Page 89 of Doing It for Love

I sniff, not even realizing how hard it is to say okay until that moment. Now Ireallyunderstand why Landon hates asking for help. I feel so pathetic. How am I supposed to get married if I can’t even…?

I slam my eyes shut before I finish the thought.

“Thank you, Mom.”

And I hug her before she sees a single tear escape from my eyes.

—

“Most people use frames, but this is creative and you don’t have to worry about making the place look classy.”

I force a polite smile at Mrs. Wangford as she gazes at our collage wall, and Landon moves the wine bottle away from me. He doesn’t have to worry about me getting drunk off my ass, though. My mom’s been firing the veiled insults right back at her—the comment about how Mrs. Wangford sure knows how to pull off gray hair almost had me pulling a super-mature high-five gesture. So I’ve been trying to busy myself with dinner so I don’t come off badly.

Cooking is not my strong suit, but I followed the instructions on the turkey bag, and I pulled out that gross gizzard crap before sliding it in the oven. Now, five hours later, the aroma is making me feel like the best damn cook in the world…even though I’m microwaving the corn.

Mom has taken it upon herself to make a wedding book, and currently she’s showing our very few choices for the invitations. They have to go out Monday, and after getting the pictures back from Helen the photographer, I basically handed that Hurdle to my mother because I couldn’t find one photo that satisfied me.

“Oh, this one is beautiful,” Mrs. Wangford says, pointing at the snowball fight photo. “Libby almost looks like she’s out of high school.”

“It’s Lizzie, Mom,” Landon argues from behind me in the kitchen. He’s helping mash the potatoes, and by the way it’s going, those potatoes will be paste by the time he’s done.

“That’s what I said.”

Mom doesn’t miss a beat, smiling just as sour sweetly at Mrs. Wangford. “If only we all looked younger than we are, am I right, Judy?”

Mrs. Wangford’s horribly fake smile twitches. “Oh, it’s Julie.”

Mom looks at her dead-on. “That’s what I said.”

Landon starts choking on nothing but air, and he turns to the oven to cover his laugh. I give him one good swat on the back, then run my hand to the back of his head and squeeze twice. He quirks a grin my direction, puts the potato masher down, and squeezes my hip once.

It’s the most romantic moment we’ve had all month.

The timer on the oven buzzes, cutting through the death glares our moms are giving each other, and Landon waves me from our tiny kitchen so he can pull my badass turkey out. It’s not black and smells like heaven, so I’m calling it a win.

“Let me see it,” I say, bouncing back into the kitchen when Landon taps the oven door closed. The juice in the bottom of the bag is boiling, and the top of the turkey looks well-seasoned and very Christmasy. Score. Maybe Landon’s mom won’t have anything backhanded to say about my cooking skills.

Landon cuts open the bag, and the aroma fills our apartment so much that Dad is already making his way to our foldout card table, tucking his napkin into his shirt. Mom bats Landon out of the kitchen and tells him to sit while she teaches me how to carve. I honestly think she just wants some distance from Mrs. Wangford.

“She’s a real piece of work,” she says out of the side of her mouth when she sidles up next to me by the oven. “I’m ready to start drinking.”

“I think your tongue is loose enough,” I joke, grabbing a long knife from the side drawer.

“Oh, not that one. Get the one with the serrated edges.”

I swap knives and grab the pitchfork for food or whatever that thing is called, but stop when I see Mom’s furrowed brow as she examines my beautiful turkey.

“Mom?”

“Hmmm…” she says thoughtfully, peeling some of the turkey bag down. “It…looks different.”

“Do I need to cook it longer?”

“Can I see that knife?”

I hand it over, heart suddenly pounding too hard because, crap, have I messed up something else? But she cuts into the side of the turkey, and it looks good to me.

“Oh, honey,” she says with a laugh, “you cooked it upside down.”

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