Chapter 14
Afew weeks later, the kitchen smelled like butter before the sun was even fully up.
Demarien stood at the stove in an old flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, smiling happily at a pot of gravy.
Behind him, every counter in the kitchen had disappeared under bowls, cutting boards, pie tins, and handwritten recipe cards stained with decades of use.
Joe walked in carrying a sack of potatoes against his chest. “You ordered enough potatoes to feed the Marines.”
Demarien didn’t look away from the gravy. “Felix eats mashed potatoes like it’s a competitive event.”
“How much can he really eat? He’s what? Five foot two?”
“And dangerous when it comes to mashed potatoes.”
Joe laughed under his breath and dumped the potatoes into the sink. The faucet squealed to life. Outside, cold November rain tapped softly against the windows, but inside, the kitchen was warm enough to fog them.
Demarien tasted the gravy from a wooden spoon, frowned deeply, then added more pepper with the concentration of a chemist stabilizing explosives. Gravy was arguably the most important dish at an American Thanksgiving dinner.
Joe watched him for a second. “You know, nobody would notice if this stuff came from a jar.”
Demarien turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “I would notice.”
“Right. Of course.”
“And Aunt Dahlia would rise from the dead and haunt this house.”
“That’s fair.” Joe nodded in agreement. “She passed down her recipes for a reason.”
For a while, they worked in comfortable silence. Joe peeled potatoes while Demarien basted the turkey, the skin already turning glossy and brown. A football game murmured from the small television hanging in the corner.
Every few minutes, Demarien checked the turkey like an anxious parent.
“You’ve opened that oven fourteen times,” his dad said.
“Temperature management.”
“You’re emotionally supporting the bird.”
Demarien pointed the baster at him. “Don’t start with me, young man.”
Joe grinned and kept peeling. “I’ve missed seeing you cook, son.”
The rhythm of it settled around them — knives against cutting boards, cabinet doors opening and shutting, the hiss of something hitting hot butter.
It reminded Demarien of being ten years old, sitting on the counter, stealing black olives while Dahlia, Abuela, and his dad cooked all day.
They always had holiday dinners at Dahlia’s, but Joe did his best to help.
The store was rarely closed, so those holiday cooking marathons were some of Demarien’s favorites.
Joe reached for a bowl on the top shelf and winced almost imperceptibly.
Demarien caught it anyway. “Your shoulder bothering you?”
“I’m old. Everything bothers me.”
“You should sit down and watch television. Let me handle all this. You didn’t need to come over this early.”
“And miss my annual six a.m. argument with the stuffing?”
Demarien snorted. “Who’s winning?”
Joe glanced at the massive bowl beside him. “Current stalemate.”
Demarien dried his hands and moved beside him. “Here. Sit down for five minutes.”
“I don’t need—”
“You’re hurting.”
Joe opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. That alone told Demarien the shoulder must really hurt. His father settled into one of the kitchen chairs with a theatrical sigh.
“Look at this,” Joe muttered. “Exiled by my own son.”
“You’re impossible.” Demarien laughed and kissed the top of his dad’s head. He poured him a cup of coffee, then went back to work.
“I’m experienced.”
“We’ll say that if it makes you feel better.” Demarien continued basting the turkey while Joe watched with narrowed eyes.
“Not too much,” he warned.
“I know how to baste a turkey. You’re the one who stabs it wrong.”
Joe looked confused. “There’s a wrong way to stab a turkey?”
“There absolutely is.”
His dad laughed again, shaking his head. “You know, I bet normal people just eat sandwiches on holidays.”
“Normal people are cowards.”
The rain picked up outside. Somewhere upstairs, a floor creaked as the others started waking up one by one.
A few of Boone and Patrick’s buddies were the unofficial first guests of the inn, coming to visit for the holiday.
Plus, Puck and Felix’s places weren’t habitable yet, so the old house was full of people. Demarien loved it.
Joe watched him quietly for a moment while he worked.
“You’ve gotten good at this,” his dad said eventually.
“At cooking?”
“At everything.”
Demarien paused. A year ago, he’d been living hours away, missing birthdays, dodging phone calls, buried in work he hated. Thanksgiving had been one of the restaurant’s busiest days. The best he could manage was a Friendsgiving dinner the weekend before.
Now he stood barefoot in his childhood kitchen wearing one of Dahlia’s old aprons that read “Kiss the Cook and Bring Wine.”
He swallowed once before answering lightly, “Well. Somebody’s gotta step up. I’ve always wanted to cook a Thanksgiving meal.”
Joe smiled faintly into his coffee mug. “Your mom always said this was the best part,” he said.
“The chaos?”
“No. Before everybody gets here.” He gestured vaguely around the kitchen. “Just… this.”
Demarien looked around, too. The sink full of potato peels. Flour on the counter. The smell of sage and onions and coffee. The turkey crackling softly in the oven. Rain against the windows. His dad sitting there in the spot he’d occupied every Thanksgiving morning for twenty-plus years.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think she was right.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then the smoke alarm exploded into noise.
Demarien shot upright. “The rolls!”
Joe burst out laughing as his son lunged for the oven mitts, swearing under his breath, while the kitchen instantly dissolved into chaos.
An hour later, Puck and Felix came in, rubbing their eyes. “Why isn’t the dog show on?” Puck asked.
“It hasn’t started yet.” Felix shoved Puck’s arm. “Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade first. Remember?”
“Oh yeah.”
Demarien pointed to the table where a selection of fruit and different types of toast were spread out. “Coffee’s on the counter. Grab some breakfast and watch the parade in the entertainment room. Dad wants football on in here.”
“He’s so bossy.” Puck sniffed and loaded his plate up.
“Do you need our help with anything?” Felix asked, ever the polite one.
“Nope. Dad and I have it covered.”
The back door opened, and Boone and Patrick came in, shaking off rain. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Demarien leaned into Boone, ignoring how wet the man was, and kissed him. “In a little while, will you help me set the table? You’ll know where your friends will be more comfortable sitting.”
“We will,” Patrick answered for him, leaning in for a kiss too.
Demarien shoved him away and rolled his eyes.
Boone ignored his friend’s antics. “That’s a good idea. We can’t put Patrick next to the thermostat. Last year, he turned the heat up to eighty-three because his knees were ‘receiving messages from the cold.’”
“They were receiving messages,” Patrick argued, looking affronted. “Painful ones.”
“They were receiving attention,” Boone shot back.
Puck wrapped an arm around Felix. “Let’s leave before we get volunteered to do anything.”
“I’ll join you, if you don’t mind. They don’t appreciate me here.” Patrick sniffed and followed the omegas from the kitchen.
Boone snickered, then grabbed his phone when it buzzed. His face paled as he read a text.
Demarien gave him a concerned look. “What’s wrong?”
“My parents are in Myrtlewood Bay,” he said, looking dazed. “Right now. They want to join us for dinner.”
Demarien shrugged. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
Joe snorted and kept his eyes on the television.
Boone winced. “They aren’t the warmest people in the world.”
“They’re your parents,” Demarien argued. “They should be here.”
Boone wrapped his arms around Demarien from behind and buried his face in the crook where the omega’s neck met his shoulder. “Promise you’ll still love me after they leave?”
Demarien smirked and wiggled back against his alpha. “Dinner is at five.”
At five on the dot, Abuela sat at the head of the table, wearing a sweatshirt that said "Blessed" and holding a wooden spoon like a judge’s gavel. Sit down before I die of hunger, she announced in Spanish.
Boone’s mother pursed her lips, looking vaguely displeased. “What did she say?”
Felix gave a nervous laugh from where he sat between Abuela and Puck. “She said ‘Sit down, please.’”
Puck sniffed, wiping his eyes. “I can’t believe the little dachshund didn’t win. He tried so hard.” His voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing quietly.
Mia, one of Boone’s friends, looked amused, eyes glinting with mischief. “He simply wasn’t as good as the lab was.”
Puck looked up, furious. “Take that back, right now.”
Sit down right now, damn it. Abuela banged her wooden spoon.
Chairs scraped as everyone sat, easily fitting around the extra-large dining table in the formal dining room. The heavy piece of furniture had been there for two generations now, and Demarien was happy it hadn’t been one of the antiques that were stolen.”
Boone entered carrying the turkey, and everyone applauded. Well, except for his parents. Demarien wasn’t sure why, but they gave him a bad feeling. Lynda was polite, but clearly uncomfortable, and Perry just looked bored. He could just have resting bitch face, but Demarien thought it was more.
The turkey was placed in the center of the table like a sacred offering. For exactly eight seconds, the group achieved silence as everyone began dishing up their plates.
Then Mia froze, looking horrified. “Wait. Where are the rolls? There should be rolls, right?”
Every head turned to Demarien—a horrible pause. In the kitchen, the smoke alarm began beeping.
“Oh no,” Joe whispered. “That’s the third try today.”
Demarien ran into the kitchen, and a second later, everyone heard, “It’s fine.”
Then, a few minutes later: “Okay, it’s medium fine.”
Another minute later: “Do we even really need rolls?”
Abuela stood up with the weary strength of a woman who had raised four children and once fought a raccoon with a broom.