Thirteen
“Happy Friendsgiving!” Robin met Daphne at the door with a burst of energy and a cloud of the most heavenly smells drifting out into the hallway of Gillian’s luxury apartment building. “Come on in.”
She hugged Robin hello, then allowed her to take her coat, careful of the flowers she carried wrapped in paper and twine.
Tegan bounded over and hugged her, too. “I’m glad you joined us.”
“I’m glad you have room in your traditions for new folks.”
“This is only my second Friendsgiving,” Tegan admitted. “I still feel pretty new.”
“No way.” Daphne glanced past her to where Brooke stood at the stove, sneaking a taste of something in a soup pot. “I figured you two had been together ages.”
Tegan shook her head. “Officially, a year and three weeks.”
“Unofficially,” Robin whispered, “it’s been about six months longer than that.”
“Not our story to tell.” Sawyer appeared and winked at Daphne as they steered Robin away.
“And for what it’s worth, this is my first Friendsgiving in a couple years, though I was a founding member of the tradition.
I was kind of the prodigal of the group until someone recently gave me very good reasons to stick around. ”
“And that is my story to tell,” Robin cut back in.
“For crying out loud, let her through the door,” Gillian called, and the crowds parted to reveal her standing in the center of the room like some glorious ringmaster.
She’d dressed down in navy blue leggings that hugged her hips before falling loosely around her legs, along with a pristine white T-shirt under a red and blue Bills flannel she’d buttoned only halfway up.
She wore her hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow managed to not look messy at all with two soft tendrils spiraling down near each temple.
Damn it. How could someone who rocked a suit or a pencil skirt also manage to look perfect in flannel and yoga pants? It wasn’t fair, and Daphne silently registered that complaint with the universe before extending the bouquet in her hand. “Thank you for having me.”
“Wow, these are beautiful.” Gillian accepted the blend of sunflowers and burgundy dahlias. “I can’t believe you found such vibrant, fresh flowers this time of year.”
“I saw them at the Lexington Co-op, and even though I knew you probably already had your centerpieces meticulously coordinated, I grabbed them on impulse. They spoke to my mood about being included in this wonderful event. Sunshine and a deep warmth with a hint of red for the challenge neither one of us can resist.”
“Aw geez, Daphne.” Sawyer laughed. “Way to break the curve on hostess gifts. Robin and I brought ice.”
“It’s what she asked us to bring.” Robin shrugged. “It’s always what you ask the people who can’t cook to bring.”
Tegan laughed. “I usually bring napkins or paper plates to the picnics, but Gillian wouldn’t be caught dead with a paper napkin on her table, so once we move inside for the colder months, I bank shot on Brooke’s baking talents and pretend like the garlic bread came from both of us.”
“It did.” Brooke smiled at her. “You helped by keeping me entertained while it baked.”
“How’d you do that, Teegs?” Robin asked with a waggle of her eyebrows. “How long does bread take to bake? Twenty-five minutes or so? Seems like about long enough for—”
Brooke put her hand over Robin’s mouth, then pulled it back quickly. “Ew, she licked me.”
Robin shrugged. “What’d you expect? You put something that close to my tongue, I’m gonna lick it.”
“Can verify,” Sawyer said with a grin. “Big fan of that trait.”
“Okay, okay,” Gillian cut back in. “So much for hoping you’d all be on your best behavior when we have company.”
“Who’s company?” Daphne made a point of looking around. “Is it me? Am I company? If so, I expect you all to be on your worst behavior.”
“Don’t even joke about such things around Robin and Sawyer,” Gillian said. “They’re prone to anarchy unless you give them a job to focus on.”
“What, like a heist?” Daphne asked. “Or a hustle?”
“Oh God, you’re on their team, aren’t you?” Gillian shook her head. “I meant like a drink. Would you like someone to get you a drink?”
“Makes more sense,” Daphne said. “Do you have like a little menu of seasonal cocktails printed on cardstock somewhere?”
“Of course.” Gillian reached behind her to pick one up off the bar separating her kitchen from her dining area.
“Seriously? I was being sarcastic.” She held up the menu for the others, like somehow, they might not know about this. “Who does this?”
“G-Dawg,” Robin said. “The hostess with the mostest. For real, check out those themed drinks. Seasonal AF.”
Daphne scanned the list. There was a “falltini” with pear vodka, Grand Marnier and lemon, a “Bill-liever” with blue curacao and loganberry syrup, and a “caramel apple” with hot or cold apple cider and caramel Baileys, or the mulled mocktail, which involved mulled apple with pear cider and a shot of cranberry hibiscus tea.
“Tea and cider together?” Daphne arched an eyebrow.
“Are you doubting me before you even try it?” The familiar hint of challenge rose in Gillian’s voice.
“Not on your home court.” Daphne alluded to their previous conversation. “I’ll try it before doubting.”
Sawyer sprang forward like a puppy who’d been well trained. They grabbed a mug from the cupboard, then took the lid off a Crock-Pot on the counter. She caught her first whiff of what could only be described as autumn in liquid form, steaming up to meet her.
Sawyer ladled some into the cup and passed it over.
“You’ll never doubt me again,” Gillian declared, and while “never again” seemed like a tall order, by the time the warm, smooth concoction hit her lips, Daphne knew she’d certainly think twice before questioning this woman’s flavor palate anytime soon.
A little moan escaped her throat, and the smugness on Gillian’s face was enough to send the warmth much lower in her core.
“Tell me I’m right,” Gillian said, a low hum of command in her voice.
Daphne pressed her lips together but couldn’t suppress the smile. “It’s very good.”
“Not what I asked, but a compliment is progress.”
“And you reward progress,” Daphne finished. “Got it.”
“Good. Now all of you, get out of my kitchen. The lasagna still has forty minutes, and I can’t watch the game if I also have to keep an eye on you.”
Everyone heeded the order without complaint.
Sawyer fell into an overstuffed chair, and Robin draped herself sideways across them, her feet dangling over one edge and her head on her person’s shoulder.
Brooke and Tegan took the couch, but not all of it as Brooke curled up in one corner and wedged her sock-covered feet under her girlfriend.
Daphne waited for Gillian to choose her spot, but she shook her head. “I can’t stay sitting down while the Bills are playing. I have to be able to pace.”
“You’re that into football?”
“Duh,” Robin said. “She’s Madame Sports-Ball around here, and loving the Bills allows her a semi-healthy outlet for her masochism.”
“No one wants to be in charge all the time,” Sawyer said. “We tried to buy her a flail, but she likes her pain to come at random intervals.”
“No, that tracks,” Daphne said. “If she can recognize the pattern, she’ll try to control it.”
Gillian rolled her eyes. “I simply think the Bills would be a lot more successful if they handed me a little more control. Would that be such a bad thing? I mean, look how well I’ve done with you all, and you’re at least as unruly as a football team.”
“Isn’t that adorable?” Brooke said, taking a magazine from an end table and flipping through it. “She thinks she’s got control over us.”
“Maybe not control.” Gillian looked pointedly from one couple to the other. “But at least I’ve got you all in one place where I can keep an eye on you, and—”
“Go,” Sawyer yelled, cutting her short.
“Yes.” Robin jumped up. “Go, go, run.”
“Somebody block for him,” Gillian screamed, and, for a second, Daphne was so confused until she realized they were all staring at the TV. She turned in time to see a Bills player weave between two guys in different uniforms.
“Yes,” several people shouted in unison.
Even Tegan was off the couch. “Almost, almost, there!”
“Touchdown,” Gillian called.
“High-five,” Robin declared, running around the room slapping everyone’s hand except Brooke’s.
“You don’t like the Bills?” Daphne asked.
“Oh, they’re fine.” Brooke shrugged. “I love this city, and this city loves the Bills. I’m happy when they’re happy.”
Tegan flopped back down beside her and scooted over to cover her feet again.
“And I’m learning to be a Bills fan. I didn’t grow up with them, but the Bills Mafia is kind of hard to resist. Besides, Brooke’s not wrong.
Our clients need to process their feelings about the Bills, so if nothing else, I see it as continuing ed. ”
“I just like the yelling,” Robin said. “There are very few social situations where you’re encouraged to yell at strangers for a couple hours every week. It’s much nicer to yell at something low stakes than war or politics or capitalism. Yelling at the Bills is cathartic.”
Daphne nodded. “I’d never thought of that. Less stress than screaming about losing our rights, but still more satisfying than screaming into the void.”
“And the Bills always give us something specific to scream about.” Sawyer pulled Robin back onto their lap. “I’m a lifer though, Buffalo born and raised. I didn’t get to choose my trauma. What about you?”
“I’m not sure I chose my traumas either, though I suppose a few of them were self-inflicted.”
“Respect.” Sawyer nodded sagely. “But I meant who’s your football team?”
“Whoops.” She blushed. “That makes more sense. I’m not sure I have a strong alliance.”
“Great,” Robin said enthusiastically.
“Is it?”
“Yes, it means you’re corruptible,” Sawyer explained, “and we love nothing so much as corruptible women.”
“Speak for yourself,” Gillian said from behind them.
Robin laughed. “That’s why we love you, G-Daddy.”
“I’m not corruptible.”