She walks us through it. How to cut the butter into the flour. How much water to add. How to know when the dough is ready.
I follow her instructions. Callum ignores half of them.
“You’re supposed to keep it cold,” Tania tells him, watching him knead the dough too long.
“It will still taste good.”
“It won’t be the right texture. You need to stop overworking it.”
He keeps kneading, fighting a smile. “What if I don’t?”
She grabs his wrists. “Stop. Please. I don’t want to ruin the pie. This is important to me.”
Their hands freeze mid-motion. Hers on his. Flour smudged across both of them.
Callum’s grin fades. It’s not gone, but it’s different.
“Okay, Red.”
She releases him and then kisses his cheek.
His hand comes up and touches the spot where her lips were.
I’m watching this happen while my own dough sits forgotten under my palms. Watching Callum—who never stops moving, never stays still—take instruction from her without argument.
He’s doing it again, backing down for her.
It’s something he never does for anyone else. He cares about what she cares about. And I love that she brings that out in him.
Tania divides the dough into four pieces and wraps them. “These need to chill for an hour.”
“An hour?” Callum frowns.
“Patience.” She slides them into the fridge. “We’ll make the filling while we wait.”
We move to the stove. Tania peels apples while I measure sugar and cinnamon. Callum’s in charge of opening the canned pumpkin, which he manages to do without destroying the kitchen.
The smell hits when the apples start cooking, sweet and sharp, like every Thanksgiving I remember before Mom died.
I don’t think about her much anymore. It’s easier not to.
Tania stirs the apples, and steam rises around her face. “Did you guys do this growing up? Big Thanksgiving dinners?”
Callum stirs the filling. “Mom used to cook. The whole thing. Turkey, stuffing, pies.”
“She made us help,” I add. “We were terrible at it.”
Tania smiles. “I can imagine.”
My brow furrows. “I miss her.”
“Mom died when we were fourteen.” Callum doesn’t look at either of us when he says this out loud.
Tania goes still. “I was at the funeral,” she offers quietly. “I remember.”
“It was a long time ago.” I reach past her to grab the vanilla extract. “Fifteen years.”
She turns the burner off and looks at us. Ready to listen if we want to talk. Ready to let it go if we don’t.
