"Well, that got heavy fast."
"It's Thanksgiving. It's supposed to be about gratitude," I remind her. "Gratitude can sometimes be heavy."
"I know, but I didn't mean to turn it into a crying fest."
"A few tears never hurt anyone." I stand up, coming around to her side of the table. I pull her to her feet and into my arms, holding her close. "Thank you for being honest. For trusting me with those feelings. I know it's hard." I think about my wife, who hadn't felt like she could, and regret is right there with the feelings of gratitude.
She wraps her arms around my waist, burying her face in my chest. "Thank you for being someone I can trust."
We stand there in the middle of the kitchen, holding each other while our Thanksgiving dinner gets cold on the table, and I can't bring myself to care. This matters more. She matters more.
Eventually, we pull apart and finish our meal. The heaviness lifts as we go back to arguing about whether the rolls or the pie are the real star of the show. By the time we're done eating, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
"I'm so full I might explode," Paisley groans, leaning back in her chair.
"Same. But we still have pie," I remind her, pointing to where it sits on the stove.
"Later," she groans. "Much later. Like maybe tomorrow later."
"Fair enough." I start gathering plates, but she stops me.
"Leave them. We'll deal with it later. Right now, I need to sit in front of that fire and not move for at least an hour."
"I can get behind that plan."
I build up the fire while she curls up on the couch, and then I grab the bottle of scotch from the cabinet. "Want some?" This is one thing we haven't done together.
"Please."
I pour us each a glass and settle in beside her, close enough that our thighs touch. The fire crackles, casting shadows on the wall, and outside the snow continues to fall.
"This is nice," she murmurs, her head resting on my shoulder.
"It is." I take a sip of scotch, letting the burn warm me from the inside. "I could get used to this."
"Me too."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the flames. Then, because I want to know more about her, because I want to know everything about her, I ask, "What was your dream job? Before everything. What did you want to be?"
She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. Then she shifts, looking over at the laptop sitting in the corner. "I wanted to be a writer."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Her voice is soft, almost wistful. "Ever since I was a kid, I loved stories. Making them up, getting lost in them. I always thought that one day I'd write one of my own."
"What stopped you?"
She takes a long sip of scotch, swallowing it with a wistful smile. "Stanley. He always told me I'd never make it. That it was a dream, and only girls had dreams. I was a woman, and I should focus on being practical and a good wife to him."
That pisses me off. "He was wrong."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. Definitely." I turn to face her fully. "He was wrong about you, Paisley. About what you're capable of. If you want to write, you should write." I firmly believe she can do anything she puts her mind to.
"It's not that simple," she argues, shaking her head.
"Why not? You've got time now. You've got that laptop. What's stopping you?"
