18 18 “Whit! I need your hands for a second.”
I dog-ear the page in my book and toss it on the coffee table with a heavy sigh. I’m happy to give Cooper my hands. Either to strangle him or to deter him away from the kitchen and steer him toward the bedroom.
I had no idea that making Thanksgiving dinner could be such a noisy affair. Especially with just two people present, secluded in a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. But since the moment Cooper woke up this morning, it’s been nothing but an ongoing racket. Apparently I’ve lived alone for too long, because we’re closing in on four hours of this commotion and I’m nearing the limit on what I had always believed was my limitless patience.
It all started with the horrified groaning noise he made upon remembering that I don’t own a television. Thanksgiving is inherently tied to football in his world, so there was no scenario in which he might let me flip on a radio as low background noise and, God forbid, not watch the game.
After he set up his laptop on the kitchen table, he proceeded to stream football coverage at what must be the max volume setting available. Then he commandeered my laptop to access the internet for all the assorted cooking quandaries that have arisen over the last few hours, most of which inspired him to curse or hum or singsong his way through the solution. All of this was after he essentially reorganized my kitchen. He asked permission, but I knew it was mostly for show. If I had said no, he would have done it surreptitiously anyway. One colander, one mixing bowl, one soupspoon at a time.
Not to mention the incessant thwack of him rough-chopping vegetables with the largest knife I own and the way he’s incapable of letting a cupboard door or a kitchen drawer thud softly closed. No, he shows that cupboard door who’s boss. Every time. Dishware rattles, silverware clangs.
He’s cute, but barely cute enough for me to put up with much more of this. I’m comforted only by the fact that the turkey is currently roasting away in the oven alongside his spinach gratin, and the stuffing is nearly ready to go. Mashed potatoes are the last frontier. How loud can he possibly be while peeling and boiling potatoes?
When I stroll into the kitchen, Cooper has both hands deep in a large mixing bowl and is giving its contents a dirty look. I stride closer and peer in.
“Problem?”
Cooper raises his hands from the bowl of stuffing he’s trying to put together, fingers covered in gloppy masses of the bread mixture. His fingers look a bit like corn dogs that have been battered in all the wrong ways. “This doesn’t look right.”
The streaming football coverage blares behind us and a color commentator starts to shout. Cooper immediately cranes his neck around to see what’s happening. One of his corn-dog fingers flops into the bowl.
He’s so cute, I chant silently. I have limitless patience.
Cooper speaks again but doesn’t shift his eyes from the laptop. “Brace yourself. We have to call my mom.”
“Why?”
“To see if this stuffing can be saved.” Still no eye contact, just a jut of his chin toward the kitchen table. “Grab my phone, will you? Put it on speaker for me.”
He rattles off his pass code; I find his mom’s number, press send, and hold it up for him. Two rings and—I had no idea this was possible—things get even louder.
“Pooper! Merry turkey day!”
Definitely not his mom. One of the brothers, I’d guess, because Cooper tries to look pissed off at what can only be a sibling-coined corruption of his name, but a grin takes over.
“Who the hell is this, Dumb or Dumber? Does Mom know you’re touching her phone?”
Must be one of the twins. Cooper’s family tree goes like this: Mom is Patty, Dad is Gene, oldest brother is Caleb, followed by the twins, Matthew and Michael. Then Cooper. Or, as any youngest brother with that name should be known, Pooper.
“Mom went to get Dad some more ’Stone’s before the depot closed—turkey frying makes him thirsty. But this is the handsome twin. Does that help?”
Cooper tilts his head my way and speaks in my direction.
“I can’t tell the difference between them on the phone. They sound exactly the same. It’s creepy.”
“Who’s that? Mom said you were going to Aaron’s. You’d better be there or she’ll flip her lid. You know how she gets about you. Constantly worrying about her precious little jujube.”
Cooper’s cheeks turn one shade brighter. “Change of plans. I’m at . . .”
He pauses, and the silence on this end means I can hear all the background noise at his family’s house and it’s nothing but complete chaos. They must have nine televisions on. There may also be a small army of children who’ve stormed the castle, because it sounds like gleeful mutiny and mayhem are afoot.
Cooper’s eyes flicker to mine as he continues to hesitate, his jaw flexing and working over words that don’t actually come out. I raise my brows. He clenches his jaw once more.
“I’m at my girlfriend’s place.”
That explains the fish-hooked jaw action. Girlfriend. The big launch of us as a couple just happened and had I known this was coming, I would have put on a dress and done my hair.
The other side of the line stays quiet—well, sort of . . . aside from all of the not quietness that’s transpiring somewhere in Texas. Cooper shrugs when he notes how my eyes have widened, then continues to look right at me, searching my face for a response, until a flash of unease lights in his expression.
I kiss his cheek, keeping the phone in one hand as I do. Unfortunately, leaning up to kiss him means that the phone is closer to my ear, and when his brother bellows—not an exaggeration—I flinch and immediately pull the phone away.
“MATTY!” A pause of three beats, maybe, then, “CALEB! WHERE ARE YOU GUYS?”
Cooper glares at the phone face and shouts back. “Christ, Mikey, take it down a notch! You’re on speaker and Whitney’s ears aren’t fucking calibrated for Lowry level yet.”
Oh my God. They’re all barbarians. My head is actually ringing. I close my eyes and pray that might somehow equalize the blow to my hearing.
“Shit, sorry. But you can’t just lay that kind of thing out there, that you have a girlfriend, and not expect everybody in this house to lose their minds. You’re a goddam Sasquatch when it comes to relationships, Cooper. No one believes it’s even a possibility. So they need to be made aware, stat. But I think they’ve taken the lead on manning the turkey fryer.”
Mikey takes a deep breath and I start to cringe out of some newfound instinct, preparing for the onslaught of hollering that’s bound to follow. Instead, he lets an exhale out, measuredly.
“OK, I’m good. Let me talk to this Whitney person.”
I’m up, I guess. I stare at the phone for a moment. “Hi.”
“I’d like to start by apologizing to your ears. Please don’t leave Pooper because I hollered like that. He’d never forgive me if I ran you off and he’s a crybaby when he doesn’t get his way. I know, because he sniffled his way through the first ten years of his life. I was there as a witness.”
Cooper gives up and goes to wash the stuffing off his hands, barking as he walks away.
“Don’t tell her that. I wasn’t a crybaby, I had allergies, you asshole. You try living on a cattle ranch with hay fever. I got shots for it and you know it.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot. Jujube and his hay fever. Anyway, back to Whitney. What’s your story, Whit?”
“Well, I, uh . . .”
How in the hell do I describe myself to this guy? “I like long walks on the beach, grouchy football players, and pie? In my spare time, I try to figure out how to save my only asset from impending foreclosure?” None of that sounds quite appropriate.
Before I can stumble my own way through an answer, Cooper interjects.
“Oh, hell, that reminds me. Mikey, would you look at Whitney’s website? She owns a fruit orchard and her site sucks. Maybe you could work your web designer mojo on it, try to make something decent out of it.”
I give Cooper a scowl and pinch his ass. No reaction, because he’s rattling off my website address to Mikey. A minute or so passes. Mikey makes a few noises that do not sound appreciative.
“Cooper, promise me something. She’s hot, right? Because this website is an atrocity. This girl had better be hot and brilliant and have a heart of gold. If you knowingly entered into a relationship with her after seeing this dreck, and she isn’t all of those things, I’ll disown you.”
“She’s all that and more. But, the website . . . seriously shitty, right? Try using it to find your way here. It’s practically impossible.”
Nope. No more. I elbow Cooper in the gut.
“As a reminder, I’m standing right here. Don’t hate on my stuff. I couldn’t pay anyone to design it, so I did the best I could. I also can’t pay anyone to redesign it.”
Mikey chuckles. “Whitney, sweetheart. This is fucking terrible and I can’t live another day knowing it’s out in the world. I can fix it, easily—with one hand tied behind my back, one of my toddlers hanging off my leg, while giving my wife a back rub and frosting a cake. And you’re approved on Lowry credit, so I’ll charge Cooper double, and make him pay me in beer and fishing lures. Don’t sweat it.”
I want to tell him not to bother. Because soon, I could be orchard-less and living somewhere else. Where? No idea. I’ve tried to avoid picturing what that will look like, where I’ll go, or how hard it will be to start over.
Cooper takes the phone from my hand and kisses my forehead. And, now there’s Cooper. My boyfriend.
Will he take me in? Would I go, even if he did? Because a soft place to land isn’t always best for the ambitious, independent parts of your soul. Sometimes you need to fall, land squarely on your ass, and let the impact knock the wind from your lungs. Sometimes that seems like the only way to feel you paid for your failures.
The two brothers exchange a few more details and Mikey promises to turn my website into something less revolting and rudimentary. His words, not mine.
“Hey, hey, Coop. One more thing.” Mikey lowers his voice. “Jana’s pregnant.”
Cooper’s mouth drops open a little. “No shit?”
“Yeah. She’s almost three months along, but they’re keeping it quiet until she’s a few more weeks in. Matty told me, but I figure you can keep it on the down low, too.”
Cooper trains his focus on the frosted pear trees wintering in rows outside my kitchen window. He takes a labored swallow. “Tell him to keep her safe, OK?”
Mikey snorts. “Hell, he’d cover her in bubble wrap if he could. She wouldn’t let him, but you know he’d do anything for her.”
Cooper nods, still staring out the window. One of his arms stretches out and I find myself tugged closer, until my body presses to his side. “Be sure to hug all those little terrors for me.”
Mikey promises to do exactly that, followed by the exchange of manly, and lovingly offensive, affection. After he sets his phone on the counter, Cooper moves me to stand in front of him, draping his arms over my shoulders and propping his chin on the top of my head.
“Jana is Matty’s wife. They’ve been trying for a few years to have a kid but she’s miscarried twice. Caleb and Mikey barely have to look at their wives and they’re knocked up again, so being surrounded by all their healthy, happy kids has been hard on her. Matty, too.”
My heart starts to knock about in my chest, a guilty pulse that won’t slow. Turns out the reason I should have sent him home for Thanksgiving had nothing to do with whether his mom could play proper nursemaid. It’s because this wasn’t his home. Girlfriend or not, home for Cooper was too many states away.
“Aw, shit.” Cooper reaches behind me and grabs his phone off the counter. “All that, and I still didn’t get to ask about saving the stuffing. Think you can handle another round?”