Giving myself a task takes my mind off the insecurity. I start working on fried eggs for breakfast. I’ve come to learn that Jason prefers them mediumwhile Dylan prefers his eggs runny. I also unwrap ground sausage from the wax paper it’s stored in and pop it in the skillet with the eggs. Paired with some toast, it’s a filling breakfast. Though I plan to save lots of room for dinner tonight. I’ve never had a home cooked Thanksgiving before.
Come to think of it, I’ve only had a handful of home cooked meals in my life that didn’t come out of a microwave. I actually feel a little…excited, dare I say.
We each take turns in the kitchen working on our assigned dishes, since the kitchen isn’t big enough for more than two people and Jason is spending most of the day working on his respective sides when he’s not tending to the elk. I asked if he wanted help so he wasn’t working all day but he adamantly shook his head no. I guess he really loves to cook. Fine by me since I have little to no skills. I’m a nervous wreck while the rolls are rising for fear I did something wrong. I followed the directions precisely, I measured everything with obsessive accuracy. They look normal, but that doesn’t mean they will rise and bake correctly.
“Do you want to play cribbage?” Dylan draws me out of the book I’m reading on my own, not the one I read aloud nearly every night.
“Cribbage?” I dig into the recesses of my brain for more information. “That’s a card game, right?” It sounds like something little old ladies get together once a week for and drink iced tea the whole time.
No wait, that’s bridge.
“Yeah,” Dylan replies, rising from the couch to collect something from a box beneath the coffee table, then sets it on the kitchen table. “Well, it combines cards and a board. I can explain.”
Dylan goes over all the pieces, the order of operations for each phase of the game, and the point system. It seems like a gentleman’s game with all the rules about the person who’s not dealing being the one to cut the deck, and whatnot. But I think I’ve got the hang of it.
He also explains the skunk line on the board and that if you lose behind that line, it’s basically humiliation. Good thing I don’t care what he thinks if I get skunked.
I do have a bit of a competitive streak, sometimes, but with Dylan I’mless worried. Everything with him is so carefree and copacetic. I never feel the distinct pruning of my soul like I do around others, no worry about what he thinks. Mainly because Dylan wears his heart on his sleeve, and his opinions. He’s so comfortable sharing his thoughts without oversharing. And he genuinely seems to like…well…everyone. The same can’t be said for most people.
He’s the opposite of his silent and mysterious brother who conceals as much of himself as he can.
By the hair of my chinny chin chin, I don’t get skunked. I make it two points over the line when Dylan wins my first game of cribbage. I didn’t expect to win my first game, but it helps that Dylan is a gracious winner and I’m not a sore loser.
Maybe that’s why I was subpar at volleyball, I didn’t have the drive the coach was always preaching about. I didn’t feel that competitive fire in my belly or the need to prove myself. I was just existing and surviving, successful without being extraordinary. I was a good teammate and volleyball player, but I never made any game changing plays.
Cribbage was fun, though, and I’d definitely enjoy playing again.
“That was fun,” I say as I stand to pop my rolls in the oven. “We should play again sometime.”
Thankfully, the rolls look like they inflated the proper amount which gives me hope I made them right. Now, all I have to do is bake them at the perfect temperature for the correct amount of time.
You can do this.
“Is the oven free?” I point to the appliance in question while looking to Jason for an answer, since I know it’s a visual, not an audible, reply.
He nods his head and I slide the rolls in, setting the already warm oven to the correct temperature and starting the timer.
I scan over the various pots and pans Jason has laid across the counter or stovetop. Yams topped with some sort of brown sugar crumble, green beans cooked with bacon, stuffing (or as my mom calls it, dressing). Everything smells incredible.
Dylan prepared the cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes with gravy. It’sa traditional Thanksgiving feast. The only traditional part of Thanksgiving dinner at my parents house was the turkey. The other courses were things like a pear and blue cheese salad or shrimp cocktail. I don’t think I’d even had pumpkin pie in that house. It never occurred to me how depressing the customs of my childhood home were until I was out of it.
I wonder what my parents are doing today. Do they miss me? Did they look for me?
Did anyone look for me?
I can’t believe I almost wasn’t here for this holiday.
Thanksgiving is about gratitude, and I guess I’m glad to be alive, even if this isn’t an ideal situation. I’m grateful Jason didn’t leave me to die in the snow, even if he did make me butcher an elk yesterday.
It makes me uneasy that he can hold the wholesaving my lifething over my head the rest of my life, but I guess the alternative isn’t as ideal.
I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad I’m alive.
I have to be.
Chapter Nine
Jason-Present
