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“I should have made you come to my house. I should have called you. I should have been there for you.”
You couldn’t have been, baby.
She lifts her head and looks at me through her wet eyes, “Thanksgiving is in a few months. Can we spend it together?”
“You’re not going home?”
“No, I want to be with you.”
“Your dad’s gonna be pissed.”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” she snaps, and her fists ball up.
I don’t want to talk about him either.
Ever.
Thanksgiving has never been anything but another day to remind me that I have no family, no one to really give a shit. Not even a phone call from old Stan. I understand why Mom doesn’t call, I’m just a walking, talking reminder of what Stan did to her.
Same with Christmas, another day where everyone else is with their loved ones, and those with no one sit around feeling like lepers. Last several years I turned my phone off so a part of me couldn’t even wonder if it would ring. I knew it wouldn’t, but I’d find my subconscious waiting for it anyway.
“Baby, if you want to spend Thanksgiving here, I’ll find you the biggest turkey in London. I’ll get one of those deep fryers, and we can burn the deck down. Whatever makes you stop crying.”
That brings a smile back to her face, and my heart’s rhythm restores itself.
“I could cook the shit out of Thanksgiving dinner in this kitchen,” she chuckles and wipes her tears away.
I stand up and snatch her little body up against mine. “Fucking the shit out of you in this kitchen sounds much more fun,” I breathe into her neck and kiss the soft skin all down her nape and collarbone. This cooking in my tee-shirt thing she has going on is doing something for me.
She pushes her ass back into me, sighs as my hands travel up the inside of her shirt along her smooth skin. I take one of her perfect tits in my hand and glide the other down to her naked, bare pussy.
“Can we get a Christmas tree?”
“Hop on the counter and spread your legs and I’ll kidnap Santa Claus for you.”
“Breakfast,” she giggles, pulls away, and flits to the oven, leaving me standing here with a raging hard-on.
Emily starts plating up a breakfast feast, but seeing her so emotional about being alone for the holidays sits in my stomach like a lead weight. They mean something to her. Being with me means no more family holidays, and I don’t think she understands that.
She couldn’t.
She wants to give them up now, this year, because it’s novel and she feels sorry for me, but I don’t think she realizes there would be no more Thanksgiving dinners with her family. No presents on Christmas morning with her mom and dad.
No turkey, no Christmas stockings, no Santa Claus, and no goddamn eight reindeer.
I’ve never had it, so I’m not giving anything up. You can’t lose what you never had.
But Emily, she’s always had that normalcy, those happy memories, and traditions, and it’d be one more thing she’d sacrifice to be with me.
“Do you like your job, Em?” I ask as I shovel mouthfuls of her cheesy egg goodness into my mouth and try to act casual.
Or is that another thing I’ve taken from you, your chosen career?
When she answers, I don’t think she’s faking. Her eyes light up. “I love it,” she grins around a forkful of pancake. She starts discussing the engineering marvels of the cars, the advancements F1 brings to other industries, and all of the things that get her motor turning. “Plus, I get to be with you.”
That makes me feel better, like less of a selfish prick. Less of an abomination.
“This was really good, thank you for doing all of this.” I’ve stuffed myself, and eating Liam’s meal prepped mystery containers is going to be more difficult going forward.
