9. Lucy
CHAPTER 9
LUCY
B ritt has made her feelings very clear. Pumpkin pie is a trash pie. It belongs only on Thanksgiving as a decoration, and even then, she doesn’t want it near her. The texture, the flavor–apparently it’s all wrong.
So of course we brought her a pumpkin pie as a surprise.
The second she saw it, she started fake gagging. As we chased her around the house with it, she threatened to go rub it into our beds to see how much we liked it then. The house had descended into chaos when only AJ heard the knock at the door.
Rather than telling us our guests were here so we would knock it off, she decided it would be funnier to open the door and let them witness it. Unfortunately for all parties involved, Britt chose this moment to chuck the whipped cream canister.
Jordan ducked, and in an expert feat of speed and hand-eye coordination, Tyler caught it while simultaneously balancing his dish in his other hand. We couldn’t have executed the whole stunt better if we tried.
As we settle down from our fits of hysteria–Kya is silently crying tears of laughter in the corner–I’m faced with the reality that Jordan is here. In my home. With me. I’m here and so is he, and there’s no escaping because he was invited and I live here.
I guess if it gets too awkward, I could just move.
The whipped cream stunt certainly broke the ice, and almost broke Tyler’s nose. He doesn’t mind in the slightest. Britt could throw a chainsaw at him and he’d gaze at her like she’s the Eighth Wonder of the World.
He’s been smitten for a while and is patiently waiting for her to reciprocate. Which she definitely will, eventually. But in her current state, it’s like trying to throw a lasso around a tornado–an impossible task from top to bottom.
Jordan is standing off to the side, holding his dish and grinning like a little kid. He’s wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Credit where credit is due. This boy can rock a flannel. But to be fair, every guy can rock a flannel. It’s like the universal safety shirt for men. And muscular men? Whose forearms look like they were chiseled by Michelangelo himself? Come on. At this point, I’m already wanting to sit on his lap and have those arms wrapped around me for the duration of the evening.
Then there’s his smile. I notice his dimple for the first time at this moment. God help me. How can one person be simultaneously super-hot but also endearingly cute? Does the devil have his soul? Maybe that’s why he’s so cocky. Although a soulless person wouldn’t have taken care of me like he did last night.
So there goes that theory.
I told my roommates what happened over coffee this morning, and with every detail, the cheers and “aww”s grew louder and more aggressive. By the end, I thought we were going to have a Bachelor situation on our hands. He would come over and have to give one of us the final rose.
Instead, they pinned me down on the couch and stole my phone to invite him here for me. I pretended to be angry, but secretly, it was a relief. I didn’t have to make the move. And the end result is, he’s here in my living room.
And I haven’t spoken to him yet. Whoops.
I walk across the living room, and somehow his massive smile grows bigger. His eyes are trained on me with a mischievous look that makes my knees weak. I give him a shy smile.
“Hi. Welcome to our home–”
AJ interrupts me from the kitchen. “Call it by its correct name, Lucy! Our home has a name that deserves some respect. Jordan, welcome to the Boat for short, or the Sailboat for long!”
She yelled this across the crowded living room, so everyone overheard. Kya smirks at me and chimes in. “Tell him why we call it the Sailboat, Lucy.”
My eyes narrow. But then Jordan casually drapes an arm over my shoulders and gives me a look that makes me think he has something besides the dumb name of our house on the brain. His lips are slightly turned up and his eyebrows are raised.
“Please tell me, Lucy.”
How am I supposed to resist that? “Ugh. Okay, fine. We are all captains on our teams, and captains live on boats. Happy?”
The words come out insanely fast, like I’m trying to fast forward through this moment.
Which I definitely am.
Jordan is chuckling and nodding like he’s thinking more deeply about it.
“Makes sense. Clever. Between that and the theme for this meal, I feel like this is a house that knows how to party and loves puns.”
Britt shrugs. “You’re not saying anything we don’t already know, homeboy.”
Finally, I feel myself starting to relax. I take Jordan’s dish to set it out on the table and our fingers brush, almost causing me to drop it. It feels like a mini bolt of lightning struck me where my skin met his. I look up at him, but his expression is difficult to decipher. His expression is intense and his jaw is set.
It’s just us left in the living room. He makes a slight move toward me, brushing a piece of hair from my face. His fingers linger as he trails them down my cheek.
My breath picks up and maybe I’m imagining it, but I think he’s leaning down. Tyler’s loud voice wafting in from the kitchen snaps the tension in half.
“What the hell is this?”
Jordan gives me a small smile before walking past me to see what’s happening. I follow him in a daze. Did we almost just kiss?
We find Tyler holding up a Thanksgiving-themed old lady sweater vest. It’s covered in turkeys wearing pilgrim hats. The girls are huddled together in the corner of the kitchen, doubled over with laughter. Tyler’s bewildered look grows when he holds up another one with a massive cornucopia overflowing with various Thanksgiving dishes.
“Please don’t tell me these are for us.”
I feign confusion at his response. “What’s the problem? Our wardrobes need to be on theme. I put in hundreds of man-hours scouring thrift shops for these. You’re lucky I’m indecisive, so I bought extras. Gosh, there are some real gems in here.”
I display a few more from the pile–dancing pilgrims, apple trees, and the one embroidered with the pun, “Whatever floats your gravy boat.” Jordan snags that one, and I hand the rest out. Whether by fate or the sneakiness of my friends, I also end up with a gravy pun: “You’re the gravy to my mashed potatoes.”
Sitting down around our tiny table, legs smashed together, I am blissfully happy. That also might have to do with the fact that half of my body is smushed into Jordan’s. I wouldn’t want more room even if I had the option.
We begin by having everyone explain what they made for the “Bake What Your Mama Gave Ya” theme. AJ grew up on a farm, so she made ham. Britt made corn bread as an homage to her Southern roots. Kya made almost everything else. Her mom is a professional chef, so Kya grew up in a kitchen. She made mashed potatoes, corn, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, and turkey.
My contribution is an apple pie. My parents always loved fall and we had two towering apple trees in our yard, so every year, we would have a big apple-picking day. We’d give a lot of them away, but that night, my dad and I would make a pie together. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but I loved it, and I’d give anything to do it just one more time.
The whole backstory is a bit of a downer, though, so I give an abridged explanation to the group. Too much talking about this and I’ll end up a puddle. I return to my seat with a sad smile.
Now it’s Jordan’s turn. He suddenly appears nervous. After wiping his hands on his jeans, he uncovers his dish. “Umm…so, I did a baked mac and cheese. I … uhh…”
I don’t know much about his past, but this is obviously difficult. All I want to do is comfort him. This is a rather public setting, though, so I do the only thing I can think of. Subtly reaching under the table, I give his leg a small squeeze.
It wouldn’t be my first choice when it comes to comforting gestures.
Or even my twentieth.
But his eyes dart to me for a second, and he smiles. I see his whole body relax as he starts again.
“Truthfully, I don’t have any real family recipes. I’m sure they exist—it’s just that no one ever cared to share them with me. I spent most Thanksgivings by myself because my mom was working and my dad was… not around on holidays. ”
He shakes his head.
“Anyway, boxed mac and cheese was my go-to. Then, if a janitor was around to let me into the YMCA, I would get some Funyuns from the vending machine. Don’t worry—this mac and cheese isn’t from a box, but it does have a Funyun breadcrumb topping.”
All of us girls have tears in our eyes, and he notices.
“Stop looking at me like I’m a wounded animal! I’m fine. It was what it was, and now I’m here…and wearing the sexiest vest ever sewn.”
This comment breaks through the umbrella of sadness and pity that had descended on us, which was evidently his goal. We all laugh as he sits back down. Tyler stands up and clears his throat.
“I feel very unqualified to follow that. I made these brownies because umm…my mom would make brownies for holidays. Sometimes.”
He laughs like he knows how lame this sounds, and Britt starts booing. “Boring. Get a better story. No one would ever buy the movie rights to that.”
And that is our cue to dig in.
As the dishes are passed around, I feel a little bolder. Jordan is quieter than usual, and I want him to feel okay about sharing something so vulnerable. I reach over and put my hand in his. Without looking at me, he intertwines our fingers together. His large hand engulfs mine. Again, I feel safe with him. Even in this little moment.
My hand stays there for the rest of the meal.
I don’t make any effort to pull it away.