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We’d met while traveling through Australia and I followed her home to New Zealand, which might just be the most beautiful country on the planet. We’d been living in each other’s pockets for months before we officially moved in together, so I assumed it would be great, but that was where it all started going wrong. She was settling back into ‘real life’ and accused me of still being in vacation mode which, admittedly, I was. Being anywhere other than New York felt like a vacation. I was far away from my mother’s expectations and my father’s disappointment. I was my own person, pulling beers and sleeping late and not giving a shit what the following day would bring.
But Tamsyn wanted more than a bartending backpacker. So she kicked me out, and apparently got back together with her ex. Last time I checked they were married with a few kids.
Eight years later, I was still essentially the same. Yes, I’d upgraded to owning the bar rather than just working in it, but that didn’t feel like the monumental change I’d always thought it would.
My relationships since had been of the casual variety, and not just at my insistence. Every woman I’d been with since Tamsyn had, at some point, mentioned that I was the perfect rebound, or one night, or whatever else they called it—one had said revenge fuck and then snapped a selfie with my dick before I could work out what was happening.
The bottom line, I wasn’t relationship material. Perfect for a good time, not a long time. I laughed it off, always pretended it was how I wanted it. Itwashow I wanted it.
But not now, not with Chase.
The problem, the one I didn’t want to tell my sister, or Harley, or anyone else, was that I was scared out of my fucking brain. Because what if what all those women said was true? And what if, after one night with me, Chase figured it out too?
What the hellwas I thinking, attempting a new recipe for the first time on Thanksgiving? It was a rookie mistake. One I rarely made, I’d like to say. But for whatever reason I had become obsessed with the combination of apple and cheddar cheese and was now convinced that this pie was going to be a disaster. Were there bigger issues in the world? Certainly. Did I care right now, as I sat on the floor in the Rudi Blue kitchen in front of the oven—cradling my third (or was it fourth?) cup of coffee since six a.m.—after maybe three hours sleep and watched pies baking? Not one bit.
I had even tried to call Nash for some food related reassurance but it just ended in a garbled and borderline hysterical voicemail that had not resulted in a call back.
I wasn’t sure why I needed this year’s pies to be perfect, but I did. It felt important, imperative even, and I wasn’t interested in analyzing the motivation behind it.
The timer went off and I startled, sloshing coffee down the front of my shirt and flour dusted apron, but I didn’t care because it was the moment of truth. I pulled the two pies out of the oven and slid in a pair of bourbon pecan ones in turn. That recipe I’d perfected at least three years ago. These were the kind of pies I should be serving at Thanksgiving, not this untested, potentially disastrous creation.
I set the timer for twenty minutes and turned my attention to the counter. At first glance, they looked okay. Golden. Well cooked. The mingled scents of apple, butter and the barest hint of cheese met my nose. So far so good. But I wouldn’t know if they were up to scratch until this afternoon. Anxiety bubbled alongside all the coffee in my stomach. Food would probably help, but I didn’t have anything within reach that wasn’t pie.
The only thing currently calming my nerves was the fact that the unproven apple cheddar wasn’t the only pie on the menu. In fact, this year I’d really stepped it up a notch. In addition to the last minute apple, there was Chase’s sweet potato (naturally), bourbon pecan, salted honey, chocolate espresso and a pear and cranberry crumble. I’d also been perfecting a buttermilk ice cream for the better part of two months. There was an excellent chance I was overdoing it, it was a lot of pie for our guest list, but that was just how I rolled. The more pie, the merrier.
I didn’t know much of what Chase had planned for the rest of the catered meal, but I did know that dessert was going to be epic.
It was our fifth Rudi Blue Thanksgiving, we had a few new attendees this year along with staff who had been with us since the beginning.
There had been questions over the years about why Chase and I didn’t spend the holiday with our respective families, seeing as they were both so close by, but I’d take pretty much any excuse not to see my dad—who always attended the feast at Pip’s place—and Chase’s mom had come to a couple of our things. I guess that was why Chase was being so stubborn about Heather’s invitation this year. Not that she’d mentioned it at all since I caught her screening her mom’s call last week.
At any rate, this meal, this day, spent with our own little Rudi Blue family, was one of my favorites of the year. And it would be even better if my apple pies tasted as good as they smelled.
Once the bourbon pecans were out of the oven, smelling like a fucking dream I might add, it was time to head home and shower because I could smell my unwashed, over-caffeinated self under all the butter and sugar. I considered eating, too, but knowing that Chase would have over-catered for lunch—as she always did—I decided against it.
After a much needed nap, I showered and threw on a shirt and jeans then caught sight of my reflection. Did I need to change? Put on a better shirt? I rummaged through my wardrobe and put on a white button down. I looked like I was going to a fucking job interview. I pulled it off and switched it for a black one. Now I looked like I was headed to a funeral.
“For fuck’s sake.” I closed my eyes, reached out and grabbed a shirt. I didn’t look until it was buttoned up. White with blue stripes. Not what I would have chosen if I was looking, but it didn’t matter. I needed to get moving.
As I made the short walk back to Rudi, I considered how the day was going to go. For the most part I felt pretty good about it. And then there was Harley, who had confirmed her attendance earlier in the week. There was an excellent chance she would lock Chase and I in the store room or something equally ridiculous. I wouldn’t put it past her to start up a game of spin the bottle or seven minutes in heaven. It didn’t matter that none of us had any right playing those fucking games, she’d do it. Just the thought had a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck and across my brow, despite the fact it was barely forty out.
“There you are!” Chase said with a wide smile as I stepped through the door. She was looking at me weird.
“What? Do I have something on my face? Is it my hair?”
She shook her head, messy black bun bouncing. “No, you—nothing. Your hair is fine. You look—um.”
“It’s the shirt isn’t it? The shirt’s bad.” I smoothed a hand down my chest.
“No. No, it's not bad. It’s—you look good.” She cleared her throat. “What do you think?” She threw an arm out and gestured around us, I’d been so focused on her I hadn’t even noticed the atmosphere.
Rudi Blue was a Thanksgiving wonderland.
“Is it too much?” Chase worried her lower lip with her teeth as she watched me take in her work. The place was almost unrecognizable from when I’d left this morning.
“You haven’t taken Adderall today have you?”
She leveled me with a deadpan stare, the bun flopping to the left as she planted her hands on her hips. “Your faith in me is astounding, truly. I’ve not taken Adderall since—”
