31. First Thankful Taste Of Home
First Thankful Taste Of Home
~WILLA~
T he oven timer beeps just as I ease the turkey onto the stovetop, twenty-two pounds of golden-brown perfection that fills the kitchen with the scent of rosemary and butter.
Steam rises from the bird in delicate wisps, and I breathe it in, letting the familiar smell of sage and thyme calm my racing heart. The kitchen looks like a bomb went off, but a productive bomb—the kind that leaves behind green bean casserole and sweet potato pie instead of destruction.
Every burner on the stove has been working overtime, pots and pans rotating through like some complicated dance I've been choreographing since dawn.
I wipe my hands on the apron Cole bought me last week, the one with 'Queen of the Kitchen' embroidered across the front in ridiculous cursive.
He'd presented it with such seriousness that I couldn't tell if it was a joke or not, but the way his ears turned pink when I actually wore it told me everything.
Now it's streaked with flour and splattered with cranberry sauce, battle scars from a day spent trying to create something I've never had.
That's the thing about growing up in a pack that treats you like furniture—you miss out on things other people take for granted.
Thanksgiving was just another Thursday in Iron Ridge, with Blake insisting that "successful packs don't take breaks for arbitrary holidays." I'd spend the day cleaning while he and his inner circle worked deals, the smell of other families' dinners drifting through windows like a taunt.
But not today. Today, I woke up at five in the morning with a determination that surprised me.
Today, I commandeered this kitchen like it was my personal kingdom, following recipes from the cookbook River's mother left behind, the pages yellowed and splattered with evidence of holidays past.
Today, I'm creating something from nothing but stubbornness and a desperate need to give these men who've given me everything a memory worth keeping.
The kitchen tells the story of my ambition and inexperience in equal measure. Mixing bowls tower in the sink like a precarious skyline, each one bearing the remnants of a different dish.
Potato peels overflow from the trash can because I definitely underestimated how many potatoes six people could eat. The cookbook lies open on the counter, held flat by a stick of butter, turned to a pie recipe that I followed with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
Flour dusts most surfaces despite my best efforts, and there's definitely stuffing stuck to the ceiling from an incident I'm choosing not to think about.
But the counters— God, the counters are beautiful in their chaos.
The green bean casserole bubbles gently, those crispy onions on top golden and perfect.
Mashed potatoes wait in Cole's largest pot, whipped with enough butter and cream to cause a cardiac event.
The sweet potato pie cools on a rack, its surface only slightly cracked because I might have opened the oven door too many times to check on it.
Gravy simmers on the back burner, and I've tasted it so many times I've lost all sense of whether it needs more salt.
The cranberry sauce gave me the most trouble.
Who knew something so simple could be so vindictive?
The first batch burned. The second refused to gel.
The third looked perfect until I added orange zest with the enthusiasm of someone who didn't understand that a little goes a long way.
The fourth batch, currently chilling in the fridge, might actually be edible.
Maybe .
Through the window, I catch the dust cloud that signals their return before I hear the engines.
Two trucks today—they'd split up this morning for various errands, leaving me with the perfect opportunity to execute this plan.
My stomach flips with a combination of excitement and terror.
What if they think this is too much? What if I've overstepped? What if the turkey is dry or the stuffing is bland or ? —
The rumble of engines cuts off my spiral. Truck doors slam, and I hear Austin's voice carrying across the yard, something about Luna's check-up going well. My hands automatically smooth down the apron, tuck loose strands of hair behind my ears.
I grab the turkey platter with hands that definitely aren't steady and position myself where the afternoon light from the window will hit just right.
The front door opens with its familiar creak, and Austin enters first, Luna balanced on his hip in a pink dress that's already sporting suspicious stains. She lights up when she sees me, hands reaching with that baby determination that suggests she thinks she can fly if she wants it badly enough.
"There's our girl," Austin starts to say, then stops dead in his tracks. His hazel eyes go wide, tracking from the turkey in my hands to the feast spread across every available surface. "What in the?—"
River nearly walks into Austin's back, grumbling something about doorways not being parking spots before he too freezes.
Cole and Mavi crowd in behind them, and for a moment, they all just stand there, staring at the kitchen like they've walked into the wrong house.
The silence stretches long enough that my arms start to ache from holding the turkey platter.
Luna breaks it with a delighted shriek, pointing at the golden bird like it's the most amazing thing she's ever seen.
Her enthusiasm seems to snap the men out of their trance.
"Is that—" Cole's voice comes out rough. He clears his throat, tries again. "Willa, did you cook all this?"
I shift my weight, suddenly feeling exposed despite the armor of my apron.
"Did you all forget what today is?"
They exchange looks—the kind of guilty, caught-with-their-hands-in-the-cookie-jar expressions that would be comical if my heart wasn't lodged somewhere in my throat.
"Thanksgiving," River says slowly, like he's remembering the word from a foreign language class. "Today's Thanksgiving."
"Shit," Mavi mutters, running a hand through his hair. "I saw the date this morning and it didn't even register."
"Everything's open in town," Cole adds, something like wonder creeping into his voice. "Bank, post office, even the diner. Sweetwater just... doesn't really do Thanksgiving. Never has, least not since I've lived here."
"We used to," Austin says quietly, shifting Luna to his other hip. "When Mom was alive. But after..." He trails off, and the others nod, understanding passing between them in that wordless way packs have.
I set the turkey down carefully on the trivets I'd arranged earlier, my movements deliberate to hide the way their admission makes my chest ache.
"I've never really celebrated either. In my old pack, holidays were just..
. regular days. Everyone worked. No one cooked special meals or gathered around tables or—" My voice catches, and I have to pause, pretending to adjust the platter.
"But I wanted to. Always wanted to. So when you all had errands today, I thought maybe I could. .."
"You did all this yourself?" Cole steps further into the kitchen, his steel-gray eyes taking in every dish, every detail. "Willa, this must have taken all day."
"Started at five," I admit, twisting my hands in the apron. "The turkey took forever, and I might have burned the first batch of cranberry sauce. Actually, the first three batches. And there's stuffing on the ceiling that I couldn't reach, and I'm pretty sure I used every dish we own, but?—"
"It's perfect," River interrupts, his voice thick with something I can't name. "It's absolutely perfect."
Luna makes another grab for me, and Austin finally crosses the kitchen to hand her over.
She immediately goes for my hair, probably drawn by the smell of food that's seeped into every part of me.
"Hi, star girl," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. "Did you have a good check-up? Tell me all about it while I finish getting dinner ready."
She babbles enthusiastically, syllables that might be words or might just be baby enthusiasm for the feast before her. The men still seem frozen by the doorway, and I can feel their eyes following my movements as I bounce Luna gently.
"Well?" I aim for lightness, though my voice wavers. "Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to wash up for dinner? Everything's ready, and Luna's probably starving. Growing girls need their turkey."
That breaks the spell.
They scatter like startled deer—River heading for the downstairs bathroom, Mavi taking the stairs two at a time, Cole moving to help Austin wash Luna's hands at the kitchen sink.
The sudden bustle of activity makes the kitchen feel alive in a way it hasn't all day, when it was just me and my determination and the ghosts of holidays never celebrated.
"You didn't have to do this," Cole says quietly as he runs a soft cloth over Luna's face. She protests the cleaning with sounds of outrage that make Austin chuckle. "But I'm glad you did."
"Someone should cook for you all," I say, focusing on Luna's grabby hands rather than the weight of his gaze. "You take care of everyone else. Someone should take care of you too."
The look that passes between Cole and Austin makes my cheeks heat, but before either can respond, River's calling from the dining room about needing help with something, and the moment passes.
But the warmth of it lingers, settling into my bones like the satisfaction of a perfectly roasted turkey.
After all, this is what holidays are supposed to feel like.
Inviting warmth in our loving home.
The dining table looks nothing like the magazine spreads I used to flip through at the grocery store, but somehow that makes it better.
I arrange the last fork—part of a set Cole inherited from his parents that doesn't match anything else we own—and step back to survey my handiwork. Mismatched plates create a rainbow of ceramic across the dark wood, some chipped at the edges, others faded from decades of use.