ONE
TWIGGY
Asfaraspartiesgo, tonight’s Friendsgiving ranks solidly in the “not a complete disaster” column.
I’ve definitely had worse…good times.
There’s food, for one. A ridiculous amount of it. There’s laughter. And nobody’s tried to make me play any party games that involve group sharing or eye contact for longer than three seconds.
Would I be happier at home in my leggings with multiple monitors open and three case files pulled up? Obviously.
But sitting at the long farmhouse table in Shiloh and Gunner’s dining room, watching the people I love most in the world argue over which type of cranberry sauce is better, doesn’t suck.
Also, the bourbon is excellent.
I take another careful sip, letting the burn curl down behind my ribs. Wyatt brought it to Gunner as a “you need to drink something other than that wine you make” early Christmas gift. It smells like oak and smoke and bad decisions. I like it.
I glance around the table, cataloguing everyone out of habit.
Shiloh, her bright curls pinned up, cheeks flushed from wine, is laughing at something her bestie Cotton just said. Gunner’s at her side, big hand absently running through her hair like he can keep both of them anchored with touch alone.
Brodie’s at the head of the table, one arm hooked around the back of Cotton’s chair. She’s rosy and round and beautiful, one hand resting over the swell of her belly as she watches her husband with that soft, melted look I pretend not to notice.
Sam, Shiloh’s brother, and Harriet, Wyatt’s wife, are mid-argument over mashed potatoes versus macaroni and cheese as the superior carb. Sammy is making big Italian gestures with his fork, even though he’s about as Italian as apple-fucking-pie. Harry is countering with statistics that I’m ninety percent sure she’s making up.
Although she was a college professor before she quit in order to start doing something with food chemistry and recipes, so I don’t know. She probably knows more than he does.
Jack stands near the doorway, not quite in the circle but not on the outside, either, leaning his shoulder against the wall with a bottle of beer in hand. Sheriff-mode never really turns off. Even here, even with us, he’s an apex predator in flannel.
I sit near the end of the table with my bourbon, my laptop resting against my shin, its weight comforting even when it’s asleep.
“Y’all are all…sooo nice,” I tell them, voice coming out thick around the edges. It feels like a good time to share the information currently swarming my chest. “I love you guys.”
Silence drops like a curtain.
Cotton is the first to recover. “Oh boy.” Her amber eyes go wide as she leans toward Brodie. “How many drinks has she had? You guys know she can’t hold her liquor.”
“I can too hold my liquor,” I protest, affronted. “I’m just…expressing appreciation. Big difference.”
“I watched you mix wine and bourbon, Twig.” Shiloh squints down the table at me. “First it was the white wine, then Harry brought the red, and now you’ve got straight whiskey. Are we…celebrating something I don’t know about?”
Gunner leans back in his chair, the wood creaking. “She is absolutely drunk. She’s on her fourth ‘I love you guys’ in twenty minutes.”
It’s possible he’s not wrong.
I am not drunk. I flip them a friendly bird instead of arguing, though, and tip my glass up for another sip. The whiskey burns a hot trail down my throat, but I don’t cough. I am Irish, after all.
We have standards.
“Eat some more mashed potatoes, Twig. You’re too skinny, anyway.” Gunner passes the bowl of mashed potatoes my way, and I push it back.
“I have eaten so much I’m about to burst. I’m fine. When I start puking, then I’m drunk.”
“I’m kind of jealous, to be honest,” Cotton says, rubbing the tiny bump of her belly. “I haven’t had the good stuff in too many months now.”
“Emery…” Brodies eyes her with playful warning. He’s the only one who calls her by her actual name.
“I think that is so sweet,” I say.
