Chapter 18 Max #2
Eli polishes off the last bite of his cookie, wipes his hands on his sweats, and suddenly spins his laptop around. “Okay. If we can’t go home for Thanksgiving, we make Thanksgiving come to us.”
I arch a brow. “What does that even mean?”
“It means…” He wiggles his fingers dramatically over the trackpad. “Delivery service. I bet there’s at least one grocery store open. We get ingredients, I cook. Boom—tiny feast.”
“You cook?” I ask, skeptical.
“Please.” He smirks, already scrolling through options. “I’m the casserole king. Ask anyone in my family. Turkey’s a no-go because we’d be eating at Christmas, but stuffing? Mashed potatoes? Maybe some chicken, rolls, green beans—I can whip up a spread. You’ll see.”
I should roll my eyes and tell him to stop being ridiculous, but something in my chest tugs instead. He’s so damn earnest, so determined to make this day into something when I’d written it off before it even started.
“Found one,” he announces triumphantly, clicking away. “They’ll bring it to the dorm. We’re saved.”
“Saved?” I echo dryly.
“Saved from spending Thanksgiving eating protein bars and glaring at each other.”
I huff a laugh. “That was my plan.”
“Well,” he says, flashing that grin, “my plan is better.”
He leans back, satisfied, as if the world hasn’t just tilted a little under me. As if this isn’t the first time in years someone’s tried to make a holiday mean something to me.
The delivery guy shows up an hour later, arms full of grocery bags, and Eli practically bounces down the hall to meet him. By the time we haul everything into the communal kitchen, he’s humming under his breath, already dividing ingredients akin to a general preparing for battle.
“Okay,” he says, shoving a bag of potatoes into my arms. “You’re on peeling duty. Don’t screw it up.”
I lift a brow. “You’re bossy.”
“Efficient,” he corrects, already unpacking rolls and a pack of chicken breasts. “Big difference.”
The kitchen smells of garlic and butter within minutes, steam fogging the windows as snow glows white beyond the glass. Eli’s darting from the stove to the counter, chattering the whole time, and I’m stuck peeling potatoes with a dull paring knife. Somehow, it’s not as terrible as it should be.
He hums along to some Christmas playlist he pulled up on his phone, flour dusting his shirt, hair sticking up in a way that makes my chest ache. When he leans over to steal one of the rolls off the tray, I flick a bit of potato peel at him.
“Hey!” he protests, grinning. “Sabotage is not in the holiday spirit.”
“You’re eating half the food before it’s cooked.”
“Quality control,” he shoots back, stuffing the roll into his mouth. His smile around it is so smug, I can’t help shaking my head.
It’s ridiculous. Messy. Completely domestic. And for the first time in years, it almost feels like a holiday.
I’m peeling the last potato when I realize Eli’s gone quiet—too quiet.
I glance up just in time to see him grab the wooden spoon, press it to his lips like a microphone, and belt out, “IIIIII’M DREAMING OF A WHIIIIIITE THANKSGIVING—”
The notes are bad. Comically bad. He knows it too, because he hams it up, leaning against the counter with his eyes closed as though he’s performing to a sold-out arena.
When he opens them again, he points the spoon at me. “C’mon, Calder, join me for the chorus!”
I snort, shaking my head. “Absolutely not.”
He gasps, clutching his chest in mock offense. “You’d deny the people this holiday duet?”
“There are no people.”
“There’s me,” he fires back, and then he’s circling the counter, spoon still at his mouth, singing dramatically out of tune while wagging his eyebrows at me.
It’s silly. It’s over the top. And then—God help me—I’m laughing. Not the quiet kind I usually let slip when he gets under my skin. A real laugh. Deep, rolling, unstoppable. My chest hurts, my eyes water, and I have to brace a hand on the counter to keep from doubling over.
Eli beams as though he just won the lottery. “That’s it. That’s the sound I was aiming for.”
I shake my head, wiping at my eyes, still laughing. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely talented,” he corrects, striking one last pose with his spoon mic before tossing it into the sink. “You’re welcome.”
And damn it all, I can’t stop smiling. The laughter takes a minute to fade. I’m still catching my breath, cheeks damp from tears, chest aching in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
Eli’s watching me. His grin softens as he leans against the counter, flour still dusting his shirt, hair wild.
“You should laugh like that more,” he says quietly.
I blink, caught off guard, the smile still tugging at my mouth even as my chest tightens. “Don’t push your luck.”
He shrugs, but there’s warmth in his eyes, like he’s tucking the sound away for himself. Like my happiness matters to him.
The kitchen feels quieter after that, calmer, even as the oven hums and steam curls up from the pots. Eli stirs the green beans with an easy sway, humming off-key again, but quieter this time. And I can’t stop thinking that maybe this doesn’t feel like something I have to brace against.
It feels…good. Safe.
Dangerously so.