Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“You don’t need to do anything. Being a part of Tate’s life is a gift on its own. He did a lot to protect himself, too.”
“I was really worried about him, sending him off to that school. Luke said it would be good, and that he would be well taken care of. But I didn’t even know how bad the situation really was.”
“My fault, honestly,” Tate says. “I didn’t know it was a true threat, either.”
I hum. “Don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known.”
“Wow,” Christopher says to Tate. “You found yourself a good one, didn’t you?”
My heart squeezes in my chest.
I’m floored by what I’m hearing. I had heard that Tate’s dad could be a bit of a traditional guy, and sometimes a hardass, but it’s clear he cares more about his son than Tate ever let on.
“Where’s Mom?” Tate asks.
“She wasn’t happy with the way I parked, and she’s fixing it up.”
“Typical,” Luke calls out from the other side of the room.
“Very typical.”
A couple of minutes later, Tate’s mom, Andrea, comes in, and I immediately see where Tate gets his beautiful smile from. Andrea is pure sunshine, just like Tate, and she goes around the room giving each of us tiny little crochet pins of colorful fall leaves that she made.
Soon, Tate ropes half of the room into helping him peel potatoes, and the hours start to fly by as I hear stories from Tate’s childhood. His mom tells me about the first time he broke a bone, trying to climb a tall bookcase in a library. His dad tells me about the way he stood up to a school bully in sixth grade, and Luke laughs talking about how Tate once tried and failed to sneak out through a front window in high school.
When we sit down to eat around the Thanksgiving table, the food is ridiculous. Every inch of the table is covered in plates and bowls and serving trays full of every Thanksgiving food imaginable.
“I didn’t think it could be possible that marshmallows could taste good on top of sweet potatoes,” I tell Tate afterward, when everyone is lying around on the living room couches, dazed and full and happy.
“Sweet potato casserole is fucking delicious, and I don’t care who disagrees,” Tate says.
I see Maks shaking his head on the sofa next to ours. “I was a fan of the pecan pie. Fucking perfection, Tate. I thought pumpkin would always be #1, but… bravo.”
“The power of the pecan is strong, and—yo, grab that fucking ball!” Tate shouts at the TV as the wide receiver fumbles a pass.
I love seeing him get passionate about football after it being a sore spot for months.
He turns around angrily, shaking his head, but when his eyes land on me he brightens back up instantly.
“Kiss me before I launch myself at that TV screen,” he says.
I pull him close, kissing his lips, then his temple, and then his hair. “Still pretty when you’re mad,” I murmur in his ear.
“Damn. Kind of want them to miss another pass, now, if it makes you say these things to me.”
“I’ll say them anytime, sweet. Whenever you need.”
I find a moment to get Tate alone an hour later, when everyone else is caught up watching the halftime show.
I gesture toward the staircase, and I take his hand, leading him upstairs.
“Hi,” I tell him once we get to the top, gently pushing his body up against the wall.
He hums, reaching up to pull my head down toward his. He kisses me slowly, letting his tongue linger there, sliding wet and hot along mine.
“Hi.”
“This is the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had,” I tell him.
“You said it’s the first real Thanksgiving you’ve ever had.”
“True. And also the best.”
He laughs, running his palm over my chest. “I love you. I love you for being here, and for being so good with my family.”
“Well, your family is fucking awesome.”
“Oh. Hang on a second,” Tate says, sliding out of my grasp for a moment and jogging off toward the guest room we’ve been staying in here at Luke’s house.
Tate pops back out a moment later with a small gold gift bag in his hands.
“What is this?”
“A gift for you.”
“What? This isn’t Christmas. I didn’t know Thanksgiving comes with gifts.”
“It doesn’t,” he tells me. “But I really wanted to give you this.”
I reach in past the tissue paper and pull out a heavy photo frame. Inside is a collage. Dozens and dozens of photos are put together, side by side.
And every photo is one of me and my mother together, from my childhood.
My throat goes tight all of a sudden.
I haven’t seen some of these photos in years.
Some of them, I’ve never seen before.
There’s one of my mother and me, sitting on the hood of our old black Cadillac, and she has her arm wrapped around my shoulder, pulling me close. She’s smiling, and I am, too. I must be ten or eleven in the photo.