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“I could.”
“You’re not going to?”
“No.”
I look over at him. “Who are you?”
He glances at me, deeply offended. “I’m being responsible.”
“You’re being patient.”
“That seems like an accusation.”
I laugh and reach across the console to squeeze his thigh. His hand leaves the gearshift long enough to cover mine before he turns his attention back to the road.
By the time we pull into Rachel and Locke’s driveway, the backyard is already loud enough that we can hear everyone before we get out of the car. It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving, one of those mild late-November afternoons Missouri occasionally hands out, chilly enough for coats but not cold enough to drive everyone into Rachel’s tiny cottage. When Rachel invited all of us, somebody called it Friendsgiving, and the name stuck even after Tom announced that he refused to cook another turkey under any circumstances.
The firepit is already blazing near the patio, and Tom is proving he meant it by grilling hotdogs and hamburgers. Shannon is arguing with him about whether something is burned. Tom insists it’s charred and has decided the distinction requires a lecture. Janet is arranging napkins beside a stack of paper plates as though the entire gathering might collapse without proper logistics, while Blair carries a casserole dish of scalloped potatoes hot out of the oven with Rachel behind her balancing a dish of homemade baked beans.
Nobody has brought stuffing. Nor has anyone brought cranberry sauce. Rachel posted in the group yesterday that she still had enough Thanksgiving leftovers to feed a small county and would reject anything that looked remotely like a traditional side dish.
Kell and I spent Thursday at home, just the two of us. He wanted to try everything, which is how two people ended up with a turkey large enough to feed ten and six side dishes because apparently choosing between mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes was an unreasonable limitation.
We ate too much, laughed through most of dinner, and eventually abandoned the dishes for the couch. Kell stretched out with my feet tucked beneath his thigh, and we watched Jurassic Park because our first Thanksgiving together required something non-traditional, like dinosaurs. By the time the credits rolled, the dishes were still waiting and Kell had eaten a second piece of pie despite announcing an hour earlier that he would never need food again.
Everyone else had their various families, in-laws, and obligations. Today is the meal where nobody has to do Thanksgiving correctly. We can eat barbecue and call it a holiday.
Near the edge of the yard, something enormous is hidden beneath a canvas tarp. Kell notices it immediately. “What’s that?”
I follow his stare. “Given whose yard we’re in, I assume it’s either art or a structural hazard.”
Locke hears me from across the patio. “It’s art.”
Janet glances toward the tarp. “If that thing tips over, I’m leaving before anyone decides I’m the responsible adult.”
Locke ignores her. Rachel spots us and waves. “Finally.”
“We’re four minutes late.”
“Exactly.”
I pull my leather jacket a little closer as we cross the yard. Kell, naturally, doesn’t seem bothered by the cold at all.
Kell’s attention drifts back to the tarp. Locke follows it. “After we eat.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were going to.”
Kell looks at me. “He’s enjoying this.”
“This from the man who made me wait three days to see a painting because the red wasn’t dry enough.”
“That was different.”
“Of course it was.”
Shannon reaches us before he can defend himself and hugs me, then Kell. He hugs her back without hesitation, though I still catch the faintest flicker of surprise when one of my friends treats him as though he’s always belonged here.
