thanksgiving eve with zoe & aiden

as promised...the short!

Dear readers,

As promised, below you’ll find the Thanksgiving bonus short I wrote for Zoe and Aiden (from Luck of the Draw) a few years ago (so, some of you will have surely read it before!). To be perfectly honest, I love these two so much and I love this little glimpse of them in their regular life, after their HEA. Reading it makes me think I should take some time to write more little glimpses into the lives of my characters!

Every day and at this time of year especially, I am so hugely grateful for your support of my work. I hope the holiday, if you celebrate, is restful and happy for you and yours.

xo

kate 🖤

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🍂🍁🍂

Gratitude: A Zoe & Aiden Thanksgiving Short
Copyright Kate Clayborn, 2018

Zoe

“I should’ve ordered everything,” I mumble, staring down at the pot full of cranberries, already too-stiff, a sweet-burnt smell staring to permeate the kitchen. I push the saucepan away from the heat and shut off the burner, indulging in a brief second of self-pity by lowering my head to my hands and heaving a frustrated sigh. I’m exhausted, it’s nearly midnight, and I am so behind on this meal prep that it’d be comical if I didn’t feel like crying. 

“Zo,” Aiden says, coming into the kitchen from our bedroom. Right away he comes to stand behind me, setting a big hand on my hip and stroking there. “What happened?”

He smells wonderful—fresh from a shower since his shift only just ended, the wet ends of his hair tickling the side of my face when he peers over my shoulder. I wish I could appreciate it, wish I could lean back into him and be glad that he’s home—that we’re finally, finally both home, after days and days where our schedules have been determinedly opposite. For the last couple of weeks, Marisela and I have been working long hours on a local housing case, extra long these last few days so we could both take the days after Thanksgiving off. Aiden’s been making similar efforts—taking on a few extra night shifts so he’ll also be free for the holiday and after, since it’ll be our first time having houseguests for a holiday. 

Important houseguests.

“Oh,” Aiden says, registering the pot. “Maybe left them on too long.”

I spin away from him, embarrassed and dangerously close to crying. “Yes,” I say sharply, “I gathered that.” 

I basically shove my face in the fridge, pretending to look for some ingredient for yet another dish I’ll probably screw up. I should’ve ordered everything, I scold myself again silently, rustling around through the array of groceries Aiden brought home early yesterday morning before he left for yet another shift. He’d followed the list I made for him so precisely, coming home with small checkmarks next to each item I’d written, and I’d thought those marks were so—wonderful. So deliberate and helpful and knowing, because without them I probably would’ve double-checked everything twice, and Aiden knows that because he knows me. 

But now I think about those marks and feel unaccountably frustrated. He should’ve known me well enough to know that I’m not capable of preparing anything for this meal, this meal with his parents. Sure, it’d been me who’d offered to host, to suggest that Aiden and I provide the whole meal. And sure, Aiden was taking on most of the difficult stuff—the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the weird, Wonder Bread stuffing his dad apparently likes—but he should’ve known. 

I can’t do this. 

“Hey, that’s all right,” he says gently. “We got a couple of cans in the pantry.”

I straighten, shut the refrigerator door. When I turn toward him, he’s got a look on his face like he knows what’s coming. 

“We do?” I cross my arms over my chest. The ring I’m wearing—the engagement ring that Aiden slid onto my finger only a few weeks ago, after our most recent trip to the campground where we’d first gotten together—presses through the sleeve of my shirt. Does Aiden really think I’m going to serve canned cranberries over the same meal where he tells his parents we’re engaged?

Aiden blinks, clears his throat. “In case we ran out of time,” he says gruffly, and I narrow my eyes at him. I should be relieved, especially given what I’ve just been telling myself. Of course I should be happy that Aiden had a backup; of course I should be happy that he did, in fact, know.

But I’m not happy. I’m stressed and tired and so, so nervous. 

“Oh? Did you also buy a box of those weird, flakey instant potatoes? Just add water?”

He shifts slightly on his feet. “Uh,” he says.

“I knew it,” I say, turning to grab the saucepan off the stove. I’m going to dump it. It’s a total disaster, inedible. His parents, who have definitely warmed to me over the last couple of years, will take one look at these cranberries and be reminded, I’m sure, of why they didn’t like me in the first place. “You didn’t think I could do this.”

“Hon—” he begins and I whirl on him.

“Try it, Boy Scout. Try calling me a pet name right now.”

He closes his mouth. 

In the silence I try to order my thoughts enough to come up with a game plan. Aiden’s parents won’t be here until tomorrow at noon, since they’re staying tonight at a nearby resort where they used to spend their anniversaries before they moved down to Florida. That means I’ve got about twelve hours to save this. Greer’s probably asleep, but if I call her she’ll answer and she’ll absolutely know what Ina Garten would do in this scenario, except that I guess Ina Garten would never ruin cranberries. I’ll make a run to the grocery, get more cranberries, start— 

“Zo,” he says softly. “I do think you can do this. I think you can do anything.”

I clench my teeth, worrying over the wobbly feeling I have in my chin. I will not cry, I tell myself, even though I’ve cried in front of Aiden before, even though Aiden knows all the soft, tender parts of me that I’ve only ever shown to him and Kit and Greer. 

“You don’t get it,” I say, because I don’t want to show him this tender part tonight. I just want—I want everything tomorrow to go well; I want Robert and Kathleen to love me, and I want Aiden and me to have a nice first Thanksgiving as an engaged couple, a couple getting married. The right way, this time.

“I don’t,” he says. “This isn’t a big deal. We’re both tired, and we’ll do better at making stuff if we get some sleep first. Plenty of time in the morning.” 

He reaches for me, but I move, grabbing the sponge and turning on the water in the sink to start cleaning up my mess. 

“I’ll go out,” I say. “Get a couple more bags.”

“No, you won’t,” Aiden tries, even though he’s got to understand that won’t work, either. Two years with me and he knows that alpha-man shit works in exactly one place, and it definitely isn’t in the kitchen. 

I give him a look.  

He reaches over, shuts off the water. 

“I know you’re stressed. I know you want tomorrow to go well. But it’s going to go well no matter what, because it’s Thanksgiving, and we’ll be together, and I’m—”

“Aiden,” I say sharply, and then take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I know I’m being prickly, and difficult, and unfair. But still I say, “I don’t need you to give me a pep talk. I need to clean this pan and figure out what I need to do to make this meal go right for your family.” 

For a few seconds he’s a still, stern presence beside me, and I can feel his eyes on me. My face feels flushed—hot with the unshed tears and the nerves and the shame I already feel at having acted so poorly. I will him to walk away, to let me gather myself, strengthen myself so I can turn this around.

But when he finally does, I feel ridiculously disappointed. 

I hear him go into the bedroom, and I turn the water back on to fill the pot, gently remove my ring and set it on the small, white dish I’d bought just for this purpose last week. Looking at it sparkle there, I feel an echo of the thrill and joy and contentment I’ve felt, and not just since he asked me to marry him with his perfect, somewhat spontaneous proposal. 

But also since we’ve decided to be together for real. 

I close my eyes and take a deep, calming breath. I need to apologize to him, to relax and remember what’s important. I shut off the water and think I’ll dry off my hands and head straight into the bedroom, kiss him and say I’m sorry, wrap my arms around him and tell him the truth, which is that I’m more scared than stressed, that I’m so worried Robert and Kathleen won’t like the idea of us getting married, that I know the canned cranberries aren’t a big deal but I’d still like to try with the homemade ones, because I want this Thanksgiving to feel as real and as right and he and I feel together.

But I hear a clatter in the bedroom, what sounds like a bunch of loose change hitting the top of the dresser, and then Aiden’s heavy footfalls crossing the room, opening the drawer on his nightstand forcefully. 

And because I know Aiden, too—know he sometimes needs a few minutes of quiet after a tense moment, of doing something mindless like emptying the pockets from the pants in the hamper, or sorting a stack of bills—I decide to give him a couple of minutes before I go in there to make this right.

But when I’m halfway through washing the pot, Aiden comes back into the kitchen—stomps, really—and sets something on the counter beside me with a firm clink. I turn to look up at him and he sets his hands low on his hips, his hazel eyes challenging, his jaw set.  

I look over at what he’s set down, and my heart swells with feeling.

It’s a Mason jar, medium size, the same one Aiden keeps on a shelf on his side of the closet. When he empties his pockets at night, he puts his loose change in this jar, which he once told me is something he and Aaron, his brother, used to do. When it gets full he dumps it on the coffee table and makes rolls of coins, stacks them tidily, and then announces to me proudly exactly how much money came from the jar. He always says something like, “That’s three cups of your fancy coffee, right there,” or “Here’s how much I’m going to bet that I’ll beat you at darts this week.” 

But right now, the jar is empty of coins.

Instead it’s filled with scraps of paper, the edges torn unevenly, hastily. I can see he’s forgotten to fold a few of them all the way, so his messy handwriting is visible on some. 

“You know what this is,” he says, his voice firm. A challenge.

I nod, my eyes already welling up. 

It’s a gratitude jar. 

It was a gratitude jar that first sent me to Aiden—or, at least, my bastardized version of one, something I’d called a guilt jar, full of all the things I’d wanted to make right in my life. I’d used a vase, not an actual jar, a vase that’s right now set in the middle of our dining room table, filled with gorgeous orange and yellow flowers that were, obviously, part of the grocery list Aiden so lovingly checked off for me. 

“Well,” he says. “Get going, then.” He lifts his chin toward it, urging me on. 

So I take out the slips, and start reading. 

Because I share a home with you. 

Because you make me laugh. 

Because you kept that camp t-shirt.

Because you’re stubborn, especially about the things that matter. 

Because you always try so hard.

Because you’re beautiful.

Because you’re my best friend.

Because you saved me.

Because you said yes.

Because you’re mine. 

I’m not bothering to stop the chin quiver by the last one, not bothering to wipe away the tears that start tracking down my cheeks as soon as I finally look up at him, but that’s okay because Aiden steps toward me, raising his hands to cup my face and swipe gently at the tears with his thumbs.

“Hey now,” he says, his voice low, soothing. “It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, sniffling loudly, messily. “I’m being such a jerk, and this is the nicest jar, and you’re the nicest person—”

He chuckles. “I’m not the nicest person.” He drops one warm hand to the side of my neck, strokes his thumb back and forth on the skin there. “I admit, I had some doubts about the cranberries.”

I laugh, wet and snotty and relieved, too. Relieved to get it out. 

“I’ve been putting a lot of pressure on myself,” I say.

“What a surprise,” says Aiden, deadpan, leaning in to give me a quick, soft kiss before pulling back. “But you know, Zo. You know you could burn ten bags of cranberries and ruin all the pies and the green beans and it wouldn’t matter to me. You know nothing matters to me except you keeping my grouchy ass around.”

I lean in to him, press my forehead against his collarbone and sigh, feel his arms come around me to hold me close. “I’m the one being grouchy,” I say, the sound muffled against the soft cloth of his t-shirt. 

He shrugs, tightens his hold. “It happens.”

I take a few more breaths of his Irish Spring scent, then lean back in the circle of his arms so I can look up at him. “I always get worried about things with your parents.”

He nods once, in understanding, in recognition. “I get it,” he says. “But you gotta remember, they love you. It’s why my dad always wants to talk about that garbage tv show with you.”

“Hey,” I interrupt. “That’s a good show.”

“And it’s why my mom sent you a recipe for her orange marmalade, not that you’re ever going to try it.” He smiles, kisses me again. “They love you. They’ll love that we’re getting married.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

That quickly I realize that this is what I’ve been missing these last few days—this closeness with Aiden, these moments where it’s easy to remind myself how lucky and how grateful I am, how right he and I are together. We’ve been so tied up, both of us, and in the chaos I lost sight of everything Aiden put in that jar. 

“All right,” he says, loosening his arms from around me. “Put that ring back on and get your shoes. We’ll go get some more damned cranberries.”

“It’s midnight,” I say. 

 “Sure is,” he says, already walking to the front door, to where he’d left his boots when he’d come in. “But if you want homemade cranberries, we’ll make homemade cranberries.”

I smile, watch him bend over to pull one of his boots on.

“Just give me one second,” I say, turning from him. “I want to make a quick list of some things I forgot.” He groans, but it’s genial, exaggerated. He’ll grumble the whole way to the store and all the way inside but we’ll both like it; we’ll both know that deep down, he’s enjoying himself.

I make quick work, snagging a pen from the drawer and gathering all of Aiden’s messy, scrawled-on strips. I make sure my back is turned so he can’t see me, and I write as fast as I can on the back of each one. 

Because you come home to me.

Because you let me cry. 

Because your soap has the best smell.

Because you always know the things that matter. 

Because you push yourself and me. 

Because you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

Because you’re my family.

Because you save everyone. 

Because you asked. 

Because it’s you and me, forever. 

I stuff them all back in the jar haphazardly just as he’s zipping up his coat by the front door, and then I clutch it in both hands and walk over to him. 

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say. 

He looks at my outstretched hands, the jar I’m cupping between them. “You didn’t make a list, huh?” he says, his mouth crooked in a small smile. 

“I don’t want to go to the store anymore,” I say. 

He looks up at me, that crooked smile growing as he takes the jar from my hands. “No?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t mind the canned cranberries.”

“Well, Zo,” he says, one handing holding his jar, the other coming to my hip to pull me toward him. The jar is pressed between our bodies, a little glass heart of everything we share between us. 

He kisses me—a long, hot, perfect kiss, a kiss that tells me it might be awhile before he actually reads what’s on those slips of paper—before he leans back to finish his sentence. 

“You don’t know how grateful I am to hear that.”

THE END