layers biscuit dough, in fact.
My chest won’t stop aching, this sharp little pang that threatens tears whenever I look up from what I’m doing and see the scenebefore me. I’ve never felt that I was such a part of my family until today. I fit right in, instead of being an afterthought.
Jack should be here. He deserves a family like this just as much as anyone else. I hope he’s having Thanksgiving dinner in the first place; I trust that Kiara is making him do something with her.
Dad’s phone starts to ring. He gestures that he’s going to take the call, heading into the next room. I wipe my hands on a dishcloth and take over on the biscuit dough. I knead it again, likely a little too hard, but the memory that spills into my mind makes the paper cut of hurt in my chest turn into a knife wound. It’s all too easy to think about what happened when Jack and I baked the pop tarts together; all too easy to call up half a dozen other moments that made me fall in love with him. I miss him in an expansive, bruising way, as if my heart’s an overfilled glass and the surface tension just broke.
Even though this is my meal, my creation, his fingerprints are all over it. I’m going to taste him with every bite. A tear blurs my vision. I blink it away impatiently. It’s not fair that chefs use food as a Cupid’s arrow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man leaning against the doorway, ankles crossed, arms over his chest.
“Don’t knead it too much,” he says with a voice like velvet. “Biscuit dough likes to be relaxed.”
No. It’s not Jack. I haven’t resorted to imagining him bossing me around in my kitchen; I’m not that pathetic.
He comes closer. I squeeze my eyes shut.
That salt-and-pine scent. His unmistakable presence, identifiable without vision. I open one eye cautiously.
I’m alone in the kitchen.
Alone except for Jack.
I straighten warily. I must have been so wrapped up in my thoughts, I didn’t realize when my family slipped away. Jack quirks up one side of his mouth, as if amused by my reaction. The kitchen island stands between us, a solid barrier.
“Did you come to settle in before starting the Green Street job?”
“No.”
“Then to interview with Dad for something else.”
“No.”
“Then—whatever, it doesn’t matter. I’m busy.”
He comes around the island slowly. “Poppy. Look at me.”
Fat, hot tears well in my eyes. “I don’t want to.”
