No plans. Cleaning the house. Reading a book.
Jay
You should take pictures.
Hollis
Ignoring you.
Jay
Just saying . . .
Marv
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When I woke up this morning, I stared at the ceiling until long after the sun came up, waiting for tears that never came. I called my parents who asked me repeatedly to make the short drive to Charlotte to spend Thanksgiving at their house; I declined.
Quiet and alone, I had my coffee from the comfort of a hot bubble bath, my mind moving in a million different directions.
Yesterday, the kids and I had breakfast for dinner before I drove them to Ryan’s house. I used an entire loaf of bread for French toast and let them pour their own syrup, something I never do.
With a mouthful of food, Ava said,“I wish we could have this for Thanksgiving instead of turkey.”
It struck something deep inside of me. Something so insanely simple I’ve been blind to: We could. I plan the meal; it could be French toast.
“Maybe next year we can,”I said nonchalantly.
Every single person at the table went still, including me.
“No turkey?”Owen asked, swallowing his food.“Or stuffing?”
“If you’d rather have French toast.”I shrugged.“No. Or we can make something else. Everyone’s favorite foods even.”
Their eyes lit up, mine filled with unexpected tears. It wasn’t sadness over them not wanting the same menu as always, it was delight. I was happy to see them excited. With me.
Jack shoveled another forkful of food into his mouth, oblivious to my emotion, and said,“Let’s have pizza. I can’t wait.”
“Me neither.”I had to swallow around the turkey-sized lump in my throat.
Maybe it’s the season, Jay, or simply having all this time alone to reflect, but there’s a shift happening. The way a snowball grows when it’s rolled across the winter-cloaked earth, so too is something deep within me. Expanding. Morphing. Changing.
If I hadn’t dropped them off with Ryan last night, I would have made French toast and pizza today. But if I hadn’t dropped them off with Ryan last night, I never would have known it was an option.
Today, here I am without our usual turkey or chaos, but somehow, also without tears. It’s Thanksgiving, but it isn’t. I’m okay. Alone, but okay.
Jay texted his usual Holiday Club invitation last night, but it’s been nothing else. After the kiss, I hoped for a call—a house call, if I’m honest—but true to him, nothing outside of our group text. Since his current move is no move, the last five days I’ve been swimming in replayed memories of his mustache-covered mouth on mine. What it would be like if it happens again. How far it could go. What he looks like naked.
And then I overheat.
But more than that, I just want his company. His compliments hidden in callouts. His thoughtfulness. The way he listens. His entire life story of how he went from lawyer to beer brewer.
I’ll wait; I have nothing but time.
At three thirty, I pour my first glass of wine.
At four, I pour my second.
