An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(64)
“I’m messing with you,” he grins, folding his arms. “You think you left me any other choice but to go to Thanksgiving with you?”
“Yes, Cal. The door slamming on me definitely had me thinking you went with another choice.”
“You brought me a fucking flower. I’m not a total asshole.” Moving aside, he ushers me through the doorway. “Hang tight while I change. For the record, I’m not staying long, and I’m not happy about it.”
I let out a deep breath, relaxing on the exhale. “I’ll make sure you’re happy about it. I made you banana bread. And pumpkin bread. And three pies.”
His interest piques. “Fuck, really?”
“Yes, really. And you can bring Cricket, too. Mom is dying to meet her.”
The smirk on his face softens into something else. Something sweeter. “All right.”
Our gazes hold tight, sending flutters to my heart and to much lower, much more dangerous places. I glance down at my boots and step inside, letting him close the door behind me. “Well, thanks for tagging along. I thought I might have to drag you there.”
“You can still drag me. I’d encourage it.”
Flirtation laces his words, and I can’t hide my blush. Hopefully, he’ll think it’s from the chill outside. I move farther into the living area and set the orchid down on his coffee table, beside the diffuser. When I look back over at him, he’s massaging the nape of his neck, the gesture causing his t-shirt to ride up his abdomen and expose rippled planks of bronzed skin. A smattering of dark hair peeks out from atop heather gray sweatpants, heating my cheeks to a concerning level. I attempt to shift my attention to the wall before he notices, but I’m too late.
He grins again, eyes close to twinkling. “Give me five minutes. Cricket was in the kitchen earlier if you think you can avoid another hand injury.”
“I’ll keep my mittens on, just in case.” I wiggle my fingers at him before he nods, and then treks down the short hallway to his bedroom.
Five minutes later, we’re out the door.
Cal tries to take his bike to follow separately, but I convince him that Cricket would be more comfortable riding with him in my car. Truthfully, my motives are mostly selfish. If he rides with me, he can’t leave early, and there’s nothing I want more than to spend a whole Thanksgiving with Cal and show him what it’s like to be surrounded by warmth and laughter on a holiday, instead of being alone on his couch with plastic containers of takeout food.
I’m convinced he’ll never want to leave.
When we pull into my mother’s long gravel driveway, I stall the car in front of the cape cod-style home with snow-white siding and black shutters. Her door is also red, which might be why I associate red doors with all things cheery and welcoming. We’re greeted by a wreath woven with cardinal and burnt orange autumn leaves with a little turkey decoration dangling in the center of it.
“Nice house,” Cal murmurs as we step up onto the porch with Cricket tucked underneath his arm. “You move here after…?”
After.
I swallow back the instant swell of emotion. “Yes. We moved not long after you moved. I lived here for almost ten years, but it never truly felt like home…you know?”
He scratches at his newly combed hair, glancing around at the architecture and the sprinkling of fall décor. “Yeah, I know.”
“My parents tried, but I’ve come to realize that home isn’t just four walls and a roof,” I say softly as we linger in front of the screen door. “The memories here aren’t as palpable. This isn’t the house I dream about when I go to sleep at night.”
Before he can respond, Mom’s voice blares from the other side of the threshold, which is decidedly for the best. “Come in!” she calls, drowned out by a clamoring of barking and stampeding claws across hardwood floors. The dogs are going wild, sensing our arrival. My mother took them home with her the night before, after stopping by to help me prep side dishes, consisting of parmesan mashed potatoes, dressing with cranberries and diced apples, and a plethora of desserts.
“Anyway,” I clear my throat, forcing the melancholy aside. Today isn’t the day for wallowing in the past. “Come on in.”
My long, burgundy peasant skirt kisses the holiday floor mat as we make our way inside, greeted by the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon and nutmeg mingling with savory butter and brine. Lemon paces in a circle near our feet while Kiki dives at Cal’s ankles. Cricket squirms from his grip, overwhelmed and more skittish than ever, dashing away to hide beneath the loveseat.
“Oh, Callahan,” Mom beams, skipping out from the kitchen with a dishrag between her hands and a festive apron tied around her waist. “I’m so happy you came along. I was hoping you would. Dana couldn’t make it?”
I slip out of my boots and cropped jacket, watching Cal tousle his hair before sticking his hands in his pockets. He dressed up for the occasion. A long-sleeved sienna button-down is tucked into unwrinkled khakis, which, admittedly, is a sight to see. Even his hair is spritzed with some sort of taming product. And he smells sinful.
“She’s in Green Bay visiting her parents,” he says to my mother, in the same way he said it to me. Detached, moderately uncomfortable. “I’ll tell her you said hi.”
Dana Bishop has been an elusive topic between us since our reunion this past August. He hardly talks about her, which doesn’t surprise me considering his allergy to discussing family and personal matters—but still, I’m curious as to how my second mother growing up has been doing all these years. Cal gets a faraway look in his eyes whenever her name has come up.