Fourteen
Okay, so Mr. Robertshere, Mrs. Roberts there. Gem, Jack, me on this side. Harley and Nick on the other side.” I set the final place card—a small glass bottle stenciled with the assigned name and filled with mini orange roses—at the top of the plate and stand back to survey my work.
The Thanksgiving table is set, even though it’s only Wednesday night. I wanted everything done ahead of time so I can devote my morning hours to helping Gemma cook and taking care of last-minute emergencies. The centerpiece is still upstairs in my floral cooler, but everything else is ready to go. The table looks like it was set by a hipster Martha Stewart, which means my job here is done.
Jack climbs up the basement stairs just as I’m heading to the fridge to pour myself a big-ass glass of wine. “Wow, this looks great, Sade.”
“Thanks.” I hold up a wineglass as a silent offering, and he nods. “I know technically you should be sitting at the head of the table since it’s your house, but I figured since Harley’s parents are the only adultswilling to put up with us, we’d let them have that honor. If it’s all right with you.”
Jack takes the glass of wine I hold out to him and shrugs. “Whatever you think is best. I’m definitely not up-to-date on holiday protocol.”
“Lucky for you, we don’t have protocol. We eat a lot and drink a lot and play some games and call it a day.” I clink my glass against his before taking a long sip. Mentally, I run through everything I was supposed to accomplish today, checking off boxes as I move down the list.
“What time is Gemma coming by tomorrow?” Jack leans his hip against the kitchen counter, perching himself just a few feet away from me.
“She’ll be here at eight, but sleep as late as you want.” I subtly shift, closing the distance between us just a smidge. “Also just a warning that we will be watching the parade and I will dance and sing along at opportune moments.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” He pairs his words with a teasing smile. “You all done for the day or you planning on tackling any more projects tonight?”
So yeah, I might’ve gone a little project crazy this week, but I really want everything to go smoothly tomorrow. I want this to be the perfect Thanksgiving for everyone. I want it to be the first of many this group spends together. Well, this complete group, the group that now includes Jack. I’ve been invited to Thanksgiving with the Roberts crew ever since freshman year, when Harley found out I was planning on spending the weekend alone in the dorms. It was the first time I’d ever seen her put her foot down, insisting I come home with her and spend the holiday weekend with her parents. Since then, Gemma has also joined us almost every year. Nick’s attendance is more sporadic, somewhat based on hisparents’ random travel urges, but I’m guessing now that he and Harley are bumping things up a notch, he’ll be a more permanent fixture at the holiday table, even if his parents are spending this year in Italy.
I swallow the last of my wine. “I think I’m packing it in for tonight. Going to take a quick shower and head to bed. You?”
“I think I’m going to go paint for a bit.” He finishes his wine and takes both of our glasses over to the sink.
He’s painting a lot more these days, though never at any time when I’m also working in BaBs. I can see how my frenzied work pace and penchant for loud off-key singing could be distracting, but at the same time, I’m dying for the chance to watch Jack work. Though something tells me we might end up rolling around on the floor naked, our bodies covered in a layer of paint.
Which I wouldn’t be mad about.
“Cool. See you tomorrow, then.” I brush past him on my way out of the kitchen, relishing the zing the slightest hint of skin-to-skin contact brings.
Somewhere in the space of the past couple of weeks, I’ve stopped looking at this building tension as a thing to defeat. A thing that makes me uptight and impatient. Instead I’m savoring it. Allowing the anticipation to mount, reveling in each near miss, knowing the buildup is going to make the payoff that much sweeter. Which, honestly, feels mature as fuck.
When I bound down the stairs on Thanksgiving morning, just a few minutes before Gemma is set to arrive and take over the kitchen, apajama-clad Jack and a vanilla latte are already waiting for me at the kitchen peninsula.
“I was going to start something for Gemma, but I couldn’t remember what she likes,” Jack says by way of greeting.
I pick up the Wonder Woman mug filled with my coffee and breathe in the heavenly scent. “No worries. I’ll make it for her. Thank you for this.” I lean over and plant a soft kiss on his cheek. His skin is smooth and smells of some kind of woodsy aftershave, the scent of which will soon disappear beneath his normal coffee-and-paper fragrance.
Jack’s cheeks flush a bright pink, but he pins me down with a stare that’s neither embarrassed nor tentative. It’s searing. “You’re welcome. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
To distract myself from the urge to climb into his lap and shove my tongue down his throat, I find the remote for the living room TV and flip to the parade. We rarely watch TV on this level since the basement is bigger and the couch more comfortable, but the parade is a nonnegotiable for me. And Nick and Mr. Roberts will want to watch some kind of sportsball later on, I’m sure.
Gemma knocks on the door a minute later, and after I make her a latte, she puts me to work as her sous chef. She immediately slips into her zone, controlling the kitchen with the practice of an Iron Chef and the grace of a ballerina. I chop and dice and check on things in the oven, following the orders of my commander as best I can, so as not to get chewed out. Jack, in the meantime, keeps our cups filled, first with coffee and then, at a more appropriate hour, with white wine.
A half hour before the rest of the crew is set to arrive, I dash upstairs to grab the centerpiece from the cooler. I pulled together acollection of brown glass vessels—beer bottles and growlers, and even an antique bleach bottle—and filled each one with handfuls of orange and red and cream blooms. I arrange them all in the center of the table in a clump, taking just a second to check everything over before I snap some quick photos and run upstairs to change.
We’re a casual bunch, so I stick to my jeans, but I pull on a cute sweater and suede ankle booties, before tousling my hair and slicking on some lip gloss. I’ve gone pretty minimal with the makeup since leaving my “real” job, but I always feel better with a little lip gloss.
When I make it back to the kitchen, I do a final check-in with Gemma, who’s all set until everything is finished cooking/heating/baking. We’ve got a silver tub stocked with ice, beer, and white wine. Nick is bringing the red and the hard stuff.
I turn to Gemma and hold my hand up for a high five. “We fucking adulted the shit out of this Thanksgiving.”
She slaps my hand. “That almost doesn’t even make sense. But yes, we nailed it.”
Jack joins us in the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge so as not to mess up our perfect display. “Everything looks amazing. And smells amazing.”
