She bleats her reply, trotting past me and going inside.
The farmhouse kitchen is filled with the sounds of clattering pots and familiar voices. Countless years of coming home for Thanksgiving, and I’ll never not be surprised by the controlled chaos of Mom’s Thanksgiving prep.
I stop in the doorway as I process the scene before me. Stone is fighting with a potato peeler while Nikko dodges flying peels. Kay perches on a counter, sorting fresh herbs, while Tyler and Mik work in perfect sync, chopping vegetables and trading secret smiles. And then there’s Fox, looking relaxed and healthy, his silver-streaked hair longer than when I last saw him.
My feet carry me across the room, and I pull Fox into a tight hug, breathing in the familiar scent of leather mixed with his cologne. “When did you get in? Where the hell have you been?” The words come out rougher than intended, weeks of worry bleeding through.
Fox returns the embrace with equal force. “This morning. There was something I’ve wanted to pursue for a long time but never had the chance.”
“And has it worked?”
“It’s a work in progress,” he says, his amber eyes holding secrets I can’t quite read.
Before I can press further, Mom appears between us, brandishing a wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton. “Questions later, potatoes now!” Her tone means no argument.
I try flattery as a diversion tactic. “Is that a new apron? The color really brings out your?—”
“Nice try. Your dad has trademarked that one, and look what that’s gotten him. A lifetime of turkey smoking outside in the cold.” She points the spoon at a mountain of vegetables awaiting prep. “You’re not getting out of kitchen duty that easily. It's bad enough that your brother is late.”
Movement through the window catches my eye. A familiar figure crosses the boundary between our properties, and my heart does that uncomfortable thing it always does whenever Taylen appears. He looks exhausted even from this distance, his shoulders slumped under the weight of sleepless nights.
Despite having to manage the farm, two chickens that refuse to live anywhere but my living room, and being constantly shadowed by a goat who thinks she’s a pet, things haven’t been too bad.
We have enough help around the farm that I can distribute the jobs and focus on what needs to be done by me, and despite my efforts to live independently, I know I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I didn’t have dinner with my parents every day.
Taylen doesn’t have those things.
Guilt gnaws at me, so before I talk myself out of it, and before my plan becomes too obvious, I turn back toward the door.
“We need more firewood,” I announce, perhaps too quickly. Mom raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment as I head out, grateful for the excuse to escape.
Gouta, who was curled up on top of the blanket in the basket my mom set up for her in the kitchen, stands up, bleats some sort of announcement, and then follows me out.
Despite my boots crunching in the snow, Taylen doesn’t notice me until I’m almost right in front of him.
He looks worse up close, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises against his winter-pale skin. He startles when he spots me, the curly waves of his hair falling slightly onto his eyes. Elvis has done his job too well. The thought brings me a lot less satisfaction than I expected.
“You look like hell,” I say.
He tries to straighten his posture, a futile attempt at his usual defiance. “I’m fine. Just busy with holiday prep.”
“Right.” I step close enough to catch the slight sway in his stance. “And I’m sure the three a.m. wake-up calls have nothing to do with it.”
A flash of his old fire sparks in those tired eyes. “Elvis is a great addition to the flock.” The stubborn set of his jaw wouldbe more convincing if he weren’t clearly fighting to keep his eyes open.
“Come on,” I say, making a split-second decision. “We need to talk.”
I expect resistance, but he follows me without argument, his boots dragging slightly in the snow.
The path feels longer with Taylen beside me, our breath creating twin clouds in the cold air. He stumbles once, and my hand shoots out to steady him before I can think better of it. The contact sends electricity up my arm, even through layers of winter clothing.
“Why are we going to your studio?” His voice carries a thread of suspicion, but he doesn’t pull away from my steadying grip.
“Because,” I say, leading him toward the modern building that’s caused so much tension between us, “I want to show you something.”
The studio feels different with Taylen in it, smaller somehow. He stands in the center of the room, taking in the changes in the space. The coffee cups are now clean and stashed nicely next to the coffee maker, and the previously messy stacks of papers are now in a neat pile on the coffee table.
Gouta circles us a couple of times until she decides we’re not doing anything exciting and goes back out, probably back to the farmhouse where she knows my mom will feed her scraps.
