Claire

“I know most of you are going home for Thanksgiving, but when we get back, there’ll only be two weeks until finals. So, I suggest you review the materials while away, noting where you have questions or confusion. We will do two separate review sessions the week back. My final will not be easy. It will be a combination of multiple choice and essay questions, and I never grade the final on a curve,” I told my students the Monday before Thanksgiving. There were already a few empty seats from students heading home early, and by the frantic rustling and bustling at the end of class, the remainder couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge.

I was shoving all my papers back in my tote and wondering what type of pie I should bake to take to Mary’s when I heard, “Professor Richards.”

I may have let out a little groan.

“Yes, Abbie?”

“Since I live close-by, I was thinking I could come in and work on some data for your project over the break. The dad project.”

“Yes, I knew what project you meant. Don’t you want to enjoy some time with your dad over the holiday? Do you have plans?”

She stood before me, a big bulky sweater dwarfing her small frame, chocolate-legging-covered legs, big blue eyes, her blonde hair twisted in some fancy braid, and I smiled. She wasn’t so bad—annoying, yes—but her heart was in somewhat of the right place.

“We’ve never really celebrated Thanksgiving…much. This year, my dad’s going to see his brother in Milwaukee, and I told him I’d rather be with Allison and her dad. Turns out, her dad picked up an extra shift at the hospital, and she’s going to go home with her new boyfriend.”

“That’s too bad. Well, I don’t want you to work too hard over the break. Plus, the building is closed on Thursday. Maybe Friday, I could meet you here and we could tabulate some data?”

“Oh, great! I’ll be here. Don’t you think it’s fascinating? How resilient all the responses are from those raised by single dads?”

“I haven’t been able to draw any real conclusions yet, but I’m looking forward to it.”

Abbie spending Thanksgiving alone tugged at my heart, even though it shouldn’t have. My mind raced with how much loss she’s already suffered…she didn’t deserve to be alone. Yet, here she was, resilient like she’d commented, and proud.

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving? Spending it with your new guy?” Now she stood, eyes sparkling, hand cocked on her hip, and all my empathy went out the door. What a little shit. “You know, the hottie I met in your office?”

“Abbie, I’m your teacher, not your friend.”

“I didn’t mean anything bad. I was being nice. He seems so cool. Allison’s dad even knew his mom.”

“So I heard.”

“Allison’s dad is fun and smart. He’s a doctor and connected with Allie, sort of. Mine, not so much. He’s always been a bit detached since my mom left…”

Abbie, Abbie, Abbie. This was what she did. She lured me in with her sob stories.

“I don’t mean to unload. It’s just Allison’s dad is cooler than mine, and isn’t it crazy how he knew your guy’s mom? Long time ago, of course.”

“It’s all a bit crazy. But the universe acts in funny ways, I guess.”

“So, are you doing Thanksgiving with him?”

The sob story was obviously over.

“Yes, if you must know. At Dr. McCullough’s house.”

“Oh, fun!” She clapped her hands together. “You can tell me all about it on Friday, but I’ll see you before then for class on Wednesday.” She turned and started walking out.

She stood tall in her five-foot-something frame, her messenger bag full and banging into her back with every step. “Abbie,” I called.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you come? I’m sure Dr. McCullough would be thrilled to have someone entertain her kiddos, and you shouldn’t be alone.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’ll let Mary know and I’ll give you her address after class on Wednesday.”

“Thank you. This means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

Oh God, what did I just get myself involved in?

Tuesday, I ran with Aiken and then made the two of us dinner—cacio e pepe pasta, an old dish I used to make long before David. Apparently, it was wildly popular these days, which I’d learned in New York, so I pulled it out of my hat again. I didn’t get it. It was an easy dish of pasta with black pepper and Pecorino Romano cheese, but who was I to know?

Aiken promptly grabbed the bowls from the cabinet, his shirt lifting, exposing his abs and smooth golden skin, my breath coming in pants. I swallowed my desire down with a big gulp of white wine, right before Aiken covered the pot, laid the bowls on top, and whistled for Smitty. With the wine tucked under his arm, he lifted the pot/bowls and marched over to his house, my dog in tow (and me).

Inside his adorable little yellow clapboard house, he set us up in front of a roaring fire.

With the pot on the coffee table, Aiken finally realized, “Shit, I forgot silverware and a serving thing. One sec.”

After a bite, I admitted, “This is new. A bit domineering how you got me here, but I do like eating this way.” I was sitting crisscross applesauce, and I smiled to myself that the Abby memory didn’t make me cry. We were on a blanket on the floor, backs against the couch, fire going in front of us, and twirling pasta with our forks.

“Richards, I told you…I wasn’t going to wait much longer before moving forward. Which makes me wonder, why did you keep that asshole’s name?”

He set his bowl down and took a long sip of wine, keeping eye contact with me.

“Well, it was Abby’s and mine.”

“I figured you’d say that. You never wanted to go back to your maiden name? What is it?”

“Bruni.”

“Claire Bruni. Like it. Where’d you learn to make this dish? From your mom?”

I nodded. “Yeah, she used to say it was a cheap gourmet meal. She’d make it for Christmas Eve and used to tell me to make it for my family one day. She’d also make it during the week, and we felt like royalty eating it. I was surprised to see it on every menu in New York.”

“It’s good. We should have it for Christmas Eve with my dad. Plan to make it.”

“What?” I set my bowl next to his, afraid that whatever came next out of his mouth would force me to spill.

“My pops. I’m going to spend Christmas on the farm, and since the semester is over, I know you can’t assign any crazy papers, so I want you to come with me. Meet my pops, see the place, meet the animals.”

“Won’t he think it’s a bit odd? Me, you?”

“I’m not answering that. My dad’s spent most of his life pining for a woman who probably never loved him a quarter as much as he loved her. He’s not going to think it’s weird that you and I are falling for each other.”

“You’re not going to make me milk cows or anything?”

“Never, but I am going to have you make this dish.”

“Okay, I’ll go. But if it’s weird, I’m taking the first plane or bus home. Fair warning, that’s all.”

“It’s not going to be weird, Bruni.”

I’m going home with this guy for Christmas.

That was the thing about Aiken. He kept unwrapping another layer of me, like a kid on Christmas morning. Except, like one of those huge trick boxes with another box and then another box inside, I was afraid that was all he would find—more layers, more boxes, more nothing.