The location now depends on if the Crabs have to play or not. E’s first season with the team had myself and the Taylors hopping a flight to Dallas. B—Ben Turner, the Crabs’ quarterback and E’s best friend—has been a staple at our table since then, but luckily they don’t play until Sunday this year, so we get to enjoy Turkey Day at home in Baltimore.
Another shift is our ever-changing guest list: I only get one Taylor at the dinner table now. Pops is still at the firehouse since it’s their busiest day of the year, and JT doesn’t have the time to fly home due to all the responsibilities of the Blue Squad.
But what I lack in Taylors, I make up for in Graysons. Now that D is down in Kentucky, Mama and Papa G decided they would join us this year. To say G is stoked would be a massive understatement.
Shuffling down the hall in my turkey print leggings and Turkey and pumpkin pie and football—oh my! t-shirt, I stop to breathe in the delicious aroma wafting up from the kitchen. Wanna know what I’m thankful for this year? Mama G. That woman is a godsend. She insisted that she and Papa G come down last night to help Bette with the cooking, which earned her a Gobble till you wobble shirt and me the chance to sleep in.
“Coffee,” Em moans when we run into each other in the hall. Yes, we got to sleep in, but we were up late and it’s still the morning.
I nod and link my arm with hers. “Nice.” I pluck at her This is my food coma shirt tee in approval. Sounds like a solid plan for later.
“Thanks. Q and I ordered one for CK too.” Of course they did.
Herkie is curled at T’s feet on the couch, keeping her company while she does homework on her laptop. Em snaps the band of her leggings at T’s Get your fat pants ready shirt, stating again how happy she is that she was able to skip the trip home for this holiday. I don’t blame her. Dressing up in a prim-and-proper dress to help “press the flesh” is not how today should be spent. No. Thanksgiving is supposed to be all about stuffing your face, watching football, and passing out on the couch.
“Morning, sugah.” Mama G greets us, the end of sugar softening into the sound of an H with her southern twang.
“Morning, Mama.” Em and I return the salutation, each going in for one of her famous hugs before continuing on our hunt for coffee.
“Have you heard anything from my boy?” Em snorts at the reference to G being called a boy; it’s too funny not to.
“No…” I peer at the clock on the stove. “But Mase texted and said their ETA was around one o’clock.”
Oh? Did I leave that part out? Sorry about that…but, yes…Mase—and the guys—are also on the list of attendees for this year and are driving down with G and CK. This is the first holiday I’ve ever spent with a boyfriend, and I can’t stop the flutter of excitement that sparks to life in my belly thinking about what it means. Even when I dated the douchewaffle, we didn’t do the holiday thing—guess that should have been a sign.
Inviting them all this weekend was a risk, but with the way they came to support me at the cheer competition, donning comical shirts inspired by my own wardrobe, the last of the defensive line I had around my heart crumbled.
The memory of how they cheered and hollered, making such complete fools of themselves I heard about the boisterous group in the stands before I knew it was my friends…my family—it hits me in the feels.
“Is it wrong that I’m hoping they’re delayed?” Bette asks as she dances around a stuffing mix while Quinn bastes the turkey.
“No,” Mama G answers, laying a comforting hand on Bette’s shoulder. “I already had to banish my husband, and it’s only going to get worse when the menfolk show up.”
Now I understand why Papa G is sitting opposite T watching the parade.
Herkie ambles on over, nails clicking on the floor, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, brown eyes begging for scraps from the food prep. “Not gonna work, Herk,” I say with a scratch behind his ears.
“What did I say?” There’s a snort from over by the couch, and if the deep baritone of it wasn’t enough of a clue, the twitch to Mama G’s lips confirms it came from her husband, already anticipating another dig at his expense. “These men have no patience today.”
#Chapter47
Borrowing the Navigator from Brantley’s fleet for our trip to Baltimore was both the smartest and the dumbest decision I have ever made—smart because it allows all seven of us to fit in one vehicle, dumb because it has given the guys four hours to razz on me. I should have gone snowboarding with my family. Who cares that technically I’m not supposed to participate in any activity that might result in an injury that could make me ineligible to play?
“Okay…” Trav claps his hands, bringing the attention of the car onto him. “I think it’s time we ask what’s really important about today.”
I groan. We’re ten minutes away from E’s place; haven’t they given me enough shit for one day? It’s a holiday, dammit.
Reluctantly, I ask, “What’s that, Trav?”
“How’s Bette’s cooking?” He rubs a hand over his belly.
Fucking Travis, forever driven by his stomach.
“Bette’s a killer cook.” Grayson is the one to answer. “But the turkey will not be the highlight of your day.”
Leather creaks as Trav spins to see him in the captain’s chairs. “Don’t hold out on me now, Grayson.”
“Just save room for pie.”
My stomach grumbles as my passengers start to list off their favorite types of pie and Thanksgiving dishes.
