Page 25 of Love Bound

Along the coast, the evergreens keep the place in a season stasis and it’s the temperature and precipitation that aligns with the calendar. After weeks of watching him work outside, cutting sheetrock and two-by-fours in the space between our houses, sawdust clinging to him, his T-shirts folding along the lines of his back, his forearms still visible under long sleeves, out came the cable knit sweater. A cable-stitched, wool Aran, because that's what he wore when it sleeted this morning. Now, I watch him shake ice from his hair before he tramps inside.

I turn from the kitchen sink upstairs to find both Devon and Laurel staring at me.

"Why don't you invite him to Thanksgiving?" Devon sounds bossy.

"What?" I say.

"Oh, come on. You know you're obsessed," says Laurel.

"I am not obsessed," I say, reaching for the window shade.

Devon manages to bat my hand away as she takes a peek. The second floor of the clinic provides a nice view. "When he comes into the store old Sally turns red. Every single time," she says. "But who can blame her?"

"I am not inviting him to Thanksgiving."

"He's so fucking hot though. He could just sit there, and I'd be happy."

"Devon, what is the matter with you?" I ask.

Laurel pipes up with, "Mom always says it’s smart to keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

I open the refrigerator to poke at the turkey soaking in brine in a large stainless-steel pot. Lifting the edge of the linen cover, I remind her, "I don't think that's what she had in mind. Besides, he's not the enemy."

Laurel leans in to grab a jar of peanut butter off the counter. "Then invite him."

"Invite him," repeats Devon, and we three freeze for a moment when the side door downstairs whips open.

"Honey, I'm home!" calls a deep, baritone voice.

Laurel lifts her chin and yells, "Upstairs!"

There's no room on the skinny little staircase for all of us so we wait for Travis to emerge.

"Man, is that pumpkin pie I'm smelling?" he says as he materializes from the depths of the stairwell. He drops his beat-up green duffel bag at the top and spreads his arms wide.

He's grown again since he left for vet school in early August, and now he looks huge—all filled in, his shoulders broad, his hair low and sides faded and his waist brandishing a belt, something Devon picks up on right away.

"Look at you. A leather belt."

He cocks his head to the side for a quick minute and pulls her to him. "Gotta keep these up 'cause the ladies always want to pull them down."

"Gross," says Laurel and kisses him on the cheek.

"Hey," he says, "good going on the GED. Any more thought about school?"

Laurel shrugs and kisses him again.

GED? When did she do that?

I stand like the patient mother, waiting for them to get their hellos in before I crash their party. Finally, he disentangles himself and throws his arms around me. I can feel how broad his back is and I get a hint of Adidas aftershave mixed with . . . no, that little boy smell is really gone.

He slaps his hands together and takes in the food prep in various places around the kitchen. The cornbread and biscuits, cooling on the rack to be crumbled for stuffing along with old sourdough, a pile of diced onion and sage mixed together. Then, his favorite, the relish: a bag of cranberries, an orange, a cup of walnuts, and some maple syrup. Sweet potatoes are lined up, ready to go into the oven naked and stay naked as Laurel describes, and three cans of green beans and one of mushroom soup waiting for assembly.

"So, I guess I'm doing the mac n' cheese?" he says, poking around in the cupboards looking for noodles.

"You started that one," Devon says. "I leave for Montana and all hell breaks loose."

"Hey, it’s my black roots," he says. "My people."