I pushed past him, my boots crunching through old hay, the scent of leather and dust clinging to my skin like regret. He didn’t follow. Just stood there, one hand on the stall door, the other clenched at his side.
Let him stew in it.
Let him choke on the truth— we might still be all heat and fire but maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.
Cape Cod in November feels like the world holding its breath.
Cold shoreline. Empty streets. Holiday lights strung up on weathered shingle houses. The kind of quiet that gets under your skin and makes you feel things.
Pulling up to the rental cottage—really more like a storybook house with cedar shingles and a wide wraparound porch—I don’t know what to expect.
Then my mom bursts onto the porch, wrapped in two scarves and already crying.
I barely get out of the car before she’s hugging me so tight my ribs crack.
My dad’s next, smelling like peppermint gum and engine grease—some things never change—and he holds my face like he’s memorizing it.
Inside is warm and cozy, fire already going, my mom’s pies cooling on the windowsill like we’re in a Hallmark movie.
The Cape rental is nicer than anything we ever lived in back in Ohio. Multiple fireplaces. Cozy reading nooks. A sunroom with white wicker chairs. A giant kitchen that looks like it belongs in a cooking show.
My chest loosens more than I expect.
That night, Irene, Tom, and Mason come over—arms full of wine, pastries, and a giant board game box that looks suspiciously competitive.
The table becomes a disaster of snacks, candles, elbows, and spilled wine.
And then Irene claps her hands.
“Alright, everyone. Phones. iPads. Laptops. Apple Watches. Anything that buzzes, rings, vibrates, or distracts. In the basket.”
She holds up a huge wicker basket that looks like she stole it off a Martha Stewart set.
Everyone groans.
She shakes it once.
“Old-fashioned Thanksgiving starts NOW.”
One by one, we cave.
My phone is the last to hit the pile.
Dropping it feels like slicing a tether.
But freeing, too.
For hours, we laugh. Hard.
Thom tells embarrassing stories about Mason.
My mom beats everyone at Scrabble like she’s hustling us.
My dad keeps snacking and forgetting it’s his turn.
Irene drinks two glasses of wine and gets emotional about holiday traditions.
And Mason keeps bumping my shoulder, nudging me whenever I roll my eyes at something.
