The drive to Logan's is filled with Tyler's chatter about dinosaurs, Batman, and whether Santa knows where Daddy's house is. Logan answers each question with patience,occasionally catching my eye in the rearview mirror, his smile soft and private.
By the time we arrive at Logan's, Elena's already there, unpacking groceries in the kitchen. She waves a celery stalk like a conductor's baton when we walk in.
"The turkey whisperer has arrived! And look who's here!" She crouches down to Tyler's level. "Hey, Tyler! I’m Eleana. I’m Reese’s best friend. Ready to help us make the best Thanksgiving dinner ever?"
Tyler nods solemnly. "I'm a good helper. I help Mama stir."
"Perfect! We need a good stirrer."
The apartment smells amazing—roasting turkey, onions sautéing, the sweet scent of something baking. I shed my coat, rolling up my sleeves.
"Put me to work," I tell Elena, moving to wash my hands.
Logan sets Tyler up with crayons and paper at the kitchen island and asks me if he can go to change. Elena hands me a knife and a pile of carrots.
"So," she says quietly, "first holiday with the boyfriend and his son. How are you feeling?"
I start chopping. "Good. I think. I’m, you know…it’s an adventure. He’s such a sweet little guy."
She laughs, stirring something in a large pot. "I do know. When Dad invited Nate to our family Christmas last year, I nearly had a panic attack. But it ended up being perfect. He fit right in. Gave my old man the business even though he’s his coach. Dad actually respects him in a new way now."
The doorbell rings, and Elena peeks toward the foyer. "Speaking of my favorite troublemaker..."
Nate strides in, bringing a blast of cold air and his signature cocky grin. He drops a kiss on Elena's lips, then gives me a side hug.
"Happy Turkey Day, Teacher Lady," he says. "Where's the mini-McCoy?"
As if summoned, Tyler looks up from his drawing. "I'm right here! I'm not mini! I'm THREE!"
Nate laughs. "Three? No way. I thought you were at least twenty!"
Tyler dissolves into giggles. "Nooooo! I'm three! See?" He holds up three fingers.
Logan returns wearing a v-neck cashmere sweater that hugs his broad shoulders in a way that momentarily distracts me from chopping. He claps Nate on the back, then scoops Tyler off his stool.
"Who wants to play mini-sticks in the living room?" he asks, already carrying Tyler away.
"Me! Me!" Tyler shrieks.
"Use the foam puck, Logan!" I call after them. The apartment might be childproofed, but I'm not sure it's hockey-proofed.
Elena bumps my hip with hers. "Look at you, all mom-voice."
"Shut up," I mutter, feeling my cheeks heat.
From the living room comes the sound of furniture moving, followed by Tyler's delighted squeals. I peek around the corner to see Logan and Nate on their knees, using their little sticks, while Tyler tries to get a foam puck past them and into a makeshift goal created from couch cushions.
"Goal!" Tyler screams, throwing both arms in the air when he scores. Logan falls dramatically onto his back.
"The kid's got skills," Nate says, looking impressed. "Future first-round draft pick right there."
The doorbell rings again. This time it's Sully, silver-haired and distinguished in a cable-knit sweater, bearing a pumpkin pie and a bottle of expensive bourbon.
"Where's the little guy I've heard so much about?" he asks, barely through the door.
Tyler appears as if by magic, eyeing Sully with open curiosity. "Are you the best hockey player?"
Sully's laugh is warm and genuine. "I used to be. Now I just tell these knuckleheads how it's done." He crouches, offering Tyler his hand. "I'm Matthew, but my friends call me Sully."
