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FORTY-TWO

Ella

SOME FAMILIES DRESS up for Thanksgiving—jeans, skirts, button-downs, blouses. Not my family. Leggings and sweat-pants aren’t just suggested, they’re highly encouraged. There’s nothing worse than overindulging and having to sneakily unbutton your jeans at the dinner table. May as well get ahead of it and wear stretchy pants to accommodate the inordinate amount of potatoes and pie you’ll eat.

Blake thought I was kidding when I said that every inch of our kitchen would be covered in a dish or platter. When he comes inside after playing “American” football on Thanks-giving Day with my dad and brother, his jaw drops. He’s frozen as he watches Murphy follow my mom around, begging for scraps of food.

The five of us are in food comas after dinner. Blake tried everything my mom made, which put the biggest smile on her face, but now he’s complaining that even his sweats feel tight. Tyler’s sprawled out on the floor, claiming he’ll throw up if he moves. My mom doesn’t care. Nothing is going to stop our Thanksgiving Scrabble tournament. Not even Blake’s inability to spell things the American way. Colour, color. Centre, center. Aeroplane, airplane. Another world war almost breaks out when Blake starts using both British and American spellings for words, choosing whichever fits his tiles more favorably.

“I’m challenging that word,” Tyler tells Blake for the tenth time in the past hour. “ Aubergine sounds made up.”

I blow air out of my mouth loudly. This game is going to go on all night if Tyler keeps this up. “It’s a real word, Ty. It’s what they call eggplants in England.”

“They call eggplants aubergines?” The disbelief in his voice is comical. “You’re kidding, right?”

“ Gormless was a real word,” my dad interferes neutrally. “I don’t think he’s making it up.”

Tyler huffs and searches the word on his phone. Blake watches him, the edges of his lips curling into a smirk. The two of them have been overly competitive at everything since meeting. Football, video games, who can lift more. Now Scrabble.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tyler swears under his breath. “It’s a stupid British eggplant.”

“Language,” my parents warn him.

Blake adds twenty-eight points to his tally for the double word score his tiles fall on. He’s now beating Tyler by five points. Neither of them seems to care that I’m kicking both of their asses by twenty points. I’m zoning out as my mom takes her turn when my phone rings. Standing up before anyone can object, I head to my dad’s study to take the call.

“Hello?” I answer the phone.

“Ella!” Remi greets me. “How’re you?”

“Very full.” I sit in my dad’s oversized office chair. “I just ate my weight in turkey and cornbread.”

“I hope you’re getting stuffed in more ways than one,” she jokes. Suddenly, she lets out a string of expletives. “Oh my God, it’s Thanksgiving! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. It completely skipped my mind.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I assure her. “I can use a break from Scrabble. It’s getting a bit intense.”

Her contagious giggle carries through the phone. “Well, I was just calling to tell you that I read over your business plan and think it’s brilliant.”

“Really?” I tighten my grasp on my phone so it doesn’t slip out of my clammy hand. “I can handle the criticism if you think it’s bad.”

“It’s great, Ella,” she congratulates me. “I love the mix of interviews and commentary. And how you want to segment each episode? So clever.”

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until it comes heaving out of me. When Remi offered to look over my business plan, I knew it would be dumb to turn her down; she’s mastered the indie podcast world.

“I have a few ideas,” she continues, “but we can chat tomorrow. I don’t want to barge in on your family time.”

I can hear Tyler yelling that there’s no fucking way codger is a real word. Dear Lord. I bite back a laugh when my dad asks if Larry David would be considered a codger. The fact that I can hear them through the door means I’m safer in here than I am out there.

“Trust me, Remi. You’re not.”

Blake’s head pops in sometime later. I’m still on the phone, but I wave him in. He closes the door quietly behind him; leaning against the desk, he waits as I finish up the call.

“Everything good?” he asks after I’ve hung up.

I glance at my watch; I’ve been in here for almost an hour. Swiveling the chair so it’s facing him, I make sure he’s not bleeding or bruised thanks to Tyler. “Sorry for leaving you to fend for yourself. Did you survive your hazing?”

“Your brother’s brain may have short-circuited,” Blake whispers conspiratorially. “But we had fun. How was your call?”

“It was good. Remi asked me what you meant when you said you loved me so much you’d put popping candy on your dick.”

Blake groans into his hands. Out of everything he said on the podcast, people are really focused on what he meant by that. “What’d you say?”

“I told her I’d come on her show and give her the exclusive,” I tease, poking his rock-hard abs.

“Hardy har har,” he grunts before ruffling my hair. “Now tell me about the call. Did she say you’re the most brilliant woman in the entire world?”

“Not exactly,” I reply. “But she did finish reading my business plan and said it was really good.”

“Of course she did.” Blake nods like he was expecting that answer. “What’d she say about still using Coffee with Champions as the name even with all the changes and updates you want to make?”

“She thinks it’s totally fine,” I answer. “She also told me about this co-working space in SoHo that I should look into. There are a lot of entrepreneurs who work out of there, which could be good for networking.”

“SoHo is above Tribeca, right? Poppy tried teaching me Manhattan geography.”

“What? No.”

“Oh.” His brows furrow together. “What’s it near then? I can’t keep them all straight.”

“No, SoHo as in … well, I don’t actually know why it’s called SoHo there, but I’m talking about London, not New York.”

“What?” He flinches back slightly. “London?”

“Yeah.” It comes out as more of a question than a statement. “Why would Remi know about an office building in Manhattan?”

Blake scratches his cheek, parting his lips like he wants to say something. The way he keeps tilting his head is exactly what Murphy does when you say “treat” or “play ball” in a high-pitched voice.

“I assumed you’d want to be back in New York.” He tugs at my hands, pulling me up from the chair. I lean against him, wrapping my arms around his waist. My body molds against his like he was sculpted just for me. “I’d buy a place and we could be there in between races. That’s why I was learning the neighborhoods.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “You’d do that?”

“Of course.” He looks offended that I even had to ask. “I love you, El, and if that’s where you want to live, that’s where I want to be, too.”

I’m not sure how many times I’m going to need to hear him say he loves me before it stops being my favorite phrase of all time.

“I’ll miss the bagels and pizza,” I concede, “but I’ve done all I wanted to do in New York. I can always visit. I’m ready for something new. Plus, I’m crazy in love with this cute guy who lives in London.”

“Cute? I’d say so ridiculously good-looking you can barely be in a room with him without wanting to tear his clothes off.” He squeezes my ass, drawing me tighter against him. A lopsided grin appears on his lips. “I pinky promise you’re going to love London. It’ll feel like home in no time.”

I pull his lips against mine. “You’re my home.”

“You’re mine, too, baby.”