Page 20 of Wicked Bite
Thanksgiving
Why does the smell of apple pie always make me feel better? Oh, right, because I love to eat my feelings.
There wasn’t anything pie or tater tots couldn’t fix, in my book. Especially when it came to moving on and up. One night did not solidify a relationship. I knew it, Dice knew it, and clearly, Grayson knew it. The best thing I could do was put him right out of my mind and get over it. I was good at getting over things. When it came to the clean-up crew of my own heart, I was like a one-woman wrecking ball. Burning the bridges that hurt and dancing in the ashes was a talent of mine. Dice and I knew the drill. We had a ritual for all things upsetting and it never failed. First, a buffet of all the deliciousness of our choosing, next sweatpants, then violent movie marathon.
I walked into the tiny kitchen of our tiny apartment. It was small but it was ours. The countertops were a cheap white laminate with matching white cabinets. The old hardwood floors ran through the whole house. They were uneven and creaked with each step we took, dipping in some places. It wasn’t the most modern, but it was our home. The appliances were dated but clean, and they functioned just fine. We put our own little Salem style on everything, with flameless candles everywhere and dark burgundy walls that filled my dark little soul with joy. Everything about our place was dark, Gothic, and inviting.
I leaned against the counter and sucked in a breath. The smell of cinnamon and sugar drifted on the air, filling my senses. “I can’t believe you made me the pie.”
“Psh, I can’t believe I made it either. Cooking usually boils down to a phone call for me. But since we are doing the thing, I figured why the hell not.”
The thing being the bounce back from all the bullshit thing. Some days all a bestie needed was a little recharge time to remember who the hell we were and what the hell we were about. We were fantastic, and no mere mortal man would drag us down. At least in theory. Mostly.
“We are doing the thing.” Just then the timer on the air frier dinged and I chuckled. “Tots?”
She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, giving me a withering look. “Duh. Like I don’t know you.”
When I pulled the one drawer open, there was a mix of tots and fries. Oh, the perfection of potato. “What’s on the other side?”
I yanked it open, and an involuntary squeal left my lips. “Chick-fil-A nuggets!”
“We both don’t like turkey, and I’m not about to roast a chicken. I’ll either kill the already-dead chicken, or us. Nuggets it is. Happy Thanksgiving.” She reached up on the shelf and snagged a plate to hand to me.
I took it and began scooping food onto it. Another timer went off and I glanced at the oven. “Oh, you didn’t.”
“Variety is the spice of life, my friend.” The door creaked as she opened it and pulled a pizza from inside. She placed it on the wooden cutting board on the counter then waved at it. “Ta da, a feast is served.”
It wasn’t a huge Thanksgiving dinner, but it was ours. We were our own family, always had been. Since we were ten years old and placed in the group home. We looked out for each other.
I got the pizza cutter and handed it to her. “It really is.”
We left the kitchen and within two steps we were in the living room. We had two oversized chairs that took up the whole space and faced a flatscreen TV. Up the stairs were two bedrooms right across from each other and one bathroom that we shared. We’d taken the time to hang all kinds of Salem witchy shit on the walls and had black flameless candles spread around the room. Bright light was not our friend. If it was up to Dice and me, we would be creatures of the night and never go out during the day.
“Soooo, can you do it?” I dropped down into my plushy chair.
She froze. “Do what?”
“Come on, don’t play dumb. You know what.”
She groaned. “Piperrrr, you never like it when I do it.”
“I do, I promise.” I half-whined half-begged.
“You always get upset when I tell you the truth about things.” She began to pull the blue velvet pouch she always carried from her pocket. She dropped it on the table then sat back in the chair and looked at me. “Promise you won’t get upset.”
“I promise.” I nodded with excitement.
“Stop looking at me like that. It pulls your stitches weird.” She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “You know I’m squeamish.”
“The doctor said I have to let some air get to it.” I self-consciously cupped my hand over the small cut on the side of my forehead. “I can put a Band-Aid on it.”
She settled back into the dark pillows and pulled the fluffy black sherpa blanket over her legs. “No, just don’t make your happy psycho killer face.”
“But I love my happy psycho killer face.” I stuck my tongue out at her and pulled my own blanket around myself, making a little cocoon. “Now come on, roll ‘em.”
Back in the group home, Dice got her name rolling the dice in that pouch. They were a dark sapphire blue with ten different sides. Each side had a different symbol on it, and each represented something different to Dice. She’d learned the meanings of each one over the years, and now they were damn near infallible. Someone left them with her when she was abandoned as a baby. It was the only possession she had from her parents . . . maybe. She kept them her whole life, had even gotten in a fight or two over them. But mostly, she’d used them to do some fortune telling on the side for extra cash. People thought it was for fun, but I knew they were hella accurate. So accurate it hurt.
“Fineeeee. I’ll roll. But get the bowl, because last time one went under the couch and I’m not about that life right now.” She opened the bag and dumped the two matching dice into her hand.
