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The reminder that Charlie might disappear again for another fifteen years soured my stomach. I kicked one of the sandpaper balls. “Classy, but no. I don’t like meaningless plucks. You know that.”
With the taste of Charlie’s kiss still in my mouth, the words felt a bit like a lie. I did eventually want a committed relationship. And I truly didn’t like hookups in general, but I couldn’t deny that I’d make an exception for Charlie Nutter if given the opportunity. I wouldn’t kick him outta bed for eating crackers.
And then what?
There was no world in which a career-focused city boy like Charlie Nutter, with his important executive job and fancy suits, would ever want more than a quick hookup with a workaholic Thicket farmer. And part of the reason I avoided hookups was because my own steady (stubborn, Alana’s voice corrected in my head) nature made it way too easy for me to get attached.
Imagining myself falling for a man who was a couple of hundred miles from me geographically and a million light-years away in lifestyle felt like willingly walking into a nightmare. And if the Thicket gossips ever heard about our hookup, I’d be living that nightmare forever, like my own terrible Groundhog Day.
“I appreciate your concern. I do. But I’ve got all the fun I want right here.” I swept my arms out to indicate the half-finished space around us. “Besides, I have plans this afternoon. I was thinking I might crash your dessert baking,” I said, making the decision as I spoke. Keeping busy was the best way to stop myself from doing anything foolish…
Or anything more foolish than I’d already done.
“You’re voluntarily spending time with Mom right after your date?” Alana demanded. “Are you being brave or stupid? I can’t tell.”
“Neither.” I waved away her concern. “I’m spending time with my beloved family. Mom will be too busy baking to bother me much, and if she asks about this morning, I’ll tell her the same thing I’m telling you: I bid on a date with Charlie Nutter, and now it’s done. End of story.”
Alana’s look said she didn’t believe me—fair enough, since Charlie’s I’ll be back tonight was still playing on a loop in my head—but she dropped the subject anyway.
We finished cleaning up the sandpaper and abandoned paintbrushes, and as we walked over to our parents’ house, we discussed the extensive list of desserts that our extended family had requested for the next day’s feast.
“Eight pies and a crumble, kids!” our mother greeted as we walked in the back door. She had her sleeves rolled up and was elbows-deep in a giant bowl of what appeared to be sugar and butter while abandoned measuring cups cluttered the huge worktop and flour coated her apron, but her eyeliner still looked sharp, and her smile was triumphant.
There was nothing Lurleen Jackson loved more than feeding her extended family, which meant preparing our Thanksgiving feast was her personal Super Bowl—equal parts stressful and thrilling.
“I’ve already done the banana pudding, the pecan pie, the chocolate pecan pie, and the chocolate-not-pecan pie,” she went on before either of us could say a single word, “but the cornucopia cookies need frosting, the cranberry filling is missing its crumble topping, and I need enough apples for four of my deep-dish apple pies.” When neither of us immediately sprang into action, she removed one buttery hand from the bowl and waved imperiously. “Are you waiting for an invitation? This crumble ain’t gonna crumble itself. Wash those hands, people.”
Alana and I exchanged a look and hurried to the sink like we were still eight-year-olds, jockeying for position.
“How much coffee do you think she’s had?” Alana demanded in a whisper.
I snorted. “Too much.”
“And Hunter Jackson, once we’ve got these desserts in the oven, I wanna talk alllll about your date with that sweet Nutter boy,” my mother called over her shoulder.
“Or possibly not enough,” I muttered.
Because Alana was the best sister ever, before we began fetching, chopping, and peeling at our mother’s direction, she pulled a portable speaker from her purse and cued up a playlist of classic pop hits. For a long while, we were all so busy singing along and occasionally arguing over what constituted a classic—“Alana, nothing released in this millennium is considered an ‘oldie.’ I will not tolerate that sort of talk in this household, young lady.”—that I let myself relax and enjoy the reprieve.
I wasn’t lying when I told Charlie I wouldn’t trade my family for anything, I decided as I grabbed another apple to peel. They’re the best.
And that, of course, was the moment when my great-aunt Selma barged through the back door with her grandson Pete trailing behind her, seated herself at the kitchen table where Mom had laid out a bunch of pie crusts that needed crimping, and began grilling me like a wartime prisoner.
