Saylor

And with that, my mom talks about the latest basting techniques while I breathe a sigh of relief for being out of the spotlight for the moment.

After dinner is cleared, we play a few board games, eat pumpkin pie, then Sway and Anthony head home to their cats before Skye and my mom get caught up in The Bachelor.

“Hey, Say––” my dad starts, but I cut him off.

“Let me go to the bathroom first.”

His gaze narrows, but he motions to the hall. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Smartass.

Sneaking past him, he rumbles, “I’ll be waiting.”

“Of course, you will.”

I lock the door behind me, then get comfortable on the porcelain throne, desperate for a bit of privacy while feeding the procrastination that dwells inside my soul with the knowledge that I’ll have to face my dad sooner or later.

Though I choose later.

My phone lights up with a notification from earlier today as I unlock it to scroll through TikTok and waste a few more minutes. But the name that flashes across the screen acts like a shot of adrenaline.

It’s a text. Not a message through the Birds and Bees app.

And it’s for me––Saylor.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named: Happy Thanksgiving, Say. Thinking of you.

I bite my lower lip, rereading the message as my stomach tightens with regret. I’ve been thinking of him too. Too much, if I’m being honest. And it isn’t because of my family bringing him up over and over again. Nope. The bastard has consumed my every thought for almost a decade, no matter how hard I’ve tried to deny it. Now, it’s just worse.

I swallow thickly, set my phone facedown on the counter, and wash my hands.

My dad is one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. He’ll collect on his promise to finish our conversation from earlier no matter what. The sooner I get it over with, the sooner I can go home and collapse into bed.

And that’s all I want now.

I shove my phone into my back pocket, take a deep breath, and decide to face the inevitable with a twist of the bathroom door handle.

“Hey, Sweet Pea.”

Cornered, I scowl back at my dad who’s leaning against the wall with a triumphant smirk on his face.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Are you ready for that chat?”

“I don’t need a chat,” I tell him. “I need to stop thinking about him.”

“And how well did that work the first time?”

“To be fair, you’re the one that suggested it in the first place,” I point out, my annoyance rearing its ugly head.

“Come here, Say.” He offers me a large mug of hot chocolate, then guides me to the front door where our coats are waiting. Once bundled up, our favorite rocking chairs call to us on the front porch. The steam swirls from my cup as the cold air kisses my cheeks, and I breathe deep.

“Smells like a storm’s coming,” he notes, the chair creaking as he settles into it.

I follow his lead before taking a sip from the mug I painted at Sway’s birthday party when we were kids. It’s black and blue with messy stars speckling the outside and has a small chip on the top, but my dad and I agree that it holds too many memories to part with it.

“I love a winter storm,” I tell him as I take in the small rolling hills that surround us from all sides of our own personal baby valley. My mom and dad bought the land forever ago, and the majority of my favorite memories were built here. Dad’s right. I’ve been avoiding it. But it isn’t because I don’t love them.