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“Why would you worry about me?” I asked, enjoying his fingers toying with my hair.
He didn’t answer the question directly, just asked, “What was Thanksgiving like when your parents were alive?”
The memories surfaced in an instant, and I had to laugh despite the sorrow that rose in me at his question. “It’s always been one of my favorite holidays,” I told him. “We didn’t have any other family out in L.A., so it was only the three of us, and Ian would usually join us, too.”
“Ian?” Micah asked, tugging on my hair until I slid closer to him. He turned me until I was sitting between his legs with my back to him, and began kneading lightly at my shoulders. I gave a contented sigh, trying to hold onto the thread of the conversation.
“Ian Lancaster. He and my mom co-owned the tattoo studio she worked at,” I explained. “They’ve been friends as long as I’ve been alive, and he was pretty much like an uncle to me.”
Micah was quiet, so I kept going. “Anyway, my mom hated to cook, so my dad was always the one who took care of Thanksgiving. But he thought the holiday was stupid, just an excuse for people to stuff their faces until they were sick.”
Micah chuckled.
“So, he always said if it was really an excuse to eat as much as possible, we should all be eating our favorite foods, instead of these arbitrary dishes that went with the holiday.”
I paused, moaning when Micah hit a tender muscle, and he dipped his head to kiss the side of my neck.
“So, what did he make?”
“Well, it changed every year, depending on what everyone’s favorites were at the time. We always had turkey—because you have to at least pretend it’s about the holiday. But everything else was fair game. I think there were a few years in there where I requested egg rolls. And Ian usually wanted some kind of cake.”
“That sounds…unusual,” Micah said, and I could hear the laughter in his voice.
“It was delicious,” I informed him, tilting my head so he could press his thumbs into the nape of my neck. “We’ve had everything from French fries to Indian curries to meatballs. Mom was on a pretzel kick one year, so Dad made these huge ballpark pretzels from scratch, and like a million dipping sauces to go with them.” I sighed. “Thanksgiving is the best.”
I paused, then corrected myself in a barely audible whisper. “Was the best.”
Micah’s hands fell still on my shoulders, and his breath stirred my hair as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the back of my head.
“I’m sorry you won’t have that this year,” he said quietly.
“Me too,” I agreed, then tried to lighten the mood by adding, “at least I know I won’t be spending the next day in bed with a stomach ache.”
He chuckled softly and I turned, twisting around to face him. His hands dropped to circle my waist. “What about you?” I asked. “Any Thanksgiving traditions?”
His smile slowly flattened into a pensive frown. “I don’t remember,” he said after a moment, his hazel eyes thoughtful behind his glasses. “It’s been so long since I’ve really celebrated any holidays. I don’t remember if we had any traditions.”
My breath caught. That was the most information any of them had ever given me about their past, and even still, I didn’t know what it meant. I stayed quiet, hoping if I did, he might volunteer more information.
His gaze was distant though as he lifted one of his hands away from my waist and lightly touched it to his face. “I got this scar on Thanksgiving,” he said, and I had to work to keep from jolting in surprise.
“What’s it from?” I asked, barely daring to breathe.
“A knife,” he said simply, and my sharp indrawn breath pulled his attention back to me.
“It’s okay,” he told me with a sad smile. “It was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“It’ll be eleven years this year. I was seven.”
My heart broke for him. I lifted my hand, gingerly touching my fingertips to the scar. He didn’t stop me.
It was a puckered ridge of scar tissue, crossing his face from his cheek, through his lip, to disappear under his jawline. I couldn’t imagine what it would have looked like fresh, on a child no less. Or what it would have felt like.
“That’s terrible,” I said, skimming my fingertips down the scar, over his lips, which parted as I passed.
“It was,” he said, and volunteered no more information, just watched me as I gently touched his face.
