36
Aubrey
The kitchen smells like heaven—warm spices, butter, and something sweet in the oven. Thanksgiving prep is in full swing at Mom’s house, gearing up for our traditional family dinner tomorrow.
It’s a ritual we’ve had for as long as I can remember. Every year, we completely take over the kitchen until the counters vanish under a glorious mess of mixing bowls, measuring cups, and half-used ingredients.
So far, we’re right on schedule. I’ve baked a batch of soft dinner rolls and two pies—pecan and apple—with homemade crusts and dough, of course. Because what self-respecting baker would ever use store-bought?
We’ve chopped all the vegetables, whipped up Mom’s famous sweet potato casserole and green bean casserole, and even finished the stuffing.
I swipe the back of my wrist across my forehead, leaving a streak of flour there, and lean against the counter with a satisfied sigh. “Okay, so what’s next on the list?”
Mom glances down at her notebook, flipping a page with the edge of her finger. “Cranberry sauce and getting the turkey in the brine. Then I think we’re pretty much done.”
“Check us out,” I say, grinning. “Pretty sure that’s record time for us.” I hold up my hand for a high five, and she laughs as she slaps it.
“Probably because you haven’t made your famous pumpkin pie,” she teases, side-eyeing me over the top of her reading glasses.
I smirk, shaking my head. “Will you stop bitching about the pumpkin pie?”
She gasps theatrically, hand flying to her chest. “Strawberry, it’s not Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie!
And I’m not sure why, this year of all years, you’ve decided to deprive me of my favorite dessert.
So not only is my son not coming home for the holidays, but my daughter is denying me my pumpkin pie. ”
I bump her shoulder lightly. “You’re being very dramatic right now. And you know we’re all bummed about Conrad, but like he said—training’s too intense. None of them can get leave.”
Her sigh is softer this time, threaded with something weary. “I know. It’s just upsetting. Especially since Lucy isn’t coming now either. It just won’t be the same.”
I watch her for a moment, the way her shoulders sag a little. I should tell her that Liv’s making the pumpkin pie this year—that she wanted to, since it’s her first Thanksgiving with us—but I hold it back. I want to see that look of surprise on Mom’s face tomorrow.
I clear my throat and reach for the bag of cranberries. “How about I start the sauce while you get the turkey ready for the brine?”
Mom gives me a small, tired smile. “Deal.”
I pour the berries into the saucepan, the first few bouncing and rolling across the counter before Mom snatches one mid-escape with a laugh.
The soft pop of cranberries meeting the heat fills the air, mingling with the smell of sugar and citrus, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like it always has—busy, warm, and safe.
A few hours later, after finishing the cooking and waging war on the mountain of dishes we created, we finally collapse onto the stools at the kitchen island.
Our aprons are still tied around our waists, spattered with flour and streaked with sauce, though the counters now gleam as if we were never here at all.
Mom exhales and leans back in her chair. “Thank you for your help,” she says, swirling her wine before taking a sip. “You know I always appreciate you coming here every year.”
“Of course,” I reply. “There’s nowhere else I’d be on Thanksgiving Eve.”
Her expression softens. I can see the emotion in her face—the way her eyes linger on me for a second too long. She loves this tradition, the two of us cooking up a storm together, as much as I do.
The silence stretches before she looks at me and says, far too casually, “So, any exciting dating news I should know about?”
I freeze for a fraction of a second. “Uh—no,” I manage, recovering quickly. “Nothing I can think of.”
Because, yes, there’s definitely news—big news—but I’m nowhere near ready to tell her about me and Trent yet.
Mom tilts her head, unconvinced. “Shame things didn’t work out with Justin,” she says. “He’s a nice boy.”
“Can’t force chemistry, Mom,” I say, shrugging.
“No, you cannot,” she agrees, wagging her finger. “There has to be good sexual chemistry from the start.”
I blink. “I wasn’t talking about sexual chemistry. I just meant chemistry in general.”
“Oh well, yes, of course.” She waves her hand dismissively, then leans in conspiratorially. “But you need that angst, that desire, that attraction from the get-go. It’s hard to come by, but when you find it, you have to grab it with both hands and hold on tight.”
I stare at her, eyebrows raised. “Uh-huh.”
“Though sometimes,” she continues, lowering her voice like she’s sharing the world’s most scandalous secret, “you can have all that, and when it comes down to it, they have no clue what they’re doing. Couldn’t tell your clit from your belly button if they were being held at gunpoint.”
“Mom!”
“What?” she says, feigning innocence, though the corner of her mouth twitches with amusement.
“I’ve always said that sex is important, Strawberry.
You don’t have to test it out with everyone, but you should make sure you’re getting just as much from it as the other person.
Your pleasure matters too.” She punctuates the thought with another sip of wine and a shrug.
“If your partner’s a dud and isn’t willing to learn, then move the fuck on. ”
“Okay, well… I can assure you—not that I’m sure why I’m even entertaining this conversation—but I’m very good at expressing myself when in the throes of passion. So, thank you for your… very unnecessary advice.”
Mom leans back, crossing her arms, a satisfied gleam in her eyes. “As your mother—and as a woman—it’s my job to give you all the tools and the confidence, sweetheart.”
I groan, burying my face in my hands for a moment before peeking through my fingers at her. “Right. Tools and confidence. Got it.”
She laughs, lifting her glass in a mock toast. “Exactly. You’re welcome.”
I grab my bag off the stool and sling it over my shoulder. “Okay, I think that’s enough life advice for one evening.”
Mom chuckles, standing and brushing crumbs from her apron. We head for the front door. I pull it open while she hums softly behind me.
“So, who’s bringing Trent tomorrow?” she says casually.
“I’m picking him up.”
Mom nods once, her eyes flicking up for a split second with that sharp, unreadable look. Then just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by her usual calm expression.
“Right,” she says lightly. “I see.”
I grin and step closer, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks for everything today, Mom. Seriously.”
She squeezes me back, smiling. “Of course, Strawberry. Drive safe, okay?”
“I will.” I pull back, swinging my bag over my shoulder again, and head to the car.
Once I’m inside and buckled up, I dig my phone out of my bag and type a quick message.
Me: Leaving mom’s now. Can’t wait to see you.
Trent: Drive safely baby.
I smile to myself, slipping my phone back into my bag, and start the engine, easing out of the driveway and onto the street.
My thoughts drift back to Mom’s questions about my dating life, and I realize I’m not going to be able to keep this secret much longer. At this point, I’m holding back more out of fear than anything else.
It’s not that Trent hasn’t shown me how much he cares. But there’s still a lingering fear—what if the other shoe drops? What if he changes his mind? It’s that thought that keeps me from telling anyone about us.
I know I need to trust our relationship sooner rather than later, but the thought of letting go of that fear terrifies me—what if everything changes the moment people find out about us?
The streetlights pass over the windshield, one by one, and I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. For now, all I can do is drive forward and hope that the rest will figure itself out.