Page 7 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“Do you even need an answer to that?” I lift my eyebrow, causing her to shake her head amusedly.
“Coffee it is.”
She starts her machine, and I get comfortable on one of the counter-height stools at her kitchen island. I adore her kitchen. It’s all modern cottagecore, with white cupboards and subtle green and floral accents.
“Good thing you came over,” she points out, slaps a notepad on the countertop and places two pens next to it. “We need to plan our Friendsgiving get-together. Caleb, Henry, and Kieran are all a go. Meaning,” she puts her elbows on the counter and shoots me a wide grin. The coffee machine whirrs behind her, and the delicious scent of freshly ground coffee beans fills her kitchen. “We can cook a shitload of stuff and try out different recipes.”
“Ooh, that sounds great.” I jump up and pace her kitchen, wringing my hands. Usually, I’d spend Thanksgiving with my parents. Despite all the differences we have, they’re still my family. I can sit through a yearly dinner, even if it includes every single thing I did in the past year being scrutinized.
At least I’m getting an amazing, personal chef-cooked dinner out of it.
But this year, Mom announced that she and Dad are busy on Thanksgiving. No elaborations or explanations, though I have to admit I also was not curious enough to ask. They wouldn’t be available on Thanksgiving; no asking or prodding would change that.
So, we’re doing a Friendsgiving. And I’m already so excited about it.
Nic pulls the notepad closer and writes something on it. “I’m saving every Thanksgiving-related recipe that sounded good on TikTok since we decided to throw a Friendsgiving. Wait-” I stop in my tracks and turn to her. “We’re doing a turkey, right?”
She blinks at me, a confused crease between her eyebrows. Then it smooths out, and a determined expression washes over her face.
“We have to, don’t we?” She taps her index finger against her lips. “Full disclosure, I’ve never made one.”
“Great! Me neither.” I scratch my head. Is this really such a good idea? “Maybe we should order a backup. You know, just in case.”
“Nah,” she waves me off. “I believe in us. We can do it. And imagine ours turns out fine.” She grimaces. “We’d be eating turkey until the new year.”
“Good point,” I admit and resume my pacing. From the corner of my eye, I watch her tap her pen against her lips.
“Maybe we should add more sides. To eliminate the danger of anyone going home hungry in case somethingdoesgo wrong with the turkey.”
“You have the best ideas.” I grin widely. The coffee machine finishes, and I grab my mug before re-starting it for Nic. “Also, Kieran will tease us about it for the next three years if anyone leaves our Friendsgiving hungry.” I try to conjure up memories of all the recipes my algorithm showed me.
“We should do one regular mac and cheese and a fancy one. Real cheese instead of powder,” Nic proposes, and I nod, walking over to her window where she’s keeping her own syrup stash.
“I don’t think I’ve ever made a fancy one, now that I think of it,” I admit and pour pumpkin spice syrup into my coffee. Then, I add milk and hum happily as I take the first sip.
“God, this is good. Anyway, I can’t remember ever having mac and cheese with, you know, real cheese.”
“We can’t have that.” She shakes her head disapprovingly and jots something down.
“And speaking of cheese…” I take my seat opposite her again. “I saw a video from a French restaurant that had stretchy mashed potatoes.”
“Stretchy mashed…” Confusion washes over her face—eyebrows knitted, eyes sayingwhat the actual fuck.
“Yep, stretchy mashed potatoes. I forgot the name, but it’s essentially potatoes and cheese.” I shrug and pull my phone from my pocket. “So how difficult can it be to make? It’s probably mozzarella, potatoes and butter, right?”
She tilts her head and writes down the suspected ingredients.
“What else have the TikTok gods shown you?”
We spend more than an hour going over recipes, googling ingredients, and throwing together a grocery list. At one point we migrate to the living room, where Pumpkin, the little escape artist, is climbing Nic’s couch and Cinnamon is playing with her shadow. As soon as I’m sitting, Cinnamon, her second cat, jumps into my lap. Instinctively, my hands run over her soft fur, and within minutes, she’s asleep, a nice, warm weight on my thighs.
“Anyway,” Nic finally says and puts down her notepad, “is everything okay? You seem a little sad.”
“Frustrated is the better word,” I correct her and groan, laying my head back and staring at her ceiling. “I swear I’vebeen fighting with that damned bookshelf for weeks already, and it’s just not coming together.”
“If you want, I can come over and help you,” she offers, but I wave her off.
“Girl, I’ve seen you almost lose a finger when you tried to put a nail in the wall for a picture frame.” Both of us break into giggles.
