TRISTAN
What’sthe number one rule for Thanksgiving? Don’t burn the fucking turkey.
Three guesses what I burned?
Tessa’s cackling behind her second glass of wine, while Daphne’s giving me a sympathetic look.
Tuck asks if he should order some chicken from KFC, but after ten minutes of trying to scrape off the blackened skin of the burned bird, I cave in.
Tonight was supposed to be special. Memorable. Sure, I cook dinner for Daphne all the time, but this is Thanksgiving.
I don’t want her to think of my proposal as the night I burned our first Thanksgiving dinner.
As far as omens go, our future marriage isn’t off to a great start.
“Well, Hawkeye will be happy for a few days.” Daphne rests a soft hand on my bicep and squeezes, giving me a reassuring smile. “Besides, I never liked turkey. It’s always too dry.”
The woman has had Thanksgiving dinner from Michelin-starred chefs. I highly doubt that, but I appreciate the sentiment. I kiss her on the cheek before leaving the charcoal-black bird to cool off on top of the oven.
Hawkeye sits on the floor, his head whipping from the counter to me, to Daphne, to Tessa, and finally to Tuck. None of us is caving in to the cuteness.
Klinger’s tiny puppy paws tap along the floor in excitement before glancing at Hawkeye. He immediately sits, his tongue rolling out wordlessly, asking if he’s doing it right. I shouldn’t have been surprised when Daphne brought him home from the shelter. He’s been the missing piece to our little family.
“Tessa, can you hand me the spatula?” I ask as I pop open the can of cream of mushroom soup for a green bean casserole—five-star cuisine at its finest.
“I’m ordering KFC,” Tuck declares. And honestly, with how worried I am about the proposal and with how I’m botching dinner worse than one of my crime scenes, it’s for the best. I haven’t killed anyone lately—though I don’t know if I’ve hung up my Guy Fawkes mask for good.
As I’m shoving the casserole into the oven, Tristan announces our food will be here in twenty-five minutes.
“Are you alright?” Daphne asks as she sets her wine glass on the kitchen island and gives me a funny look. “You’re not usually so… so…”
“Culinarily blessed?” I ask as I wave my hand to remind her of the blackened bird. Poor Turkey Lurkey died in vain.
“So jumpy,” she finishes with a tug of a smile on her lips. God, I want to kiss that look right off her face.
“I want our first Thanksgiving to be perfect,” I tell her.
“It’s my first Thanksgiving with you, and without my mom.” Daphne wraps her arms around my waist, hermanicured fingers digging into my back. “It’s already the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.”
I can’t really say the same yet. I haven’t proposed yet. She could always say no. And that would make this the worst Thanksgiving ever—even including the one after Dad died. Tristan was away in college, and it was Tess and I eating our frozen Stouffer's turkey dinners and watching some godawful rom-com she’d wanted to see. Not that it stopped her from glaring daggers at me the entire night.
I‘m thankful for a lot of things, and I’m eternally grateful that we managed to work past that rough patch in our relationship. I’d do anything for my sister.
And she’s gone above and beyond to help me—in every way except cooking. She took Daphne out for their usual Tuesday girls outing a couple of days ago and made sure Daphne got a fresh manicure, along with a mini shopping spree and romance book haul.
Daphne’s gotten Tessa into reading the same books as her, and I swear, the two of them are inseparable.
“I’ll try to save the side dishes,” I tell her. “Can you finish setting the table?”
Daphne nods. Honestly, I think she’s happy to have something to do besides standing around and watching me fuck up more food. The dogs trail behind her like ducklings, their tails wagging as they round the corner into the dining room.
Would Daphne think it’s romantic if I stuck it in the mashed potatoes?
No. No second-guessing and changing my plans. The burned turkey has me rattled. I’m jumpy. It’s like every nerve’s wired with an overload of electricity, and I can’t stand still.
“You need to calm down,” Tuck says as he strolls over and stares cautiously at the stove, like it might explode if he tries to jump in and cook anything.
“Dude, I’m trying,” I tell him as I run a hand through my hair and—“Fuck.” Now I’ve got cream of mushroom soup streaked through it.
