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THEN AND NOW

Sabrina

A year ago on Thanksgiving, I walked up the steps to my parents’ home next to Chad, a huge knot in my chest. I looked up at the brass knocker on the familiar doorway of my parents’ stately white mansion, but it hardly felt like I belonged there.

I turned to Chad, nerves twisting inside me, and smoothed a hand over my silk blouse as I asked, “Do I look okay?”

If I didn’t look the part, the criticism would come. I’d worn a long, flowy skirt, a demure navy shirt, and pearls.

Pearls.

“You look fantastic,” he said, then gripped my hand, squeezing my monster-sized ring.

But the knot in my chest tightened even more uncomfortably then. I held a tray of oven roasted turkey in my hands. My mother had asked me to swing by the caterers to pick it up because, as it turned out, she didn’t have enough for her special guests from the club.

She’d even asked me to taste it, to make sure it was good. I had asked Chad to try it instead. The whole time I spent there that day, I was sure I would be critiqued—for the turkey, for the clothes, for my life.

But I was with Chad, the son of my father’s business partner, so everything was fine for a while. A respite, when I was free from the critiques, thanks to a choice they approved of.

Now, I’m walking up the steps to Tyler’s home, bouncing along in my sneakers and jeans, with Luna and Parker by my side. I took them to the park with Trevyn and Barbara-dor to burn off some holiday morning energy. And because Tyler said he had a surprise for us.

When I walk into the foyer with the crew, the voices carry all the way from the kitchen. But they’re different than the voices at my parents’ home, where everyone was tense, clipped. Now, the voices are teasing, playful.

“Dude. You do not make risotto until the end, okay?” That’s Miles.

“That makes no sense,” Tyler replies.

“It makes all the sense,” Miles says. “You can’t reheat it. It tastes bad reheated. You need to serve it fresh.”

“Seriously?” Tyler sounds doubtful, but worried too—like he wants this risotto dish to be just right.

“Just trust me on this,” Miles says, warm and reassuring. “We’ll tackle something else instead.”

There’s rustling in the kitchen as we kick off our shoes. Trevyn raises his eyebrows, curious. “What’s the surprise?”

I turn to Luna. “Do you have any idea?”

“Nope,” she says, unbothered, but that’s life for a ten-year-old.

“Don’t ask me,” Parker says with a shrug. “Cooking is hard. Science is easy. ”

“Little man, cooking is science,” Trevyn says to Parker, ruffling his hair.

We all head into the kitchen, where Tyler and Miles are wearing aprons.

Miles’s apron is covered in illustrations of dogs and the words Dogs—For Whom Everything Is Exciting. And Tyler’s black and red apron says, Don’t Ask Me. I’m Just Here for the Food.

Miles swats Tyler’s hand as he tries to sneak a taste of mashed potatoes. “Watch it, Little Falcon.”

“I made them,” Tyler says, indignant.

“And I know your style. You’ll eat them all before we sit down. Let’s focus on the cranberries,” Miles instructs, and both the brotherly diss and the brotherly love make me smile.

They must realize we’re here since they look up at the same time. Tyler turns his gaze to the clock. “I didn’t realize you were back yet from the park,” he says, sounding a little concerned.

“I hope we didn’t ruin your surprise,” I say, feeling bad that maybe we walked in too soon. On the risotto perhaps?

Miles punches Tyler’s arm. “Nope. Because Little Falcon got it wrong, but I’m here to save the day. Like I told you I would on the plane.”

Tyler scoffs. “Pretty sure I did that already with my epic mashed potatoes.”

“I love mashed potatoes,” I say. “And really, all sides.”

I scan the evidence of Thanksgiving prep across the counter: the sliced-up Brussels sprouts, the mashed potatoes, the fresh cranberries. The smells of the holiday mingle—rosemary and butter, tart cranberries, and fresh rolls.

And then I catch a hint of Tyler. That woodsmoke scent that catches me off guard in the best of ways.

He looks caught off guard too, though almost bashful as he glances from Luna to me.

“Anyway, the surprise is still happening. But it’s not a surprise anymore.

I thought I’d make you a mushroom risotto for a main dish.

One we serve with the turkey. For the vegetarians in my life.

But I have to do it last, it turns out.”

Luna gasps, then runs over to him and gives him a side hug. “You’re the best, Dad.”

Tyler hugs her back, and joy warms his hazel eyes.

But relief does too. Like he’s glad he did right by her.

I want to do the same as Luna—rush over and hug him in thanks.

But I can’t, and a twinge of sadness digs into me for a few seconds.

I clasp my hands behind my back, twisting my fingers together like I need to hold myself back.

Trevyn tosses me a look that says, Girl, you’ve got it bad.

My heart squeezes even more as Tyler gives Luna a kiss on the forehead.

“I wanted you two to have something special,” he says, then looks to Parker. “And I have plenty of turkey for you.”

“Thanks, Dad. You’re a turkey.”

“You’re a turkey,” he retorts, then gobbles, and Parker cracks up.

As he laughs, Tyler swings his gaze my way, his eyes hopeful. And the twinge in me vanishes. “Thank you,” I say.

It’s the nicest surprise, his risotto plans. What’s nicer is that those twisting, corkscrew feelings from last year never surface.

Later in the day, as Trevyn and I build a Lego tuxedo cat with Parker, a warm nutmeg scent drifts through the living room. Trevyn nudges me and says, “Is someone baking a pumpkin pie?”

Parker’s eyes light up. “Does it have gummy bears in it? ”

Trevyn shudders Parker’s way. “That sounds nasty.”

“Have you ever tried pumpkin pie with gummy bears in it?” Parker counters, never one to back down from the scientific method.

Trevyn pauses, as if he’s giving that some thought. “Actually, no. Have you?”

“Nope. But I’m willing to take my chances.”

Trevyn shakes his head but laughs. “Then I will too.”

Soon, other family members arrive. Tyler’s mom and Harvey, then Leighton with her camera, then Tyler and Miles’s grandmother Birdie, with a tray of toffee caramel bars.

Charlie’s here too, checking on everything in the kitchen and I instantly develop a friend crush on their little sister.

Tyler’s moving around in a focused flurry, getting advice from Miles every step of the way.

The man of the house looks both overwhelmed and focused, like he’s got this even as information comes at him from all angles and he opens ovens, stirs pots, and chops vegetables.

The kitchen is buzzing, but I can’t simply sit on the couch.

My job is to be a helper. To help with kids and the house, and the kids are occupied with Lauren right now, working on a puzzle of the solar system since the Lego cat is done.

So I slip into the kitchen. It’s more natural for me to offer a hand anyway, so I tell Tyler to let me work on the Brussels sprouts.

“Thanks,” he says with a big sigh. “I’d appreciate it.”

I had a feeling he needed that. And I like being there for him. Especially when he sets a hand on my back as he moves past me, sliding his fingers across the fabric of my shirt.

It’s out of sight from anyone else. But still, I keep thinking of our rule: No little sneaky displays of affection.

It feels like he broke it.

And I like it.

But Tyler refuses to let me touch the pumpkin pie. As it’s baking (without gummy bears), I peer across the open kitchen to the dining room. “I’ll finish setting the table,” I say.

He grabs my arm. It’s not overly romantic, but I do scan around to see if anyone’s looking. No one is. “You don’t have to do…that stuff,” he says, with a hint of…worry perhaps in his voice?

“I don’t mind,” I say, and really, this is so much more fun than last year when hired help scurried around my parents’ home, setting everything up.

I sat awkwardly in the pristinely appointed living room, entertaining my mother’s rich friends from the country club, asking about their grandchildren and bridge clubs and book clubs where no one read anything by an author who didn’t look like them.

Tyler pulls me deeper into the kitchen, closer to the hallway, out of earshot of everyone. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. To set the table. And stuff.”

I think I know what he means by and stuff . He doesn’t want me to feel any expectations—that sex means we’re a couple.

But my desire to help isn’t coming from there. It’s coming from me wanting to do a great job. “I’m the nanny. It’s okay. My job is to make everything easier for you.”

“Sabrina.” He whispers my name with a plea. “You’ve made my life easier. It’s okay. I want you to sit down and enjoy yourself.”

“I will. I promise. I want to help.” Maybe there’s a bit of a plea in my voice. But it’s hard for me to abandon this intense desire to do a good job.

“You can hang with Trevyn. You are doing a great job. You don’t have to be…perfect,” he whispers, seeing straight through me and serving up a shot of truth right to my heart. A truth I didn’t expect, but maybe one I need.

I think of Elena. The things we’ve worked on over the years. The letting go of my perfectionist tendencies. True, I haven’t told her about Tyler, but at least I can honor this —the things she’s helped me with.

“Thank you,” I say.

But before I go, he asks with anticipation and nerves, “Have you heard anything?”

It’s adorable. The way he’s as eager to hear from Little Friends as I am. I re-signed up for the foster kitten list and have been waiting. It’s been two days—slightly less than forty-eight hours—and nothing.

“Not yet. I keep checking,” I say.

“Let me know the second you hear.”

“I will,” I say, promising once again.