But I know who.
Reid’s frying a turkey in broad daylight.
He’s wearing elbow-length oven mitts, a tight Henley that leaves little to the imagination when it comes to the slopes and planes of his chest, and an apron that readsBE THANKFUL AND PLANT ONE ON YOUR COOK.
I’d love to plant one on the cook. A particular cook.
Ensconced in my room, drinking a cup of coffee in the quiet as I stare at Reid’s website, I realize I should be basting my own turkey or making stuffing, making a cranberry mold ... anything other than what I’m doing.
I’m drooling over some single, unattainable hottie who I began stalking long before he admitted at the sandwich place to writing a blog. Not long before, but to me it was an eternity.
“Mom!” Gabby comes running into my room.
“Morning, baby girl.” I run my hand over her brow and kiss her forehead. She climbs into bed and lays her head on my chest before I can slam my laptop closed.
“Is that Reid? Mommy? Look at that!”
“Huh?” I pretend to be confused, but I can’t close my computer because her small finger is shoved against the screen.
“Reid. There. He’s cooking.”
“Yep, he’s frying a turkey for Thanksgiving.” I decide honesty is the best policy. At the very least, half-truths.
“That looks yummy.”
“Gabby, silly girl.” I slam the laptop closed, slide it next to me, and tickle her belly. “Let’s go make a turkey and some pancakes for now.”
She’s up and padding across the room before I can say it a second time.
In the kitchen, I make a cup of cocoa, start a fresh cup of coffee in the dumb Keurig maker, and get busy rubbing butter over my turkey. Leona is coming over later. Delia wanted me to visit, but I didn’t want to miss two days of blogging to drive back and forth. Black Friday is a pretty big Amazon affiliate revenue day for me.
The parade is on the TV in the background, and Gabby is equally mesmerized with the floats and the marshmallows in her cocoa.
I zone out, seasoning the bird and chopping vegetables, sipping lukewarm coffee, and tossing an eye toward Gabby every few minutes.
“Mom. Hello, Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Your phone is beeping.”
“Oh.” I wash my hands and swipe a finger across the screen.
REID: Happy Thanksgiving, Andonia. (Sorry, I had to write that at least once.) I forgot to ask what you’re doing today. I’m solo and just fried a turkey—if you and Gabby are hungry.
When I don’t respond right away, he texts again, answering himself.
REID: No big deal. Figured you’re busy. Happy Thanksgiving.
My heart tilts, and I take a deep breath trying to set it straight. With Gabby jumping all over the kitchen, I don’t have long to debate what to say in response. My fingers tap at the phone of their own volition.
ANDI: Happy Thanksgiving to you! Gabby and I are cooking. Fried turkey sounds delish, though.
Immediately, three dots appear in a bubble, and he’s typing a reply.
REID: I can bring it over? You make the sides?
“Mommy, can I do the Jell-O by myself?” Gabby looks at me, her nose red with gross, full-of-chemicals Jell-O powder, after apparently pouring some of it into a mixing bowl.
