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I stand at the edge of the living room, watching the men drink beer from frosty steins and yell at the football game. My father and brothers love their football, especially on Thanksgiving. Jordan hangs out in the kitchen with my mom and aunts.
I’m not much of a cook and couldn’t care less about football. All I care about is my mom’s famous deep-fried turkey and her buttery mashed potatoes that melt on your tongue. The scents floating out from the kitchen cause my mouth to water, my stomach rumbling next.
I’m like an outsider in my own home, keeping to myself and wondering what to do with myself. My head hasn’t been on straight since the incident with Tucker and Trent a few weeks ago. I find myself becoming more distracted, more closed off and distant. Part of me wants to blame them.
But how can I? They both genuinely seem to like me. Both of them have made attempts to apologize and sent gifts to show me how sorry they are for duping me. It was all a misunderstanding. I know that now. But the pain is still real. My heart still aches when I think of them, how much I like both of them. And then, I remind myself it’s ridiculous to even consider talking to either of them again.
Twenty minutes later, my mom calls us into the dining room for dinner. The massive dining room, with an old wooden farm table that spans most of the room, has benches instead of chairs. My dad and brothers carved every marking into the wood with their bare hands. An intricate design of the Walcott Dairy logo is emblazoned at the center of the table, a giant W inside a circle and an old barn—the original one my father started with—off in the distance.
The long benches are pushed out from the table, just enough for us to take our usual places. My dad always sits at the head of the table with my mother on his right, and my brothers on his left. Jordan plops down next to me, on our mother’s side. Her flowery perfume fills my nostrils along with the homemade cornbread stuffing she helped my mom make.
Jordan sets the dish on the table in front of us, a bright smile on her face. She’s proud of her work.
Everyone shuffles into the dining room, the room filling with laughter and chatter. The air hums with excitement, and as I stare around the table, I smile. I missed my family. I hadn’t realized how much until right now.
John Collins, my father’s friend and business partner, sits next to me, leaving a large gap between us. The amount of open space is noticeable, to the point I wonder why he’s sitting so far away. And then I see him. Corey. He’s at the end of the table, talking to some of his friends from work.
He laughs, his fingers moving through his shaggy brown hair, pushing it off his forehead. His skin is tanned from all the hours he spends working outside, his muscles bulging beneath the dark sweater he has rolled up to his elbows. My throat closes up when his eyes meet mine, nerves shaking me to the core.
We haven’t spoken since I left for college. Corey promised he would allow me to experience everything without interference from him. And he kept his word. I also said we would talk when I came home for break. My life is a mess right now. I’m not ready to make any decisions.
Corey finishes his conversation at the end of the table, before strolling over to me. He slumps to the open seat next to me, a wicked grin on his handsome face. In every way, he’s still the boy I met in grade school. Still the same person I left behind. But I’m not the same. Everything has changed since I transferred to Strickland University.
“Jemmy,” Corey whispers, the nickname only he uses for me, as he leans in to kiss my cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
My skin burns from his delicate touch. “You, too,” I mutter.
“How come you look so surprised to see me?”
I pause for a second. It’s not that I’m surprised. “I’m not,” I lie. “You should try the cornbread stuffing before it’s gone.” I nod at the bowl in front of me, the contents half empty. “Jordan didn’t make as much as she usually does. With all these mouths to feed, you have to grab some while you can.”
“Right.” He sighs, reaching for the spoon sticking out from the bowl. “I guess I better get on that.”
Why does this feel so awkward? I’ve known him for most of my life. He’s been there for me through the hard times, even the more embarrassing times, and yet I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing. Because I know he will want to talk after dinner, and I will still have the same answer I gave him over the summer. I’m not ready to get married and start a family.
