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Nell slept later than she’d meant to on Thursday morning, missing her usual time to make breakfast when the alarm clock didn’t go off. Based on the same clock, it was nearly noon.

She sat up, confused, and took in the empty space Barrett had left behind.

Even more surprisingly, the smell of food wafted faintly through the room. Not eggs and bacon, though. It was a lot more than that. Like roast chicken and something sweet, and a bunch of other smells she couldn’t place. It smelled like dinner.

But that wasn’t all.

There were voices. Quite a few of them, all overlapping and chaotic on the other side of Barrett’s door.

Nell rose, quickly dressing into something appropriate, and walked out to follow the smells into the kitchen.

Nell blinked, her eyebrows raising.

Five men were scattered around the kitchen, jumping from the oven to the sink to the counter—which was covered in dishes and ingredients—and a new table that had taken the spot of the coffee table and pushed all the other furniture to the side, making the living room look like a makeshift dining room instead.

Dennis was the first to notice her. “Well, good morning, sleeping beauty.” He was mixing something in a bowl on the counter. “How nice of you to finally join us.”

Nell shook her head. “What’s going on?”

Barrett, who was bent to stare at something in the oven, straightened and turned toward her.

Nell gasped at the frilly apron he wore.

It was dusted in flour and had streaks of blue running randomly over it.

Yet it still had a price tag hanging off the side like it was brand new.

Actually, as she looked around at everyone now facing her, she realized they all wore aprons.

Even Ron, who held a half-peeled potato in his hand, wore one.

A dream?

Barrett grinned and walked toward her. She didn’t move, staring suspiciously as he approached. He paused in front of her, with his fingers covered in the same blueish-purple stuff on his apron, leaned in, and pecked her on the lips.

So, not a dream.

Just some strange alternate reality or something.

“Surprise! Happy Thanksgiving,” Barrett said, dramatically throwing out his arms to show off the space. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Nell blinked again.

Oh. Now it made sense.

She looked at his fingers and the flour, the dots connecting. She searched the counter over his shoulder and saw the circular pan spread with dough and filling.

“Are you making blueberry pie?”

Barrett beamed, his shoulders relaxing. “See?” he called over his shoulder. “I told you she’d know what it was.”

Nell walked further into the kitchen, getting a better look at everything.

Toni was focused heavily on spreading something on a roast chicken, Paulie was slowly cutting vegetables, Dennis was mixing stuffing, and Ron was mashing potatoes.

Nell picked up a note card off the counter, and looking over it realized it was a recipe for blueberry pie.

“We’re using my mom’s recipes, so if anything is bad, you can blame her,” Dennis said, struggling against the stuffing.

“And they were out of turkeys so we’re using chicken,” Toni added.

Nell was almost at a loss for words. For one, she’d forgotten it was Thanksgiving. Usually, her mom would be the one fluttering around, making sure everything was ready. She probably had family in town, all asking where Nell was.

She was glad she’d forgotten.

She’d never expected to have a Thanksgiving dinner at all this year.

“Do you do this every year?” she asked Barrett.

“Not at all. Usually, Ron and I grab a pizza or something, but this year, we wanted to do a real dinner.”

Nell’s throat tightened. He didn’t need to say anything else for her to know exactly why they suddenly got into the festivities. It was because of her. They were all doing it for her.

“Can I help?” she asked, swallowing down the emotion and blinking away the stinging behind her eyes.

“You know how to weave a pie?”

“A bit.”

“Thank god. You can help me then.”

* * *

The dinner table was not set to perfection. There was no table runner, festive candles, or cornucopia decorations.

The stereo played Metallica rather than classical, and no one was dressed up in their Sunday best. No judging relatives, political discussions, or Macy’s parade.

It was antithetical to every Thanksgiving she’d ever attended before.

And it was the best she’d ever had.

They passed around the food in Tupperware and ate on plastic plates, and nothing looked perfect. She was the happiest she’d been in forever.

She was stuffed. Despite the chicken being slightly burnt on the outside, the inside was juicy and the stuffing flavorful. Dennis’s mom really did have the best recipes. Everything together was beautiful.

Their pie turned out nice; Nell used the weaving her mom had taught her, and it turned out pretty. Even though everyone was too full for a slice, they took one anyway.

She didn’t want the day to end.

She held onto Barrett’s hand as they cleared everything and moved the living room back into place, and just sat and talked and listened to music.

She curled into his side, content with her head on his shoulder as he animatedly talked about the track they’d just recorded for their demo.

Ron nursed a beer and just sat smiling on the side, observing them talk—just like her.

Everything was happy, and everything was warm, and everything was perfect.

She would snap a picture if she had a camera, hang it on the fridge, and label it as the best day of her life.

Thanksgiving, 1988.