Chapter 13

 

 

November

 

“FUCK, FUCK, fuck!” I say as a thin tendril of smoke snakes toward me. By the time I turn back to the stove from jerking the charred toast out the toaster oven, the eggs have congealed in the pan. They don’t smell burned, though, so I scrape them onto the plate. I put more bread in the toaster, tipping the burned pieces in the trash. I hate wasting food, but no way am I serving Rex charcoal. Aside from the fact that it’s pretty embarrassing to have an advanced degree and not be able to apply heat to bread evenly, it’s not really the message of comfort I want to send.

Granted, maybe cooking isn’t the best medium for the message, but I wanted to do something for Rex to make up for our disastrous date last night. The toaster oven dings and I grab the toast, miraculously unburned, and scrape some butter onto it.

“What’re you doing?”

Rex appears in the doorway just as I’m about to carry the plate to him, wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. He looks warm and sleepy.

“I was going for breakfast in bed, but….”

“Sorry,” Rex smiles. “Want me to go get back in bed?”

What a question. He looks positively edible himself, with his powerful shoulders braced in the doorway and the muscular expanse of his chest and stomach taking up the whole space between. His hair is messy and his stubble makes his full mouth look amazing.

“Hell yes,” I say, but in the time I’ve been gawking at him, he’s already started to move toward me. He sits on one of the stools at the counter and pulls me to stand between his legs. He looks serious, like he’s trying really hard not to bring up last night’s confession about his dyslexia but badly wants to. Then he pulls the plate toward him and his expression softens.

“I can’t believe you cooked,” he says, picking up his fork while keeping one arm twined around my waist. “Here, share with me.” Oh, right. I only made one plate.

He forks some egg into his mouth, still looking at me fondly. Then his expression becomes studiedly neutral. He chews slowly. Swallows. Tries to smile. He puts down the fork and picks up the toast, looking relieved as he takes a bite. He puts the toast down and pats my back.

“It okay?” I say.

Rex nods, but doesn’t open his mouth. He’s patting my back like you would an elderly relation.

“Rex,” I say. “Is it bad?”

He coughs a little and clears his throat.

“It was a real sweet thought, Daniel,” he says. He kisses my cheek and pulls the plate closer to him with a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He takes another bite of egg, but before he gets it to his mouth he sighs and looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Um,” he says.

“What the hell?” I say, and I grab the fork from his hand and eat the eggs.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

“Fuck!” I say. “That tastes like death. Why the hell did you eat it?”

Rex starts chuckling.

I take a bite of the toast—that, at least, can’t be bad. It’s not even burned.

Wrong.

The toast tastes like I pulled it out of a burning building, the congealed butter only adding to the gross consistency. I look at Rex desperately. How can eggs and toast possibly taste that bad?

“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” Rex says, laughing, but he pulls me to him and kisses me, so it barely even stings.

“Ew, get away,” I say. “You taste like death eggs and fire toast!”

Rex laughs deeply and buries his face in my hair.

 

 

THE NEXT week, Rex and I hang out at his house a lot. It’s this weird feeling I haven’t had since I was a kid: this sense that I want to spend all my time with someone. The last time I felt it was with Corey Appleton in seventh grade. I was captivated by him, just wanted to watch him do… whatever. The way he sharpened his pencil seemed to suggest something deeply contemplative about his character and his choice of apple juice over soda at lunch indicated a sweetness that pulled me in. Of course, when I groped him after school, sure that his companionable arm around my shoulder was a message, my heart pounding so hard with hope that I thought I might pass out, I found that nothing about his pencil-sharpening gestures or his choice of beverages had indicated shit. There was nothing sweet about the way he shoved me against the brick and definitely nothing contemplative about the way he told everyone at school what I did.

I’ve learned a lot about Rex this week too. He really is shy. I can see how hard he works to be polite to strangers, but years of saying as little as possible to avoid stuttering has made him terse. It’s clearly made people intimidated by him.

He’s also incredibly healthy. He exercises and eats well and stays hydrated, but he’s not obnoxious about it. It’s like his body is the only thing he can depend on, so he tries to make it run as well as possible, like customizing a luxury car.

There’s something about Rex that makes me feel calm. As if I’m scattered until the moment I see him and when he touches me I fly back together in a configuration that makes sense.

And ever since he told me about his dyslexia, things feel more settled between us or something. It makes sense, in that it must have been weighing on him, trying to keep it a secret. At first, I was surprised it didn’t come out sooner. I mean, how many times might I have asked him to read something to me or look something up? Then, when I thought about it, it became clear how hard he’s worked to make sure those situations didn’t arise. How much thought he must’ve put into avoiding them. How on edge he must have been, wondering if he’d be forced to out himself every time we were together. I hate that he felt like he had to do that, but I’m glad he can just relax now.

He’s worked incredibly hard to educate himself. Partly as a reaction to people thinking he was stupid due to his dyslexia, and partly because he’s just interested. He’s taught himself vocabulary and listened to books on CD.

He keeps trying to teach me to cook, but I’m hopeless, mostly because when he starts moving around the kitchen all I can do is watch him. He’ll be explaining how to mince something or how long it takes to make a hardboiled egg, and I’ll be watching the way his muscles bunch as he wields the knife or the way he blows his hair off his forehead. When he’s trying to show me how to roll out pasta dough or knead bread, I’m looking at his huge hands and strong forearms (which I’m basically obsessed with).

Once, I was so distracted by the thought of him kneading my ass the way he was kneading the bread that I was shocked to find cheese in the bread when I bit into it. Rex thought that was quite amusing, but I think he knows how hot I find watching him in the kitchen and milks it on purpose. Jesus, no wonder I can never re-create anything I see him do.

I’m cutting up pears for some delicious-sounding dessert when Rex comes up behind me, slow so he won’t startle me into cutting my finger off. He learned the hard way that I zone out sometimes when he came up behind me while I was making a fire and I almost clobbered him with a large piece of kindling.

“Sweetheart,” he says against my neck, “you don’t need to make everything so exact. You can just chop it up. It doesn’t need to be so much work.”

“I am just cutting it up,” I say. He’s said this to me before, but I’m not sure why he wouldn’t want it done perfectly since it’s about the only thing I can do when it comes to cooking.

“Here, look,” Rex says, easing the knife from my hand but keeping his arms around me. Hmm, it really shouldn’t be so hot to have Rex around me with a knife….

In a few easy, practiced movements he takes the pear apart. He knows exactly how deep to cut to miss the core, just how much force it takes to rend the flesh. It’s effortless.

Everything seems this effortless for him. He just has this way with objects, like, at his touch, the world becomes manageable, falling into place to be taken apart or put back together at his will.

“Got it,” I say, my throat suddenly thick with something like jealousy at Rex’s ease. Except I know it’s not that simple. Hell, I know just how uncomfortable he often is because of his shyness, his dyslexia. I still can’t help but feel like a major failure for not noticing his dyslexia earlier.

He puts the knife down and picks up a bit of pear, holding it up for me. I eat it from his hand, then kiss him, knowing he can taste it on my tongue.

“I know you think you have to be perfect at work. Out there,” he says, gesturing with his shoulder while keeping both hands on the counter, trapping me against his body. “But you don’t have to try so hard here. Not with me.”

I open my mouth to protest. But… is that what I’m doing? I never thought about it like that. I suppose I have been… on my best behavior around Rex. But that’s just because I don’t want to scare him off. I look down at Rex’s big feet, unsure of what to say.

“I just meant, you don’t have to think so much about everything you do.”

Yeah, I’ve heard that before. I challenge you to find someone who went to grad school who hasn’t.

“You know, it’s not actually that easy to just change the way you think.” It comes out a little more bitter than I meant it to.

“Daniel.” He cups my chin and forces me to look at him. “I get it. The self-consciousness? Believe me.” He huffs out a breath. “But I’ve seen you try so hard to figure out what someone was thinking about you that your eyes about crossed. You’re thinking about things all the time. How people react to you. If they misinterpreted what you said, understood your joke. You’re so used to feeling like you don’t fit in that you’re always trying to be one step ahead. Figure out which Daniel’s called for in the situation. But….”

He trails off, stroking my hair like he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.

“But?” I prompt.

“But you can’t read people’s minds, baby. You can’t always figure out what’s gonna happen just by being smart. And even if you could—” He shakes his head. “—you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to try so hard to fit in because you’re scared.”

I tense, but Rex’s hand is still gentle in my hair.

“I know, I know, you’re never scared, right?” He gives me an unreadable smirk. Amused? Doubtful? Indulgent? “Just, people are gonna like you or they aren’t. There’s no sense in trying to change how you act to suit them. It’ll just drive you crazy.”

I open my mouth to say something, to insist that I don’t do that. But then Rex is kissing me, holding me in place with his soft hands and his hard body, until all I can think about is how damn good he smells and how amazing he feels.

“I like you, Daniel. Just you. I like you so much.” Rex’s voice is low and sincere and I can feel in his kiss how much he means it. It makes me feel… treasured. Appreciated in a way I don’t recognize. “And I want to keep getting to know you. The real you. Okay?”

“I… like you too. A lot.” Jeez, and the award for Understatement of the Century goes to…. But he’s right. I love getting to learn all the strange little things that make Rex Rex. I may have been on my best behavior with him, but I’ve also been more relaxed when I’m around him than I can ever remember being with anyone but Ginger.

“Like, you know that feeling,” I try to explain, “where it’s Sunday night and you have school or work the next morning but then it’s a snow day and you don’t have to go in? You feel like that.”

“I feel like a natural disaster?” he teases, but his gaze is intent.

“No,” I say, forcing myself to say what I mean. “A relief. You feel like a huge relief.”

Rex’s eyes go very soft.

“You feel like a relief too, Daniel,” he says.

I decide to take Ginger’s advice, pushing down the roiling fear of rejection in my gut. “Hey, Rex?” I ask. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Nothing,” he says, his eyes narrowing.

“Would you want to maybe have it with me?” I try my best to keep my tone casual so he doesn’t feel any pressure to say yes.

“Yes,” Rex says instantly. “Yes, please.” He kisses me hard and pulls me into his arms.

“I like this whole not overthinking thing,” I tell him.

 

 

SO, YEAH, this week has been pretty great until I run into Will at Mr. Zoo’s when I go to invite Leo to Thanksgiving. And I remember that he knew about Rex’s dyslexia and purposely hid it from me. Until I remember that he’s touched Rex and therefore I hate him. Okay, so, apparently I’ve also turned jealous and irrational this week. At least where Rex is concerned.

Will and Leo don’t notice me at first. Leo’s behind the counter and Will is leaning on it, his chin in his hand as Leo talks quietly. When I wave, Leo turns bright red, as if I’ve caught him doing something he shouldn’t be. Will just straightens up and levels me with a look that dares me to tease them about their obvious flirting.

“Hey, Daniel, how’s it going?” Leo asks, fiddling with the tape dispenser.

“Can I have a word?” I say to Will, and walk back outside before he can answer.

“Let me guess,” Will says, as he leans against the shop window. “This is about Rex.”

Now that he’s standing in front of me I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking. What I want to say is, “Why didn’t you fucking tell me about Rex’s dyslexia!” But, why would he? He barely knows me. Rex was his lover. It’s not his place to say a goddamned thing. But I’m so angry with him for knowing and so angry with myself for not noticing that I say it anyway.

“Excuse me?” Will says.

“Fuck!” I say. “I know, I know. Never mind. Goddammit!”

“Look, Daniel, everyone Rex has ever cared about either died on him or left town, okay? Then, here’s you. The hot professor from Philly who’s slumming it in our little town until something better comes along. I mean, I get it; I do. You’re so Rex’s type it isn’t even funny. The perfect lost cause. I’m not surprised he’s all over you like a dog on a bone. But, before you come in here with your accusations and your self-fucking-righteous demands about Rex, I want to ask you one question. Are you here to stay? Or the second the ivory tower says jump are you going to say From what window?

“Because, in case you can’t tell, Rex thinks you might just be passing through. I can tell just by looking at you together: he’s hung up on you something good, but a part of him won’t let himself open up to you because he thinks you’ll be fucking out of here on the next train. Frankly, I’m shocked he told you about his dyslexia. And if I were a betting man, I’d say he didn’t. I’d say it came up some other way and he was too much of a mensch to outright lie to you about it. So you just watch yourself, Daniel, is what I’m saying. You’re crazy about him; I can see that too. But I don’t trust you. I think you’re scared and I think, when it comes down to it, that you’ll hurt him.”

Will delivers this whole monologue without pausing or looking away once.

Fuck. When he puts it like that, I guess Rex really did only tell me about his dyslexia because of our shitty date. Was it not actually a sign that he trusted me, but just a sign that he felt sorry for me? Would he have told me otherwise? I don’t know.

And even though I should be furious at Will for what is clearly his low opinion of me, the way he told me off reminds me so much of Ginger that I’m filled with a rush of warmth and longing. Longing for Ginger, but also the briefest thought that maybe Will and I could be friends.

“Do you want to come to Rex’s for Thanksgiving?” I ask him. And I allow myself a brief moment of satisfaction as his self-possessed mask falls away and he looks genuinely surprised and, I think, a bit pleased.

 

 

“DANG, I like this Will guy—sorry, pumpkin. He’s so got your number.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So…” Ginger pauses. “Are you going to stay? I know you didn’t want to at first. You said you were going to go on the job market again.”

“I dunno, Ginge.” I’m sure she can hear the conflict in my voice. “I mean, I’ll definitely at least look at the job list when it comes out. See if there’s anything too good to pass up. But… fuck, I really don’t know. I just never thought I’d be in this position. God, I used to pity the people who had partners they had to take into account when they were on the job market. It just makes everything harder.”

“Partners, huh?”

“What? No, I just meant—”

“I know what you meant; don’t hurt yourself.”

“So, we’re having Thanksgiving. Me and Rex.”

“That’s great, sweet cheeks. I’ll be eating The Burrito with my window open, so if I choke while I’m alone then the smell of my rotting corpse will waft out the window and I’ll be found more quickly,” she says dramatically.

“I think having the window open in November would make it so your corpse didn’t really smell that much, actually. Seriously, though, you’re not going to your parents’ at all?”

“Psh. I might stop by,” she says. “Of course, it’s not much use trying to go to dinner at the house of someone who sucks up all the oxygen in the room. Makes it kinda hard to eat, ya know?”

Ginger’s mother is the kind of nervous, hovering woman who counts how many glasses of wine Ginger’s had and tells her about all the neighbors’ children’s accomplishments but never acknowledges Ginger’s. It doesn’t help that Ginger’s older sister is certifiably off her nut and always needs to be the center of attention, or that her parents refuse to say her older brother’s name and pretend that they never had a son.

“Christ,” I say. “Do we know anyone with a normal fucking family?” There’s a charged silence on the line. “Ginge?”

“Well, actually….”

“Actually…?”

“I kind of… met someone. And his family seems about as normal as they come.”

“Holy shit, you already met his family? Tell me.”

“Well…. You know him, actually. You remember that sandwich place that opened down the street from the shop at the beginning of the summer?”

“The one you said had real bagels?”

“Yeah. Anyway, you remember the cute guy who worked there?”

“Uh, dude, not to judge, seriously, but that guy’s like eighteen.”

“No, not the kid with the glasses! The redhead.”

“Oh shit, right. He’s hot, in a Josh Homme kind of way.”

“I know, right? That’s exactly what I thought. I went in there for a bagel and cream cheese a few weeks ago before I opened the shop. I was half-asleep—you know how I am before I’ve had my coffee—and I dropped the bagel on the floor as I was putting cream in my coffee.”

“Uh-oh. Thou hast not seen rage like the rage of a Ginger sans bagel and coffee.”

“Seriously. So, I drop the bagel and I’m just like swearing a blue streak, right? And that’s when he comes in the door. And he looks at glasses guy behind the counter in horror—like, what the hell did you do to make this lady lose her shit. Glasses guy’s kind of terrified, so I say, ‘Oh, no, it was my fault; I just dropped my bagel,’ thinking he’d nod and smile. But he walked behind the counter and made me another bagel and cream cheese, then put it in a bag with three other bagels and filled up a to-go container of cream cheese—that awesome chive stuff. And he hands it to me and says—get this: ‘Just in case the vagaries of your day find you needing another one.’ I mean, who the fuck says that? At first I thought, ruh roh: potential overly sincere Renaissance festival douchebag? But then he winked at me. A really filthy, flirtatious wink. And, of course, I went back for another bagel the next day.”

“That’s hot, Ginge. So, you’ve met his family?”

“Oh, not intentionally. Turns out glasses guy is his cousin and his dad comes by to fix stuff in the shop all the time. His mom sometimes brings him lunch. It’s hilarious. Every time he’s all, ‘Mom, I make food here,’ and she’s like, ‘give your mother a kiss and shut your mouth.’ Priceless, babycakes! Anyway, they’re so nice.”

“So, why don’t you have Thanksgiving with him? What’s his name, by the way, so I don’t just think of him as Josh Homme—or as The Ginger, which would be confusing.”

“His name’s Christopher. And I don’t know. I think it’s too soon. Like, he’ll be having dinner at his parents’ and we only started dating a couple of weeks ago, so.”

“You could always invite him over for a postdinner Thanksgiving burrito at your place,” I offer.

“Huh. Not a bad idea, sweetie. Not a bad idea at all.”

 

 

“CAN YOU grab some butter?” Rex asks me.

We’re at the grocery store buying some last-minute additions for Thanksgiving dinner. Or, security items, really, since Rex has planned about three alternate dinner menus. Really, I have no idea what we’ll be eating, except that there’s a turkey, which I got back to his house yesterday to find in the sink.

We’ve already been to an indoor farmer’s market about twenty miles from here that Rex apparently frequents, where I embarrassed myself in front of several vendors and Rex by buying fennel because I thought it was the celery Rex sent me to get, so god knows why he’s asking me to pick up anything. Still, I can hardly fuck up butter, can I?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rex says, “I need unsalted. I should’ve told you to get the red package.”

The box I’m holding is blue.

“Never mind. We’ll just grab it when we get over there,” Rex says, obviously writing me off as a shopping buddy entirely. Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty content to trail along behind him while he looks at food. He dragged me out of bed at six this morning to get to the farmer’s market before they could sell out of… whatever he bought there. He made three pies last night as well as some kind of sauce for something. And I’ve never seen him so excited as when we were wandering through the market. It feels strangely domestic. I’ve never cared about cooking, obviously. But I haven’t really cared that much about eating either. I mean, it’s a necessary thing that sometimes tastes good, but especially when I’m by myself, it’s just a chore. An interruption, like laundry or cleaning.

But Rex makes cooking and eating feel like part of my life—our lives. He expresses something of himself through cooking. Not just his personality, but his care. It’s like he cares about what I eat—if it’s healthy, if I like it. And so everything to do with it feels important. Even grocery shopping. Because I can feel him looking at the food the way you’d look at a shelter dog or something: as a thing that might come home with you, if it’s the right fit. Something that will be incorporated into our lives. Life. Our life.

It’s all there in the way he chooses an onion or a bagful of apples, his attention totally focused on it. I can see the path from apples in the store to apple pie. Can see his hands kneading the pie crust. And I realize that the more I pay attention to Rex as he moves through the store, the less I think about myself. The less I notice if people are staring at me and the less I wonder what they’re thinking. The less I pay attention to who sees when I knock over a pyramid of limes.

I noticed that this week, when we were talking. When I paid close attention to Rex, it was like I escaped the present. Kind of like I do when I’m reading. It’s so fucked. I started reading and making up stories to escape how shitty things were. Then, that habit made it hard for me to be back in the real world—hard to connect with anyone. Which made me super self-conscious and want to escape. Jesus. Anyway, I’ve decided that if I’m going to escape, it’s better to escape into Rex than into a fantasy world where no one will ever find me.

 

 

THE SECOND we’ve unloaded the groceries, Rex remembers something he forgot and runs back out to get it. Will and Leo are coming over to help us cook, and Rex promised them breakfast, so I’m going to give it a go. Rex didn’t look impressed by this idea when I yelled it to him as he was walking out the door, but he gave me a resigned smile of what I can only assume is the thank-god-I-bought-extra-eggs variety and nodded, so I guess that’s that.

I’ve seen him make pancakes and I know I can look up a recipe online, so I think it’ll be fine. I’m not even going to try eggs again because I still can’t figure out how they tasted so disgusting the last time, and I’m not risking it again. Pancakes and bacon and then Rex will put us all to work on dinner.

The bacon is in and I’m pouring the first pancake into the pan when Leo and Will show up, bickering.

“It’s set in the eighties,” Will is saying. “That does not qualify as historical fiction, even if you didn’t happen to live through the decade. Wait.” He freezes, looking shocked. “Oh my Christ, you really didn’t live through any of the eighties, did you?”

Leo rolls his eyes and walks over to me.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Daniel! Thanks for inviting me!” He’s practically bouncing in place. Well, the kid definitely has manners.

“Ask the professor,” Will continues. “Daniel, a book set in the eighties is not historical fiction, right? Tell him, please.”

“When was it written?”

“2009,” Leo says.

“Actually, I probably would call that historical fiction, because—” I start to say.

“Oh, shut up; no one asked you,” Will grumbles.

“Um,” Leo says, “I think your pancake’s—”

“Shit!” I yell. My pancake is black and smoking in the pan.

“Let me guess,” Will says. “You’re used to letting people cook for you?”

Before I can throttle Will, I scrape the remains of my poor pancake into the trash and put the pan in the sink.

“What’s this?” Leo asks, peeking into the pot on the stove.

“Hemlock,” Will mutters.

“Oh my holy god,” Leo says, sounding genuinely upset.

“What?” I ask, thinking he burned himself or something.

“Are you boiling bacon?

“Um. Is that wrong?” I say.

“Argh! I want to punch you!” Leo says.

“Sadly, we all know you can’t,” Will says, elbowing him out of the way and using tongs to pull a piece of bacon out of the water. It definitely doesn’t look the way it does at the diner.

“Bacon, bacon,” Leo chants, like some demented, carnivorous monk.

“Why the fuck would you boil bacon?” Will asks.

“Um. I thought it would be like hot dogs?”

“Jesus Christ, you boil hot dogs. You poor thing. I take it all back. Thank god Rex found you.”

“Thank god Rex found him, why?” Rex asks, walking in the door.

“Rex,” Leo says plaintively. “I—he—and—he boiled the bacon.”

Rex looks in the pot and then looks at me and bursts out laughing.

“I didn’t know!” I say.

Rex puts his hands on my cheeks and kisses me, shaking his head.

“Why don’t you, um, pick some music for us,” he offers, running his hands through my hair fondly. To Leo, he says, “I have more bacon.”

“Oh, thank you,” Leo says worshipfully.

“Shouldn’t you be at your parents’ house,” I mutter, and walk into the living room to pick some records.

 

 

“HEY, DAD,” I say, my phone on speaker while I arrange cheese and crackers on a plate in the living room, the only food-related job Rex will give me. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Hiya, Dan,” my dad says, and I can hear the roar of football on the television in the background and my brothers yelling at the screen.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Oh, fine, fine. You know. Same as always. How’s the car?”

“It’s fine,” I say. Which isn’t entirely true. It keeps stalling out if I don’t drive it every day. Though I don’t really need a car to get from my apartment to campus and around town, it’s nice to be able to drive to Rex’s now that it’s cold.

“Hey, shithead, throw another empty beer can at that TV and I’ll throw a full one at your head!” my dad yells. Has to be at Brian, who has a habit of throwing things at the TV when sports don’t go his way. “So, you’re okay?” my dad asks me.

“Yeah, I’m good, Dad. I just wanted to wish you and the guys happy Thanksgiving.”

“Boys,” my dad calls, “your brother’s on the phone.”

There’s a long pause.

“Hey, Daniel.” It’s Sam. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks, Sam. How’s everything going?”

“Fine, thanks,” he says. “Liza’s bringing a turkey over in a bit since these idiots were drunk by 10:00 a.m. and didn’t even order chicken.”

We always used to get fried chicken from this cheap place about ten blocks from my dad’s house on Thanksgiving.

“That’s nice. How’s Liza?”

“She’s fine. Good. Work’s busy.”

There’s a long pause.

“All right, kid, well, I’ll see you later,” Sam says, and hangs up.

My phone beeps with the disconnection.

“You okay?” Rex asks, sliding an arm around my chest.

“Um, yeah. I’m done,” I say, gesturing to the cheese plate.

“Okay,” Rex says, but he holds me against him for another minute and I breathe in his comforting smell.

Dinner is delicious—of course. Leo turned out to be quite the little helper and I can tell he liked feeling like he had something to do. He never says why he’s here with us instead of at his parents’ house, but I’m glad he is. At one point, he started asking everyone to tell about their best Thanksgiving ever. Rex was silent and I caught Will’s eye and all three of us started cracking up at the same time.

“What?” Leo asked, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was probably the only one of us who had a single happy Thanksgiving memory.

Will took Leo home around ten, and Rex and I exhaustedly abandoned the dishes until tomorrow, choosing to take Marilyn for a walk instead.

It’s beautiful out. Cold and sharp, but with no wind, so you can smell everything. By the light of the moon I can just see Marilyn as she trots ahead and circles back to us, joyfully peeing on trees and nipping at low-hanging branches.

Rex has his arm around my shoulders and I feel so fucking peaceful. It doesn’t hurt that I’m also full and wearing Rex’s heaviest sweater and coat.

Marilyn stops to contemplate a bush and I find myself pushed up against the strong trunk of a tree, with Rex in front of me.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” I say.

He huffs out a laugh and kisses me, one hand pulling off my hat to tangle in my hair. Rex really likes to touch my hair. He kisses my neck and then both cheeks. Then he kind of sags against me, hugging me and the tree. He says something, but it’s so muffled by my shoulder that I can’t hear him.

“What’s that?”

“I said, I’m really glad you’re here. That we did this.” I think he means Thanksgiving dinner, but I’m not totally sure.

“Me too,” I say. “It’s actually the only time I’ve ever eaten turkey. That wasn’t in a sandwich, I mean.”

As I’m about to say something incredibly sappy, my phone makes a loud and unfamiliar sound.

“What the?”

It’s a text, but I always keep my phone on vibrate.

Rex chuckles.

“Will.”

“Huh?”

“I bet Will changed your ringtone. He does that. It’s a gesture of goodwill, I promise.”

“Some fucking gesture,” I grumble as I open the text. And immediately grin, tilting the phone to show Rex.

There, lying against Ginger’s purple velvet couch, is a naked (and red-haired) chest. And on it, a huge, half-eaten Thanksgiving burrito.