Page 71 of Feel It in the Air

18

GUS

“You rememberedto take the bird out, right?” Anton asks, gesturing at Hux with his entire hand, almost as if he’s going offer to shake, but more pointed.

“I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”

“Just confirm the bird is defrosting.”

Anton leans over the large boardroom table, the rest of the family still trickling in for Munch, his eyes trained on our middle brother as if this were a life-and-death situation. Actually, given what happened a few years ago, it might just be. Although that wasn’t Hux’s doing. It was Jace’s. Hence why Hux is now, and forever, in charge.

“Do I look like a man who would forget to defrost the turkey?”

Anton shrugs. “Can’t be too careful. You put some people in charge…”

“It was one time!” Jace shouts from across the room, arms held wide, his full plate of food almost toppling over.

“Watch it!” Willa hollers, shoving him as he almost hits her in the process. “And frankly, Mr. Personal Safety, there should have been no times. If there was ever anybody in this family who should have known better, it’s you.”

“I thought it was thawed all the way. I made a mistake,” Jace continues to defend. He really should shut up. Quit while he’s ahead. But he won’t.

“Yeah, and almost burned the house down,” Hux retorts. “Your one saving grace is that this one is uptight enough that he makes sure we’re a hundred feet away from the house.”

Hux throws his thumb in my direction, and while I’d normally take offense to being called uptight, I can’t argue in this case. I am absolutely, one hundred percent, without question, over-the-top, uptight when it comes to the distance between the house and the deep fryer every Thanksgiving.

It’s not that I don’t trust my brothers. I do. To an extent. That said, it’s also my name on the mortgage and the insurance. And I know exactly how many of those deep-fried turkeys end up as household accidents. Jace does too—since it’s his department that puts out information on it every year.

Making it that much more ironic that the year he was in charge of the turkey, he didn’t double-check that it was fully thawed before putting it into the deep fryer, and kaboom…

“I’m never living this down, am I?” Jace mutters as he sits down at the table.

I laugh, taking a bite of my chicken salad sandwich, reveling in the comfort that comes only with being around family. It doesn’t hurt that this is one of my favorite weeks of the year. A fact that I would bet would surprise most of my brothers, since it’s a short work week. But that has nothing to do with why I love this week so much.

No, this week is about tradition.

There’s great debate about which generation of Hayes and Kellers actually started Friendsgiving—although they called it “generational gatherings” prior to the new trendy term—but best we can tell it started during World War II when the Hayes, Keller, Noble, Forde, and Phillips families gathered parents in one house, kids in another prior to a number of the young men heading back overseas. Every year since, our families have followed suit, spending this holiday with siblings and friends rather than our immediate family unit. The makeup has changed over the years—even now Willa and her crew have split off from the rest of us Hayes siblings—but the tradition lives on.

“Son, you’re lucky they don’t use it as a what-not-to-do instructional video,” Auggie jokes, clapping him on the shoulder.

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” I say. “Although we’re not using our house for the reenactment.”

We can find some other place for that. Some place that if it goes wrong, I’m not the one whose monthly payment goes up. Or house burns down.

“You’d really sell me out like that?”

“All day, every day,” Milo quips.

“And twice on Sunday,” Anton throws in for good measure.

The whole group bursts into laughter, even Jace, unable to ignore the levity in the moment. Or maybe that’s just me.

Because I can’t deny that I feel about as light as a balloon at the moment. And much like that balloon, if I wasn’t tied to a string to hold me down, I might just float away. Where exactly, I’m not sure. Wherever one flies off to when they’re on the verge of falling in love. That sweet teeter-totter hovering, ready to topple over at any minute.

“What’s the final head count?” Hux asks. “There’s you two, Dolly and me, Jeff’s a maybe…” He grumbles something under his breath that I can’t make out, but I know enough to know it’s not kind. “Anton, Cary and Tizzy⁠—”

“Nope,” Anton cuts him off.

“No?” I ask.