Page 17 of Holiday Scars
Biting into the bagel, I follow Dirk outside. I immediately shiver in the cold bite of mountain air.
Deep-fried turkey still takes over an hour, and Dirk has the oil heating in the tall stainless steel fryer pot. We started deep frying the bird a few years ago. It’s a routine that feels steady now. Dirk prepped the deck with a tarp. It’s a few minutes before I realize he’s talking to me. Football talk. How the Giants can’t get their act together, and he might start rooting for the Bills.
“Still a New York team,” he says, checking the temperature gauge on the fryer.
“See what happens when you start wearing Buffalo merch around Manhattan,” I joke. “Giants fans will gut you.”
“I’ll be a trendsetter.”
More time passes as I demolish the bagel and stare out at the cabin’s land. It’s acres and acres. Dirk technically owns it since he pays the taxes and spends more time up here.
Hana appears with the dressed turkey, ready for the oil. Jett lingers by the door.
“Wanna do the honors this year?” Dirk asks, because this year he’s got a woman to kiss.
Deep frying isn’t like sticking a bird in the oven and going about your business. It has to be watched. Oil can be unstable.
“Sure.” I prep the bird with the steel hook and lower it into the fryer.
The immediate smell of the skin sizzling and the crackle of the oil is cool.
Dirk and Hana head back inside, leaving me with Jett. I don’t say a word, expecting he’ll head inside, too.
“You okay?” he says to me, as if I’m the one who is straight and got my dick sucked by a gay dude.
“Sure.” I watch the fryer. “You?”
“What’s wrong?” His voice lifts my eyes.
“I woke up and you were gone.”
“It was eleven o’clock.” He folds his arms.
“We were up late. The long drive, the meal, the cold air.”
“The sex,” he says, low and controlled.
Don’t regret this...
I laugh and shift the turkey. “The way you came in my mouth, you should still be passed out.”
When Jett doesn’t say anything. I see he’s redder than the ripe tomatoes Hana cut for the salad.
“Hey, I didn’t mean—”
There’s a loud pop, and oil spits up from the fryer.
“Watch out,” Jett cuts me off and tries to shove me out of the way.
But a spray of scorching heat catches my wrist. “Shit!” I jerk back.
“Blade!” Jett’s voice is sharp.
“It’s fine.”
“No, three-hundred-and-fifty-degree oil will damage your skin.” Jett tugs on my arm to look at it. “Dirk!”
“Wait!” It’s my first shot at this, and I’m being benched already?
