Page 68 of Tempted To Be Mine

“Sounds good.” There was a beat of silence. I expected him to say goodbye, to end the call and let us both go back to our separate corners. “Hey, I forgot to ask you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Thanksgiving. If you want, you’re still more than welcome to eat with me and my family. Since your grandmother is ditching you this year and all.”

He said it like a joke. It was the way he used to talk to me before everything got complicated. But the words landed wrong, like pushing on a bruise.

“She’s not ditching me,” I said, but my voice came out smaller than I meant it to. “She’s just busy.”

“I know. I was kidding.” His tone softened. “But the offer stands. My family does a big thing at my parents’ place. Way too much food, too many relatives, and the whole nine yards. You shouldn’t have to spend the holiday alone.”

I felt a familiar ache in my chest. The one that had been there since Gram told me about her plans. I’d tried to be happy for her. She deserved to have a good time with Harold and to do whatever the hell she wanted. She raised my father and then me. It was her time to be free.

But it still hurt.

“I’ve spent every Thanksgiving with her since my parents died,” I heard myself say. The words scraped across my throat. “Twenty years. Same table, same traditions, same everything. And I know it’s selfish to feel sad about her having other plans, but I can’t help it. It feels like the end of something.”

The silence on the line stretched for a beat. I hadn’t meant to say that much. It had just come out. I had not said that to anyone and now I wished I hadn’t.

“Sorry,” I said. “That was more than you asked for.”

“Don’t apologize.” His voice was quiet. “Tell me about the tradition. What do you usually do?”

I leaned back in my chair. “She makes a turkey that is too big for two people. Stuffing from scratch, not the box stuff, but the actual from-scratch stuffing that takes her two days to make. Sweet potato pie. Green bean casserole. Rolls from the bakery down the street from her building because she refuses to make her own bread. She says life is too short to fight with yeast.”

He laughed softly. “Smart woman.”

“We watch the parade in the morning and judge the balloons, presenters, and dancers. We eat at noon. There’s always too much food. We watch a movie after and she’s asleep in her chair before the opening credits finish.” I stopped. My throat felt tight. “It sounds boring when I say it out loud.”

“It doesn’t sound boring at all.”

“She deserves to be happy. Harold makes her happy. I know that.”

“Both things can be true, Lucy. It’s not selfish. It’s human. Traditions matter. Especially when they’re tied to people you love.”

I blinked back the unexpected sting of tears. “Thanks for understanding.”

“Of course.” Another pause. “So? Thanksgiving with the Blackwells? I promise we’re not as scary as we sound.”

I laughed. “That’s debatable. I’ve seen pictures of your family reunions. You people are intimidatingly attractive.”

“It’s a curse we bear.”

I smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. This was better. This felt almost normal. Almost like before.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanksgiving dinner sounds nice. I’d love to come.”

“Yeah?” He sounded genuinely pleased. “Great. Awesome. You’re going to love it.”

“What should I bring? I make a mean pumpkin pie.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just your appetite.”

“I can’t show up empty-handed.”

“Please don’t bring anything. There will be enough food to feed all of California. Seriously. My mom goes overboard every year. Just bring yourself and your smile.”

I smiled at that too, even though he couldn’t see it. “I can manage that.”