Page 54 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
“So…” I say carefully, like I’m testing the ice before stepping out on it. “What were Thanksgivings like for you? You know…before.”
Max’s gaze lifts, sharp for a beat, as if he’s about to shut me out. But then it softens again, his eyes dropping to his plate. He runs his thumb along the edge, jaw shifting like he’s working the words loose.
“Loud,” he says finally. “Big table, too much food. My mom always burned the rolls, but she kept making them anyway, and they were always late. My dad carved the turkey like it was some sacred ritual.”
He pauses, something flickering across his face before he clears his throat. “It was…good. Back then.”
I nod, holding his gaze, letting the silence fill with the weight of what he didn’t say. “Sounds kinda like mine,” I murmur, giving him a small smile. “Messy and loud and…worth remembering.”
Max doesn’t look up right away, just rolls a green bean across his plate with the tip of his fork. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost thoughtful.
“Some of it was good,” he admits. “But I couldn’t be my full self. So was it even real?”
The words hang heavy between us, heavier than the steam still curling up from the food.
It makes my chest ache, not with pity, never that, but the sharp kind of empathy that comes from realizing something you’ve always had isn’t a given for everyone else. My family’s chaos, the way my parents shrugged and loved me louder when I came out, it feels almost unfair at this moment. Everyone shouldhave that kind of support. And I’m not stupid, I know that even though everyone should have that, it’s not a given…hell, it’s not even the normal. Which sucks. Why does it matter who someone loves in private?
I lean forward, meeting his eyes, even though he doesn’t want to give them to me. “It was real,” I say softly. “Maybe not all of it, maybe not the way you deserved…but the good parts? Those were still yours. Nobody can take that from you.”
His gaze flicks up, sharp, measuring me, waiting for pity, but I keep my smile small and steady. Just enough to tell him I see him. That I’m not pulling away.
Then I lean back, grab a roll off the plate, and tear into it with exaggerated drama. “Besides,” I say around a mouthful, “this is way better than burnt rolls anyway.”
For the first time since the question left my lips, his mouth twitches.
“Starling,” he mutters, shaking his head and dry humor pulling at his lips.
I grin, chewing slowly, letting the moment breathe. God, I like him. I know it’s a bad idea in every possible way, but I can’t stop. And the more I learn about him, the harder it is to even try.
We polish off most of the food, the kind of comfortable silence that only comes after a good meal settling between us. I’m stuffed, warm, and just a little happy that I pulled this off.
Then I spot the cabinet near the window—the one crammed full of random board games left behind by students over the years. A grin stretches across my face before I can stop it.
“Game time,” I announce, pushing back from the table.
Max raises a brow. “Game time? You really like games don’t you?”
“These kinds, definitely. The mind games some people play, not at all.”
The side of his mouth quirks into a half smile, but he stays quiet as I dig through the cabinet. I pull outJenga—fun for two people, unlike chess, which I’d probably lose at.
As I set the box on the table, Max asks, “Did you ever grow up?”
I flash him a grin. “Are you saying games are just for kids?”
He just shrugs, watching me stack the tower.
“I’ll have you know,” I say, wagging a block at him, “people who play more live longer. They should’ve taught you that in medical school.”
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s a real thing.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” I slide a block free and balance it carefully on top, giving him a smug look. “Stress comes from taking life too seriously. Stress is terrible for your body. Ergo—” I sweep my hand over the tower like I’m delivering gospel. “Jengasaves lives.”
This time, his laugh comes easier, spilling out warmer, and I can’t help the little thrill it sends through me.
We trade turns in silence at first, the scrape of wood blocks the only sound. But then Max’s piece sticks halfway, and I lean forward, chin propped on my fist.
“Careful,” I murmur, eyes wide with mock seriousness. “Lives are at stake here.”
