“No rules against a-pie-tizers,” Rory says. “Sorry, my puns get pretty terrible from being around kids all day.”
“We’re all children here,” Jules says cheerfully, wasting no time in cutting us all slices of the Kit Kat pie. We eat it as our starter course, standing around the kitchen counter and rotating the side dishes through the microwave as the turkey finishes cooking.
Jules and Nina stick to the pomegranate punch while Rory and I opt for the Bell’s. I feel safe drinking with Rory, especially this beer. It’s the “Lager of the Lakes,” and it tastes better than I remember. The flavor is light and low key and washes down like a guitar-string song.
As Jules carves the turkey and gives Rory a primer in cockney rhyming slang, we set the table with the stuffing, gravy, sweet potatoes, green beans, Brussel sprouts, corn casserole, and crescent rolls. I’ve cancelled the delivery order, and we still have difficulty fitting all the food on the circular table as we take our seats.
“Now, before we eat,” Jules commands, “please can we all go around and say what we’re thankful for?”
“Do you really do that in America?” Nina asks Rory and me.
“Yes,” we say in unison, with mutually raised eyebrows.
“My family rambles on so long,” I say, “that the food’s all cold by the end.”
“Grace winds up being longer than a Sunday sermon,” Rory commiserates.
Jules doesn’t like the sound of that. “Let’s just do one collective thanks, shall we?” she suggests. “C’mon, hold hands then.”
I take Jules’s hand on one side and Rory’s on the other. Rory’s palms are leathery and dry, like he hasn’t been introduced to body lotion. The texture is oddly comforting, giving me something to grip.
Jules starts in, talking extremely quickly. “Dear God or Goddess or whatever spiritual forces may potentially be listening, we’re thankful for food, footy, bloody good mates, and rub-a-dubs. Who can tell me what rub-a-dubs are?” she asks, quizzing the audience.
“Pubs?” Rory guesses.
“Well done, laddie. You already know more cockney than Kat. And we’re thankful for my cheese and kisses—missus,” she says with a cheeky wink at Nina. “And double-decker buses,” Jules finishes, casting a knowing look my way.
I kick her shin under the table, but she doesn’t wince, just grins wider. The last thing I want is for Rory to know that I was obsessed with him, or at least the fictional version of him, for weeks before we actually met.
“Alrigh’ that’ll do,” Jules says, dropping my hand and reaching for the nearest dish. “Let’s eat and get pissed!”
There’s a second or two where Rory and I don’t drop each other’s hands. We keep holding on. It’s not long enough for Jules or Nina to notice anything, but it’s long enough to notice it ourselves. It feels like something old and new all at once.
Then it’s over, and we both let go.
I wipe my clammy palms on my napkin and start dishing out the food, trying to act like everything is normal. Like Rory and I didn’t just share some kind of moment.
It probably wasn’t a moment at all. He was probably just too polite to drop my hand, and I was the one lingering. Or if hewasholding on as well, it’s just because he too is suffering from Lack of Physical Touch syndrome. We’re both a little lonely, and I was a random hand to hold during grace. That’s all.
“Turkey?” I offer Rory, passing the serving plate with feigned nonchalance.
“I’m actually vegetarian,” he says, “but I’ll definitely have thirds of everything else. It all looks amazing.”
“Credit to Chef Jules,” I say. “I’d planned to order takeaway, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“I prefer the Cockney Cook, thank you,” Jules says as she tops up her punch glass. “Might start a food blog, what d’you reckon? And I’ve been considering going vegetarian for a while now, but I fancy my Sunday roasts too much. And besides, I wouldn’t want people ter think I’m doing it for health reasons.” She scrunches up her face at the unpleasant prospect of anyone thinking she’d be conforming to a wellness trend. “I’d be doing it for the animals. Is that why you’re doing it, Rory?”
“That and the carbon footprint,” Rory says. “Once I started teaching about science and climate change, it only felt right to walk the walk. Sorry, that sounds preachy,” he adds hastily.
“Not preachy,” I say. “I respect that.”
And I do, though I don’t respect myself much in that moment, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment over the fact that I’m consulting for an oil conglomerate. I should’ve pushed harder on therenewable energy pitch. “Not too many vegetarians in Kalamazoo, are there?” I ask. The way I remember it, it’s all hunters, carnivores, camo hats.
“You’d be surprised—it’s a growing movement,” he says. “I’ll have to show you some new spots downtown. If we’re ever back there at the same time, I mean.”
“Right,” I say, trying not to thumb my nose at his use of “downtown,” which refers to two and a half streets of half-vacant low-rises. “If we are.”
I actually like the idea of walking around Kalamazoo with him, maybe because I know it will never happen.
