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TWELVE

MICKEY

“A rookie wouldn’t have missed that pass, you overpaid turd in pads!”

Aunt Ingrid snorted at Dad’s football-watching outburst from the living room and smiled wryly at me over her shoulder from where she stirred the cranberries on the stove in Dad’s kitchen.

“I’m not sure Joe even enjoys football. All he ever does is yell at the players while sitting on his ass in his overpriced recliner. As though he’d do better.”

Chuckling, I rinsed the colander of freshly peeled sweet potatoes. “Hey, that recliner has footrests, a heated seat, and an adjustable head and back.” Though she was right. Dad only watched football on Thanksgiving and yelled at the TV like he religiously followed it. It was funny.

“For what he paid for it, it should massage your feet and tell you you’re pretty.”

Aunt Ingrid was one of my favorite people.

More days than not, she was my lifeline at the diner.

She’d started working there around the same age I had, back when Grandpa still ran it.

I wondered why she’d stayed there as a server, especially since she’d told Grandpa she didn’t want half ownership with Dad.

It was hardly a high-paying job, making it difficult to do much more than cover bills.

Until I’d taken over my grandparents’ house when they moved to Florida, I’d struggled in a tiny one-bedroom apartment throughout my twenties.

Ingrid supplemented her income with a stained glass side hustle and always had a busy booth at local maker markets.

I guess I’d been trying to do the same with my cheese.

“How are the sweet potatoes coming along?” she asked while checking the turkey.

“About to cut them. Water boiling?”

“Yup.” She closed the oven and moved back to the other end of the kitchen counter, where she stirred the slow cooker full of baked beans.

That appliance might be as old as me. Half the stuff in the kitchen had to be at least twenty years old.

It wasn’t only the diner Dad avoided changing.

My childhood home still had the same wood paneling and collage frame in the entryway, full of photos of him and Ingrid as kids.

The wall behind it probably hadn’t been touched since the frame was hung before I was even a twinkle in Dad’s eye.

The only thing that had changed about the house was the absence of Mom’s belongings.

We fell into a comfortable silence as we worked on our own tasks. It was easy to navigate the kitchen with Ingrid. We’d gotten a lot of practice during holidays over the years. Thanksgiving and Christmas were the only days of the year Dad didn’t cook.

After dumping the potatoes into the boiling water, I turned to ask Ingrid if I should get started on the green bean casserole and found her holding out cans of green beans.

Laughing, I took them from her. “I can take a hint.”

“No one you wanted to bring to dinner this year?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ingrid, you ask every year and that answer never changes. Why keep asking?”

“What can I say? I’m an optimist.” Her nose pinched. “Glad it wasn’t Brandon though. I never got a good vibe from him.”

“Thanks for saying something after he dumped me,” I mumbled. “It worked out for the best. I’m happier now. We weren’t the right fit.” It was easier to understand that now with distance.

“Dating anyone new?”

“And there it is.”

“What?” She blinked innocently at me.

I never talked to my parents about my love life, but Ingrid was different thanks to a mix of her nosiness and how often we worked together.

She’d had a sixth sense for reading the barest hint of heartache or puppy love on my face my whole life, from my first crush on a kid in third grade to the first guy who’d dumped me in high school.

She’d always been the quintessential cool aunt, who let me try booze and weed for the first time at her place, where she could keep an eye on me.

It had been less cool when she’d sprung a giant box of condoms on me after I’d told her I was going out on my first date.

But Ingrid was special. She was the first person I’d come out to.

“Nah. Taking a break from all that. What about you?”

“I haven’t been on a date in over ten years. Too old for that shit.”

“No one’s too old for that. Quit with the excuses.” I’d been hearing the same line from her for a long time. It would be one thing if she were aromantic, but I knew it was because she’d been hurt by her ex-wife and hadn’t wanted to risk putting herself back out there.

“Yeah, yeah. How’s the Holiday Hoopla event coming along?”

Normally, I wouldn’t censor myself when talking about festival work, but with Amos in the picture, I needed to be careful. Ingrid had a well-honed meter to assess my tones, and I didn’t want her jumping to any conclusions. Or to any truths.

“We’re making good progress. We’ve got the menu set and now we’re figuring out who can cook the food.”

“I assume you’re going to use the Red’s kitchen. You know I’m happy to help with anything. Since it’s free, it doesn’t need to be cooked in a commercial kitchen, right? I can cook at home.”

“Good question. I’ll ask Bo.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and smiled at a text from Amos.

Amos: [photo of a turkey with the neck and gizzards arranged like a penis and testicles]

Amos: The son of one of our cooks did this. So wrong but so funny.

“Who’s that?”

“Huh? Oh, Amos.”

She smiled wryly. “Amos Flynn? Interesting. Haven’t seen that smile in a while.”

“You’re not subtle.”

“Not trying to be, kiddo. Glad festival planning is going well.”

“It is. Better than I thought.” Even though Ingrid had always been my confidant in the family, she was a Brewer and Amos was a Flynn.

But still. A feeling of recklessness surged through me.

“Feels kind of silly I’ve ignored him all these years just because our great-grandads got in some pissing match and the entire town decided to take sides. ”

Ingrid paused in picking at the cheese and vegetable platter I’d brought over and turned toward me. Her expression was hard to describe. Maybe torn?

After glancing toward the living room where Dad cheered something, she lowered her voice. “There’s a lot of silly things about it.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

I wanted to press, but that never worked with Ingrid. I needed a Hail Mary before she started asking me things about Amos that I wasn’t ready to answer. Bo wanted to wait until after the holiday to tell people about Good Morning, USA, but…

“Want to know something Dad doesn’t?”

Ingrid closed the distance between us and smiled like a giddy teenager. “I live for knowing things your father doesn’t.”

“ Good Morning, USA is planning to come to town for the Christmas festival.”

Ingrid’s eyes widened. “You’re shitting me.”

“Bo’s freaking out.”

“I’m freaking out,” she hissed. “We need to deep-clean Red’s.

And finally fix the light on the sign. I’m almost done with that stained glass piece of the diner, so I’ll get that finished for the window.

” She paused. “I’ll ask Joe if I can put business cards for my glass work near it.

I might be able to get my online store off the ground.

” Hope shone in my aunt’s eyes. “What if I make enough money to finally take that European vacation?”

A lump formed in my throat. She’d been daydreaming and planning that vacation for as long as I could remember. Ingrid had created an Etsy store last year and made a ton of stock, but she’d had a hard time with the visibility. A national stage for her beautiful art could be a game-changer for her.

“Don’t tell Dad. He can’t keep a secret even if his life depends on it. I’ll get the green light to share it in a couple of days.”

“I won’t. I love knowing something huge he doesn’t.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “This is going to fuel me for weeks. Who needs the Fountain of Youth when there are secrets from siblings?”

I laughed. “Thanks.”

She pressed her palm between my shoulders. “This could be huge. Not only for Red’s, but for the town. It could help a lot of businesses.”

No pressure.

AMOS

Mickey: That’s the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t think I can look at a turkey again.

Amos: I’d say the same, except I know how good Mom’s turkey is. I could eat it every day. What’s your favorite Thanksgiving food?

Mickey: Pie is the only acceptable answer.

Amos: Pumpkin pie? Apple pie? Pecan pie? Maple pie?

Mickey: Yes.

Amos: LOL pie slut. So you’re a sweets over savory guy?

Mickey: Usually, though this is tasting pretty good.

Mickey: [photo of cheese]

Amos: YOU’RE SUCH A CHEESE TEASE! Is that THE cheese?

Mickey: It is.

“Are you going to help me or keep fucking around with your phone? We’ve got potatoes to peel.” Sage knocked my arm with their elbow.

There was merry chatter around us with about a dozen people in Sparky’s for our Thanksgiving dinner.

Sage and I stood in the corner of the kitchen doing our prep work while Mom whizzed around, juggling a half-dozen dishes in various stages of cooking.

She was a marvel in the kitchen. I wish I’d inherited even half her talent.

I slid my phone in my pocket and ignored the new buzz of a text. I itched to check it, but spending Thanksgiving texting with Mickey would only lead to questions I wasn’t interested in answering.

I’d never had to be so careful about my feelings toward a crush before. It was as exhausting as it was exhilarating. The more time I spent with Mickey, the more my feelings for him deepened, and the more frustrated I became with the circumstances we were in.

I’d been fortunate that growing up in Maplewood, I’d never felt like I needed to justify who I was attracted to. I hadn’t realized how different it was growing up in such a queer-friendly place until I’d made friends in college who’d come from very different experiences.