Chapter 33
TATUM
The familiar sight of my childhood home appears through the windshield as Brandon turns onto my street.
The two-story colonial with its white shutters and expansive porch sits nestled among tall oak trees, their branches now bare against the November sky.
My mom’s collection of festive gourds and mini pumpkins adorns the porch steps, a cheerful welcome for Thanksgiving.
“Home sweet home,” I murmur, stealing a glance at Brandon in the driver’s seat.
I haven’t been back for a visit since I left for the fall semester.
Only a month ago, I would’ve bet money on Ethan being the one to accompany me, but I can’t say I’m disappointed it’s not.
There’s no worry about how Brandon will feel about my parents; no fretting over whether my family will accept him.
They’ve always had a soft spot for Brandon, and a strange sense of relief comes with being back here with him again, like nothing ever changed.
Only it has.
Things have changed between us.
It’s been a month since my friends with benefits proposal, and as much as I’m afraid to admit it, being with Brandon has completely transformed my perspective on pretty much everything—what I want in a future, how I see him, how I see myself.
He smiles, his profile relaxed as he navigates the car into the driveway, and the day he picked me up for fall semester feels like forever ago.
He shifts the car in park and turns to me. “Your mom still make those amazing pumpkin cinnamon rolls for Thanksgiving morning?”
I roll my eyes, stifling a laugh as I unbuckle my seatbelt. “They’re your favorite, and she knows you’re coming, so yes.”
We walk up the sidewalk toward the front door, our hands brushing once, twice, and for a split second, I wonder if he might take mine.
The thought barely forms before I shut it down.
We’re friends. Friends with benefits, nothing more.
I made that perfectly clear at the start of our arrangement, and he agreed, no matter what my foolish heart is starting to hope for.
I barely get the key to the lock when the door swings open. My mom stands there in her favorite rust-colored cardigan, eyes bright as they land on us. “Brandon!” she exclaims, practically pulling him into a hug before I can even step inside. “Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you! Come in, come in!”
We shuffle into the entryway, the familiar scent of cinnamon and roasting turkey surrounding us. Dad emerges from the living room, remote in hand, his face breaking into a wide smile.
“There he is!” Dad booms, clapping Brandon on the shoulder. “Perfect timing, son. Patriots and Cowboys kick off in twenty. I’ve got your favorite spot on the couch all ready.”
I give my head a little shake, grinning. “You’d think he’s your guest, not mine.”
“Come on,” Brandon says to me. “It’s the Patriots.”
I watch as they fall into an easy conversation about standings and stats, and the familiarity of it makes something twist inside my chest.
Mom finally turns to hug me, but when she pulls away, her eyes dart back to where I’m staring at Brandon, and she clears her throat. “Want to help me with the cinnamon rolls?” she asks, tilting her head toward the kitchen. “The first batch is cooling and ready for frosting.”
“Sure.” I follow her into the kitchen, inhaling deeply as the warm scent of cinnamon and sugar envelops me.
The rolls sit on cooling racks, golden-brown and perfect, just waiting for the cream cheese frosting that’s already prepared in a bowl.
Mom hands me a spatula while she stirs something on the stove. “I’m so glad you brought Brandon home,” she says, pausing to study me. “I’ll admit, I thought you might bring Ethan despite telling me you had broken things off. You seemed so determined to make that work.”
I hum noncommittally, focusing on the rolls. “Brandon and I always spend holidays together, and trust me, what I had with Ethan is over.”
Especially now that I see how it could be.
I flick a glance at Brandon, grateful for the open floorplan that allows me to eye him while I work.
He catches me watching him and winks.
I bite my lip, when Mom bangs her spoon against the pot and I jump. Setting it down, she comes to my side and leans her hip against the counter. “There’s something different between you two. Some kind of shift.”
I shrug, willing the heat in my cheeks to fade, seeing as how she’s already reading me like a book. “I don’t know what you mean. We’re the same Tate and Brandon as always,” I say.
“So, I’m imagining it?”
I glance up at her, lips parting, a weak excuse on the tip of my tongue when a hand darts out, snagging a frosted roll from the dish. “Hey!” I protest, whacking the back of Brandon’s hand with the frosting-coated spatula.
“Sorry. Couldn’t wait.” He grins, and my heart kicks as he very slowly licks the frosting from the back of his hand.
I swallow; the breath lodged in my throat. Because I know exactly what that mouth can do.
“Grab me one, too, will ya?” my dad calls out, breaking me from my hormone-induced trance.
“Will do, Mr. Fletcher,” Brandon drawls, the corners of his lips tipping as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I watch as he snags another roll and puts it on a plate for my father, then disappears back into the living room.
Blinking, I glance over at my mom, who plucks the spatula from my hand with a smile. “Nothing’s changed, huh?”
The aroma of roast turkey, sage stuffing, and freshly baked rolls fills the dining room as we gather around the table.
Mom’s outdone herself again—crystal glasses catching the light from her prized candelabra, the good China set out for the occasion, and a centerpiece of russet and gold chrysanthemums framing the feast.
“Brandon, would you do the honors?” Dad asks, passing him the carving knife.
“Be careful,” I tease. “Last time you carved a turkey, you nearly took off a finger.”
Brandon shoots me a mock-offended look. “That was freshman year of high school, and it was a ham, not a turkey.”
“Actually,” Mom chimes in, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “it was sophomore year, and Tatum had to drive you to urgent care for three stitches.”
“Et tu, Mrs. Fletcher?” Brandon clutches his chest dramatically before expertly slicing into the golden-brown bird. “I’ll have you know my knife skills have improved considerably since then.”
“That’s not saying much,” I snort, reaching for the mashed potatoes.
Dad laughs, passing Brandon the serving platter. “Remember when she tried to teach you how to make pancakes, son? What was it you said about the smoke alarm?”
“That it doubles as a cooking timer,” Brandon and I answer in unison, then burst into laughter.
Thirty minutes later, the conversation flows as easily as the wine Dad keeps pouring.
Stories weave in and out—some I’ve heard a hundred times, others new and embellished with each retelling.
Brandon fits seamlessly into it all, finishing my parents’ sentences, and knowing exactly when to laugh or add his own commentary.
“And then,” Mom continues through a fit of giggles, recounting my disastrous junior high talent show performance, “she dropped her baton, and it rolled right off the stage!”
“Into Principal Hendrick’s lap,” Brandon adds, grinning at me across the table. “I thought Tate was going to melt into the floor.”
“I still have nightmares about that stupid talent show,” I grumble, through a bite of my pie.
Brandon’s foot nudges mine under the table, and I feel a jolt in my bones. “Hey, at least you had the guts to get up there. That’s more than most people can say.”
“That’s our Tatum,” Dad says, raising his glass. “Always diving in headfirst, even if the water’s shallow.”
“Or nonexistent,” Mom adds with a wink.
I roll my eyes. “Are you all done ganging up on me, or should I have my dessert in the kitchen?”
“We tease you because we love you,” Brandon says, his voice softening as his eyes meet mine. “Your fearlessness is one of the things I’ve always admired most about you.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words, and for a brief, dizzying moment, I imagine what it would be like if Brandon were here as more than my friend—as my actual boyfriend. What would change? We already act like we’re together in so many ways.
“Oh, and don’t forget the time Tatum tried to climb that oak tree in the backyard to rescue Mrs. Peterson’s cat,” Mom says, gesturing with her fork. “She got stuck up there for two hours!”
“It was really high up, and I was only eleven!” I protest, but I’m laughing, too. “And that cat was perfectly capable of getting down on its own.”
“Which is exactly what it did,” Brandon adds, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Left you stranded while it sauntered away.”
Dad nearly chokes on his wine. “I remember coming home just as you started to climb up after her because she was too scared to come down.”
“My knight in shining armor,” I drawl, but there’s no bite to it. The truth is, Brandon has always been there to rescue me.
Even with Ethan.
Even after I pushed him away.
Brandon winks at me, like he can see straight through my thoughts, and my heart gives a helpless little flip.
Here I am, with my best friend in a situation I created, reading into every touch, every glance, like an idiot who should know better.
But it’s too late. Because my mother’s right.
Things have changed. Somewhere between our late-night rendezvous, the teasing, and the almosts, I went and did the one thing I swore I wouldn’t.
I caught feelings.