Undecided(69)

I’m wearing a turtleneck under my apron, but I still shiver when a customer strolls in, the late November winds following. “Grr,” I say, trailing my finger through a smear of cream cheese frosting left on the plate. “I hate the cold.”

“Seriously?” Crosbie pops the last bit of cinnamon bun into his mouth. “I love winter. You get snow, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years—it’s awesome.”

“Thanksgiving’s in the fall.”

“Close enough. The point is, winter is great and you’re wrong.”

“Bah humbug.”

He smirks. “Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

Thanksgiving is on Thursday, and my plan is to work overtime to save up money for Christmas presents. My reasoning is if I buy expensive gifts, no one will complain too loudly when I show up late on Christmas Eve and bail around noon on Christmas Day. I love my family, but I do not love the Kincaid family Christmas tradition of non-stop fighting, one small fire, and overpriced pizza delivery when the turkey inevitably winds up either burned or missing.

“No,” I say, when I realize Crosbie’s waiting for an answer. “Are you?”

“Yeah. I’m going to drive down, then join the guys for the mock meet right after.”

“That’s next week?”

“I told you about it.”

And he had, explaining it was a pre-Christmas thing they did every year to test their progress and also remind themselves not to overindulge during the holidays. Apparently they never learn and everyone returns in January ten pounds heavier and still hungover, but it’s a three-day visit of nearby colleges that brings them back to Burnham on Friday.

“I remember.”

“I’d invite you for dinner if I was coming back,” he says, misinterpreting my distraction. “I mean, if you really want, you can still come. I’ll drive you back to campus, then turn around again. It’s only an hour, so—”

“Crosbie.” I press my fingers to his lips. “It’s not a problem. I’m just thinking how nice it’ll be to have the apartment to myself. What will it be like to not smell powdered cheese every day?”

He grins, relieved. “I’ll bring you back some leftovers.”

“Leftovers that have survived the mock meet? Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

“What’s wrong with Thanksgiving? If you hate winter and Thanksgiving’s in the fall, it should be a safe holiday.”

I roll my eyes. “Nothing with my family is safe.” My parents are what they like to call “functional, friendly, and former.” Basically they’re a divorced couple, each of whom resides in one half of a duplex, and they tell everyone they get along, but really they hate each other. They divorced when I was ten and neither one has remarried, and they bring a different date to every holiday in a desperate attempt to show how mature they are. As the only child marching in this dysfunctional parade, I’d much rather hide in the woodshed and eat worms than sit down to dinner with whichever unsuspecting date is unlucky enough to show up that day.

I relay this information to Crosbie, whose eyes widen as I talk. “It’s torture,” I say. “And nine times out of ten, there’s not even any turkey. If it’s not—”

“Hi, Crosbie.”

We glance over to see a trio of girls who look like they just stepped out of a winter catalogue. They wave at Crosbie over cups of steaming hot lattes as they take a seat nearby. I’m instantly transported back to the day we met, when Crosbie invited himself to join me for dinner then promptly abandoned me when something better came along.

Now, however, he just lifts a hand in a vague semblance of greeting and sips his water, gaze trained on me. “If it’s not what?” he prompts.

I shake my head. “If what’s not what?”

“You were saying there’s never any turkey. If it’s not…?”

“Oh. Um…if it’s not burned to a crisp it’s completely raw. They’ve actually sent three people to the hospital.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. And once my mom got so angry at my dad that she threw the turkey into the street and it got run over by a bus.”

“Tell me you filmed it.”

“I wish. My favorite is the two times the turkey just disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yep. There was just an empty roasting pan in the oven and a wishbone sitting on the counter. I wished for a turkey.”

“Twice?”

I lift a shoulder. “Point is, it’s not worth the trip.”

“What about Christmas?”

“I’ll take the bus on Christmas Eve and make up some excuse about why I have to come back on Christmas Day. They know I work—they’re usually pretty willing to believe me. That way they don’t have to keep up the ‘functional, friendly, former’ charade any longer than necessary.”

“That’s really sad, Nora.”

“The distance helps.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear your turkey sob story,” Marcela says, flitting over and collecting the empty plate.

“You’ve heard it before,” I say, recognizing the glint in her eye and hoping to end whatever it is she’s plotting before it can get underway.