And I kiss him back, with every
fiber of me screaming, “Go ahead.
Say okay. You know you want to.
Beg him to—” Except a buzzer
goes off. The turkey’s done. Taters,
too. Gosh darn food fantasies.
TURNS OUT
The buzz isn’t fantasy. It’s my cell,
insisting I’ve got a text message.
Bryce. Wonder if he was reading
my warped mind long-distance.
He’s in San Diego, spending
the holiday with his grandparents.
Hey u. CA wud be prettier if u
wur here. ’S cold w/o u.
Abbreviations irritate me. I text
back without resorting to shortcuts.
“Hey, you. Texas is always warm. But
Thanksgiving would definitely be
a lot more fun if you were here.
I’d even cook for you.” I hit
the send button, fall back into
my kitchen fantasy. But not for long.
My cell buzzes again. Wish u wur
cooking 4 me. Gram’s cooking
mostly suks. Hey, are u a good
cook? Cuz if u r, I think I luv u.
DID HE MEAN
He loves me? Like for real?
<