Page 53 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
I’m peeling the last potato when I realize Eli’s gone quiet—too quiet.
I glance up just in time to see him grab the wooden spoon, press it to his lips like a microphone, and belt out, “IIIIII’M DREAMING OF A WHIIIIIITE THANKSGIVING?—”
The notes are bad. Comically bad. He knows it too, because he hams it up, leaning against the counter with his eyes closed as though he’s performing to a sold-out arena.
When he opens them again, he points the spoon at me. “C’mon, Calder, join me for the chorus!”
I snort, shaking my head. “Absolutely not.”
He gasps, clutching his chest in mock offense. “You’d deny the people this holiday duet?”
“There are no people.”
“There’sme,” he fires back, and then he’s circling the counter, spoon still at his mouth, singing dramatically out of tune while wagging his eyebrows at me.
It’s silly. It’s over the top. And then—God help me—I’m laughing. Not the quiet kind I usually let slip when he gets under my skin. A real laugh. Deep, rolling, unstoppable. My chest hurts, my eyes water, and I have to brace a hand on the counter to keep from doubling over.
Eli beams as though he just won the lottery. “That’s it. That’s the sound I was aiming for.”
I shake my head, wiping at my eyes, still laughing. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely talented,” he corrects, striking one last pose with his spoon mic before tossing it into the sink. “You’re welcome.”
And damn it all, I can’t stop smiling. The laughter takes a minute to fade. I’m still catching my breath, cheeks damp from tears, chest aching in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
Eli’s watching me. His grin softens as he leans against the counter, flour still dusting his shirt, hair wild.
“You should laugh like that more,” he says quietly.
I blink, caught off guard, the smile still tugging at my mouth even as my chest tightens. “Don’t push your luck.”
He shrugs, but there’s warmth in his eyes, like he’s tucking the sound away for himself. Like my happiness matters to him.
The kitchen feels quieter after that, calmer, even as the oven hums and steam curls up from the pots. Eli stirs the green beans with an easy sway, humming off-key again, but quieter this time. And I can’t stop thinking that maybe this doesn’t feel like something I have to brace against.
It feels…good. Safe.
Dangerously so.
NINETEEN
ELI
By the timewe pile the food onto plates, the whole kitchen smells amazing and is warm with the kind of comfort you can’t bottle. It’s not turkey-and-all-the-fixings, not even close—but it’s ours.
I slide into a chair across from Max, the steam from the mashed potatoes curling in the air between us. He sits opposite, quiet as always, but something about him looks…different. Softer. Some of the tension has finally bled out of his shoulders.
It makes me stare longer than I should, soaking in the curve of his mouth that isn’t quite a frown for once, the way his shoulders don’t look like they’re holding up the weight of the whole world. For a second, I see the Max no one else gets to.
His fork scrapes against the plate, and then he sets it down, eyes flicking up to mine.
“Thanks,” he says, voice low but certain. “For this.”
My chest squeezes, warmth blooming fast. I grin, nudging a roll across the table toward him. “Don’t thank me yet. I could still screw up dessert.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and it feels akin to sunlight cracking through a storm.
The quiet stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind that settles warm in your bones, makes the clink of silverware sound almost musical. I take another bite of potatoes, then set my fork down and lean my chin on my hand.
