Page 55 of Wrong Cabin, Right Time
Travis does as I ask, walking toward the wine cabinet and grabbing a bottle and two glasses before setting the table.
I check the temperature on the chicken in the pan before pulling it out of the oven and bringing it to the table. Travis eyes the dish with a mixture of hesitation and excitement. I know he’s going to love it—everyone does.
“We used to make this all the time when I was younger,” I say as I put a portion on Travis’s plate, then one on mine. “The commune was mostly vegetarian, and my parents claimed to be. My mom never gave up meat entirely. Marry Me Chicken was always a cheat meal. She’d make it once a month, and it would be our little secret. Well, the only other person who knew was the butcher in the commune. But Carl was sworn to secrecy because she knew he was cheating on his wife.”
Travis gags at the last part, and I can’t help but laugh. “So the commune is exactly what everyone thinks it is, right? Just a bunch of hippies sleeping around with each other.”
“I want to say no, but that’s probably true.” I laugh. Travis pours both of us a tall glass of wine, and I take a sip as I watch him take his first bite of the food. He closes his eyes and chews slowly, savoring every flavor. “See? Didn’t I tell you that food serves a bigger purpose than just nourishment?”
“I didn’t believe you. Maybe now I do.” He smiles and takes a drink of his wine, nodding at the perfect combination.
Surprisingly, Travis actually seems to be listening when I tell him more stories about the commune. I’ve always said it should be the center of some kind of reality TV show. Some of the things that go on there are ridiculous. I remember a winter solstice festival where the Yulemas tree was knocked over by two men fighting over a woman who left both of them for another woman. Travis even laughs as I describe every detail of that iconic fight.
“It wasn’t all high-stakes drama, though. It was usually pretty peaceful, and we celebrated holidays within our own family units,for the most part. My parents always made a huge deal about Christmas,” I continue, finishing my wine as I progress with the stories. “I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was seven, but my parents loved that I still believed, so I pretended a few more years for them. They would always leave presents under the tree from them, but just one from Santa Claus. The one from Santa was always exactly what I wanted. A lot of the time, I didn’t even put that on a list. They just knew somehow. Did you ever believe in Santa?”
Travis has already finished eating one portion of dinner and is midway through another. His wineglass is empty, and despite his protest, I pour him another. Obviously, I can’t drug him with weed to get him to loosen up, so wine is going to have to do the trick.
“Believe it or not, I did for a time.” I laugh and raise my eyebrows, trying to conjure an image of young Travis kneeling in front of a Christmas tree, opening his gift from Santa. But Travis’s smile falls, and he clears his throat. “Leah actually convinced me he was real. I kind of stopped believing because it didn’t seem logical, and when I confessed that to her, she pointed out every flaw in my logic. You know, I didn’t understand how he flew around to every child in one night, and she explained what time zones are. She made me think she believed, but she just didn’t want to take that away from me.”
“That’s really sweet.” I reach across the table and squeeze his forearm as I see the emotions starting to take hold of him. He flashes me a half smile before drinking a sip of his.
“It was. After she died, that Christmas was when I found out the truth. I didn’t get anything that year. Not even a stuffed animal from Santa.” He gulps to fight against the emotion, and I feel my heart breaking for him.
I can’t help but wonder what he would be like if he had a different family. Would he still be this way if he came from a family like mine? Or maybe if his sister hadn’t died at such a young age? He might be an entirely different person if his parents had just been more affectionate with him.
But then again, I came from a family that was overly affectionate growing up, and there’s something in me that relates to Travis. So maybe it has nothing to do with where we come from; it’s who we are entirely.
“When was the last time you spoke to them?” I ask. I already know the relationship is strained, but seeing him now, I can’t help but wonder if he wants more.
“A few years ago, on Thanksgiving. I don’t even talk with them over text messages to check in.” He shrugs as if it’s nothing and he doesn’t care, but I can see past that. There’s a heaviness in his voice, disappointment. “It’s probably for the best. They’ve never forgiven me for Leah, and I don’t want to have to feel guilty every time I’m around them.”
I squeeze his hand tight and let him know I’m here for him. Travis clears his throat and stands up, grabbing both of our plates and bringing them to the sink. This conversation is clearly over.
I stand up and bring the casserole dish of chicken to the counter to prepare it for storage. “What do you say we play some cards?” I suggest.
Travis shakes his head. “I’m not really interested in playing games.”
“I see you. I hear you. But what if it was strip poker?” I raise an eyebrow, and as he stares at me, something in his gaze shifts.
“What type do you want to play?” Travis asks. I grab his hand and lead him back to the table and force him to sit down as I grab the deck of cards from my things.
“Texas Hold’em or seven-card stud?” I offer.
“I prefer five-card draw,” he suggests, and I happily agree.
When I come back, he is waiting eagerly for me with a fresh glass of wine poured for both of us. “You read my mind.”
“I figure you’ll need a drink if you’re going to be stripping,” Travis jokes. At least, I think it’s a joke.
I deal both of us a hand and quickly realize I haven’t played poker in ten years, at least. Okay, there are flushes and royal flushes and ... other stuff. It’s a good thing I’m already planning on getting naked today.
We play the first hand, and unsurprisingly, it does not go my way. “Let’s go with the shirt.” Travis watches as I uphold my end of the bargain and lift my shirt over my head. I do a little shimmy to tease him, watching his eyes as they drop to my chest.
“Obviously, there’s no choice but the pants,” Travis says when I lose my second hand immediately after.
“Maybe a gentleman would take his shirt off just out of solidarity,” I joke as I slide my pants down.
“If only there was a gentleman here.” He smirks and deals another hand for us. Of course he wins. He makes it look easy, and I know from the other side of the table that it’s not. It doesn’t take long before I’m sitting almost completely naked at the kitchen table while Travis is still fully clothed.
