~~
By the time we’d started feeding the masses that came for the church’s annual Thanksgiving dinner, I couldn’t smell anything but turkey. The smell of sage and pepper coupled with the comforting aroma of poultry had embedded itself into my mucus membrane. I doubted I’d ever smell another thing in my life besides turkey—which wasn’t a bad thing—ever.
“She keeps looking over here.” Willa bumped my shoulder and some mashed potatoes from her industrial-size serving spoon flicked onto my shirt. I’m sure that was ultra-sexy—the instant mashed potato look.
Not that I cared.
Tate Halloway with her gingerlicious hair and sweet smile could just stay down there with the sweet potato pie where she belonged.
Gingerlicious—good Lord, I’m using West words.
I’ve lost it.
Whose bright idea was it to put my sister beside me in line?
Anyway, Tate wasn’t looking over here at all. I knew because I’d been staring at her off and on for a freakin’ hour.
“She’s hungry. That’s all.”
“She’s hungry all right.”
“Knock—it—off.”
Willa shrugged as the first person, Mrs. Miller, came to the line with three of her kids in tow. Her husband worked in the mines and times had been tough on them. One of her little girls had pigtails and a tattered dress. Wretched guilt washed over me as I realized how much she reminded me of Tate when she was little, minus the wild hair.
I was a little bastard forever making fun of her—trying to get her attention or not.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tate. She distracted my every thought and turned it into something about her.
I could hear her voice, above all the others. They were all happy to see her back. Some recognized her instantly and some claimed they knew she looked familiar but couldn’t place it.
“I’m tired of potatoes,” Willa claimed after only twenty or so people and just left me to dole out turkey and potatoes—which was way more daunting than it sounded.
“You’re gonna kill someone with that many potatoes. Death by starches.”
I didn’t even acknowledge her. Slanting my body backwards to look further down the line, I could see my sister and Cami—now serving the pie.
It wouldn’t work. They could put Tate Halloway in my damned pocket and I still wouldn’t fall for her charms. I was made of bedrock—unbreakable. She couldn’t get past my walls. In fact, I’d decided that she didn’t affect me at all.
“It would be a nice death.”
“Is there such thing as a nice death?”
Tate didn’t seem her usual vibrant self around me, so I allowed her one look. She looked better than the day before, but in the dress she was wearing, I could see she was markedly thinner than a few weeks ago and the crescents that hung below her eyes were darker and larger.
I didn’t answer her question. It felt too intimate of a conversation with a girl who I firmly intended to ignore for the rest of my life—in theory.
The influx of hungry townspeople finally dwindled down hours later. Beside me was a girl who was completely worn out despite the niceties and sass she continued to serve everyone who approached her.
“It’s nice to be on this side of the line.” She whispered the comment. I didn’t know if she meant it for my ears or not.
“It’s a blessing to be on either side of this table.”
She chunked her serving spoon into the mashed potatoes. “Have you ever been on the other side of the table, Bridger?”
“No. But I can imagine having a meal on Thanksgiving is a blessing.”
“As long as the people serving it are gracious.”
“Are you saying I’m not nice? You don’t think I’m nice?”
I sounded like her the day before when she asked me if I thought she was ugly.
“You’re perfectly nice, Bridger—and stoic—mostly stoic.”
I wasn’t stoic. Aloof maybe—standoffish, probably—but stoic?