Page 12 of The Stuffing Situation
He passed rolls with the effortless grace of someone who’d attended finishing school in a former life. He remembered every name with algorithmic precision. He carved the turkey with the reverence of a chef anointed by Gordon Ramsay and spiritually guided by Julia Child.
Sleeves rolled. Hair effortlessly tousled. A smile that could reform the faithless. Her younger cousins whispered in awe, convinced they were in the presence of a Disney prince. Her aunt offered him wine three times in ten minutes and definitely wasn’t measuring the pours.
It was… a lot.
Her aunt leaned over mid-bite of stuffing, eyes gleaming with too much red wine and the sort of curiosity only family could wield as a blunt instrument.
“Where’d you find this one?”
Maya choked on her water, coughing into her napkin. “The internet.”
Her aunt nodded approvingly. “Finally, someone’s using it for good. Was it one of those apps?”
“Something like that, yes,” Maya answered.
“Well, my coworker found someone on those apps, and he was married. You’re not married, are you, Felix?” She asked.
“No, hes not.” Maya blurted out.
Across the table, someone asked, “So, Felix, what do you do?”
He paused, just for a fraction of a second, like a buffering video.
“I’m a systems analyst. I specialize in data… optimization. Pattern prediction. And,” he blinked, as if a new idea had loaded midstream, “relational metrics.”
Everyone nodded sagely, as if that explained everything except her mother. “Huh, I thought he was a nurse.”
Her grandmother beamed, as if she’d personally built him in a garage with spare parts and a dream. “He’s so smart!”
“Technically, my IQ is—”
Maya kicked him under the table. Hard.
He blinked and adjusted.
She smiled sweetly, jaw clenched. “He’s also very humble.”
The table roared with laughter. The moment passed, but not for her. Every time he spoke, her family leaned in. Every time he smiled, someone sighed. He was syncing perfectly with them, answering questions, refilling glasses, even laughing at the right beat as if he’d been trained on a thousand Thanksgiving sitcom reruns.
And it should’ve been comforting, it should’ve been perfect, but instead, it felt as though watching a magician perform with her own heart as the prop.
When her grandpa raised a toast, sentimental and rambling, Felix met his rhythm seamlessly, even adding a warm, “To family,” in that deep, tone that made Maya’s aunts practically preen.
Her mom looked between them with the smugness of a matchmaker whose prophecy had just been fulfilled.
Then dessert descended, a sugar-fueled riot. Pumpkin pie, Pecan, Apple, Chocolate, A rogue lemon tart someone had panic-baked at 3 a.m. Kids ran victory laps around the table. Someone put on Mariah Carey and declared the Christmas season officially launched.
It wasn’t even Black Friday, although technically that started on Tuesday nowadays. No longer waiting in the cold to fight over a blender that was $10 off and would be cheaper in two weeks, everything done online almost defeated the purpose.
Maya tried to laugh, to join in, but her chest felt full. not with joy, but static. She couldn’t stop tracking Felix. Every gesture, every micro-smile, every gentle correction when her cousin almost dropped a glass. He belonged here. Too well.
* * *
Maya stood in the doorway of the kitchen, frozen in place. Watching him.
Felix was crouched beside her little cousin, gently guiding her away from a still-steaming casserole dish. He explained the “fluffy chemistry” of whipped cream with the patience of a kindergarten teacher and the vocabulary of a soft-spoken scientist.
Her cousin giggled. Her mom watched from the corner, eyes soft.