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She puts on her elf apron, and I start prepping the turkey. Yesterday was decadent and perfect and family-free. We shut our phones off and it was just us all day.
“Bella, we have work to do.”
She assembles her supplies. “And you’re sure you’re ok without your mom and Lisa?” He puts his hands on his hips and laughs.
“Yeah. I’m good. I’ll be really good if you put those yoga pants on again later.” She throws a hand towel at me. “Are you ok? Did you talk to him?”
“It’s still early in California. I’m fine. I’m happy to be here with you.” She’s lying. I can feel it. She’s turned away from me.
“It’s ok to miss him. Especially today.” Her breath catches and her shoulders slump. I wipe my hands and put them on her shoulders. She turns to me, tears delicately falling down her cheeks. “I am overjoyed to be here. But I so desperately want him here, too.”
I pull her close and kiss the top of her head while she crumbles into an ugly cry. She’s a beautiful mess. After a while, she mutters, “Thank you.”
“I’m here, Jilly. For whatever you need.”
She pulls away and rolls her eyes. “That’s a whole thing. I’m the one there for everyone else. I never get to fall apart or doubt the next step. I’m everyone’s cheerleader. “I’m glad your apron caught the bulk of the snot.”
I grin and replace my apron with a clean one. I toss it into the laundry room.
“You have two plaid aprons?”
“Three, actually. But the patterns are different. Plaid can surprise you.”
“It certainly can.” She kisses my cheek as I return to the turkey.
She’s chopping onions at the counter near the sink. She catches me staring at her, and my body freezes; she’s so beautiful. I feel so possessive of her already. She’s mine, here in my kitchen, preparing food with me. Domestic and blissful.
She cocks a hip and an eyebrow. “There’s something incredibly sexy about a man who can just reach in and take that creepy neck part out of a turkey without consulting Google.”
I grin and keep yanking things out of the carcass. She turns back to her prep area. I see torn bread, onions, butter, a shallot or two, celery, sage, thyme, and milk in a cup coming to room temperature.
“Where are the chestnuts?” I ask pointedly.
“In the trees. Is that a trick question?” She’s not kidding.
“No, for the dressing.” This is not Christmas.
“Blech.” She sticks her tongue out in disgust.
“I won’t put this turkey in the oven without chestnut dressing.” I straighten my shoulders so she knows I’m immovable.
“First of all, it’s called stuffing. And second of all, if that was a priority, then maybe you spend a little less time in my nether region and a little more time menu planning.”
He laughs. “I refuse to spend less time with her majesty, but isn’t chestnut dressing implied when someone makes a turkey?”
“Happy to hear she ranks above this chestnut issue. And no. Just no. What are we, pilgrims?” She turns and leans on the counter. She must be joking.
“But then it’s not a Christmas turkey.”
“Then make another one tomorrow when I’m gone and call it a Christmas turkey. We’ll call this one Fred. And unless they’re roasted, on the street, no one truly likes the chestnut.”
I cross my arms over my chest, careful to keep my carcass hands away from my body. “I do. I love chestnuts.”
She casually mocks me. “Do you have them a lot? Like, as often as people eat chicken? Maybe for breakfast? A big bowl of chestnuts and milk.”
I calmly walk to the sink and rinse my turkey hands.
She continues, “You know they’re only included in “The Christmas Song” because the word chestnut scanned with the lyrics. Because Jack Frost doesn’t really nip at your nose and people don’t eat chestnuts voluntarily.”
