Page 78 of Still Yours
That sounds fucking delicious, but I regard at her carefully. “Is pumpkin pie also on the menu?”
This time, her tinkling laughter lifts the surrounding air, if that’s even possible. But it has to be, because the hairs on my arms stand up and there’s a tangible shift of the atmosphere against my ears.
It’s at this moment I realize how heavy the environment is in Ma’s home, filled with negative anticipation, dread, cautious hope. None of it feels like Noa’s unhindered laughter. Nothing sounds like her, either.
“I’d never deny you America’s dessert,” she says.
“Good.” My approval comes out tight with restrained emotion as I wrestle with the reality of our relationship. “It’s the one holiday where I get to cheat on my nutrition plan.”
“What do you normally do for Thanksgiving?” She cocks her head. “You haven’t celebrated it in Falcon Haven for a long time.”
Noa doesn’t ask it with judgment. She’s curious.
“Usually, I’m at a hotel somewhere. Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated in countries other than North America, and a lot of the companies I work with aren’t American, so … sometimes nothing. Or when I happened to be in LA, I had Ma join me. I’dtake her to a fancy restaurant that had a Thanksgiving meal as their special.”
I shut my mouth because I’m embarrassingly close to blabbering, which I simply do not do. I want to keep having a conversation with her.
She smiles. “Sounds delicious.”
“It was.” I jerk upright. “It won’t compare to what you cook, though.”
Noa laughs again. “I appreciate the flattery.”
“You damn sure should.” My statement comes out husky with lust.
Noa fidgets, a light blush creeping along her cheeks.
All I want to do is make it bloom.
She notices. “What’s wrong?”
I want to jump you and make you smell like the ingredients you’ve laid out as I grind you into them.“Nothing. Do you need assistance?”
“Stone. You can talk to me.” Her gaze slides away and then comes back.
I give a sad smile, then scrub my face with one hand, reminding myself Ma is awake in the other room.
Noa pulls her lips in, regarding me—differently. My jaw works under her study, my tongue ready to peel off the top of my mouth and ask her what she’s thinking. If she has any positive emotion left for me at all. If, without my mother keeping her here, she’d give me the time of day.
I stroll around the counter and pluck the list out of her hands. “Let’s get these groceries before the Merc sells out.”
Thankfully, Noa allows the subject to change. “You really are rusty on the holiday. We’d be in big trouble if we were shopping for all this now. I pre-ordered the groceries a week and a half ago. Our bags should be ready in an hour.”
“Of course you did.”
Noa follows me out the door.
I know this because I look back at her to make sure.
After we pick up the groceries and dump them in the kitchen, Noa gets to work. Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and according to her, we can make most of these recipes ahead. I’m not one to argue and fall into her assistant role like I was always meant to be there, chopping and stirring and station cleaning.
Ma joins within the hour, perching on the stool and observing Noa and I dance with food.
Somebody breaks out a bottle of white wine and we all pour a glass, Ma’s being the heaviest. She side-eyes anyone who tries to tell her otherwise, reminding us that during this holiday, she will drink and dine all she damn wants.
I sneak glances at her more than once, enjoying her alertness and constant questioning of Noa’s culinary decisions. Our bike rides are way more enjoyable than I thought, and I look forward to them every morning. It doesn’t matter that I’m at Rome’s ranch before dawn, hauling hay and mucking stalls. When I return home in the morning, I turn right around and take my mother for a ride around the block.
She was slower this morning. We made it maybe one block before she asked to turn around, but I put that worry out of my mind as she sips on her wine and asks questions about Noa’s leek preparation instead.
