Page 52 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
Eli just beams, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Sugar cures everything, even homesickness,” Eli says, dropping into his desk chair as though he’s just delivered some universal truth.
I snort, brushing crumbs from my hand. “Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”
“Pretty sure it is.” He bites into his own cookie with exaggerated delight, eyes closing like it’s heaven on earth. “Look at me. Totally cured.”
I shake my head, but my chest loosens a little despite myself. He makes it sound so damn easy. Like pain and loneliness andthe hollow ache in my ribs could be fixed with warm cookies and that ridiculous grin. And if I’m honest, it sort of is.
“Seriously,” he says around another bite, pointing at me with his cookie. “You’re not allowed to sulk on Thanksgiving. It’s a holiday rule. Eat another one.”
“I don’t sulk.”
He grins, all teeth, all sunshine. “You absolutely sulk. But it’s part of your charm.”
Eli polishes off the last bite of his cookie, wipes his hands on his sweats, and suddenly spins his laptop around. “Okay. If we can’t go home for Thanksgiving, we make Thanksgiving come to us.”
I arch a brow. “What does that even mean?”
“It means…” He wiggles his fingers dramatically over the trackpad. “Delivery service. I bet there’s at least one grocery store open. We get ingredients, I cook. Boom—tiny feast.”
“You cook?” I ask, skeptical.
“Please.” He smirks, already scrolling through options. “I’m the casserole king. Ask anyone in my family. Turkey’s a no-go because we’d be eating at Christmas, but stuffing? Mashed potatoes? Maybe some chicken, rolls, green beans—I can whip up a spread. You’ll see.”
I should roll my eyes and tell him to stop being ridiculous, but something in my chest tugs instead. He’s so damn earnest, so determined to make this day into something when I’d written it off before it even started.
“Found one,” he announces triumphantly, clicking away. “They’ll bring it to the dorm. We’re saved.”
“Saved?” I echo dryly.
“Saved from spending Thanksgiving eating protein bars and glaring at each other.”
I huff a laugh. “That was my plan.”
“Well,” he says, flashing that grin, “my plan is better.”
He leans back, satisfied, as if the world hasn’t just tilted a little under me. As if this isn’t the first time in years someone’s tried to make a holiday mean something to me.
The delivery guyshows up an hour later, arms full of grocery bags, and Eli practically bounces down the hall to meet him. By the time we haul everything into the communal kitchen, he’s humming under his breath, already dividing ingredients akin to a general preparing for battle.
“Okay,” he says, shoving a bag of potatoes into my arms. “You’re on peeling duty. Don’t screw it up.”
I lift a brow. “You’re bossy.”
“Efficient,” he corrects, already unpacking rolls and a pack of chicken breasts. “Big difference.”
The kitchen smells of garlic and butter within minutes, steam fogging the windows as snow glows white beyond the glass. Eli’s darting from the stove to the counter, chattering the whole time, and I’m stuck peeling potatoes with a dull paring knife. Somehow, it’s not as terrible as it should be.
He hums along to some Christmas playlist he pulled up on his phone, flour dusting his shirt, hair sticking up in a way that makes my chest ache. When he leans over to steal one of the rolls off the tray, I flick a bit of potato peel at him.
“Hey!” he protests, grinning. “Sabotage is not in the holiday spirit.”
“You’re eating half the food before it’s cooked.”
“Quality control,” he shoots back, stuffing the roll into his mouth. His smile around it is so smug, I can’t help shaking my head.
It’s ridiculous. Messy. Completely domestic. And for the first time in years, it almost feels like a holiday.
