Page 119 of You Only Need One

“Marcus, are the rolls done?” I call out.

“Am I allowed back in the kitchen?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course. I never said you weren’t.”

My big brother walks through the doorway, a wary look on his face. “You didn’t have to. Made it pretty obvious when you tried to dump a pot of boiling potatoes on my head.”

A chuckle drifts from the living room, and I glare at the wall, as if Pops might experience the burn of my gaze through the plaster.

“I didn’t try to dump it on you. You were in my way, so I told you to move.”

He crosses the kitchen to pick up a timer I didn’t notice on the counter. “You and I have different definitions of told.” He holds the timer up for me to see. “The rolls have three more minutes. Are they the last thing?”

“Yeah. Help me move all this.”

We both slip on oven mitts and carry the dishes into the dining room.

“Am I allowed in the kitchen?” Pops strolls into the room and grins when I throw my hands up at how dramatic they’re being.

“Yes! Everyone is allowed in the kitchen! You’d think I’d put a sign up that said, No Boys Allowed, or something.” I huff and go to grab the bowl of green beans.

Pops opens the fridge and pulls out two pies. My mouth waters at just the memory of that recipe. One I’ve never been able to master.

“Grams’s blueberry pies. Thought I’d put them in to bake now, so they’ll be ready for later.”

Picking up the last few food items, I leave the two of them to work out the oven.

In the past few years, this has become our tradition. I’m in charge of most of the cooking, Marcus does the bread, and Pops does the dessert. Then, they handle cleanup duty, although I usually sneak back in to help dry some dishes.

My brother loves making dough from scratch, so I don’t mind him covering that job. And every dessert I’ve ever tried to bake somehow goes to crap. Sweets are my kryptonite, so I finally gave up and passed the responsibility on to my dad. He’s almost as good as Grams was.

Once the three of us are sitting around the table, Pops clears his throat. “I’m thankful for having you two in my life.”

My throat gets tight when a sudden rush of emotion clogs it.

Marcus goes next. “I’m thankful that, even though I live in New York, I still get to visit plenty. And I’m thankful that I have a stubborn sister who’s hell-bent on saving me.”

He grins, and I take a deep, shuddering breath to keep from getting weepy.

“I’m thankful for the both of you and for paired kidney donations.” My voice quivers.

Pops pats my shoulder. “There’s a good girl. This looks delicious. Grams would’ve been proud.”

As we dig in, my whole body aches with a strange mixture of happiness and loss. I can’t help remembering all the Thanksgiving dinners from my childhood where there were five of us at the table. Back when Mom was clean and a part of my life. The days when I was my grandmother’s helper in the kitchen. She’d have me read all the ingredients out loud from her handwritten recipe cards as she cooked. Now, I realize she probably had them all memorized but still wanted to give me a job.

Grams always made sure I felt useful. I was her ingredients reader, her wet-dishes drier, her dress-zipper-upper, and most importantly, her grocery list-maker. She was the one who gave me my first notebook, asking me to write down all the things we’d need to pick up at the store. And not just for holiday meals. Every day, she’d call out things that needed to go on the shopping list, and I’d pull out my handy notebook to write them down, so we’d be ready when it was time for a trip to the supermarket.

Now, with her gone, I find the practice of creating lists soothing. Because it gives me focus and reminds me of her.

My brother and dad are too busy stuffing their faces to make conversation, but they make plenty of approving noises. I beam at the both of them, loving my family even though it’s smaller than it used to be.

I hope Ben is having a good Thanksgiving. We’ve been texting sporadically ever since he left, talking on the phone a few lucky times, and I’m surprised at how much I miss him. Normally, Thursdays are full of Ben—the two of us reading and talking during his morning treatment. But, with the holiday and his trip, I won’t get to see him again till next week.

The chair next to me is empty. I wish it weren’t. I want him here, getting to know my family, cracking jokes that would help take my mind off the pain of the past. If he were here, I’d reach for his hand under the table, just so I could hold on to him.

When did Ben become the person I most want to turn to when I’m feeling unsteady?

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