Turkey Troubles

CHAPTER ONE

I love being the small spoon, I say, grabbing Edmund’s arm and pulling it tighter across my stomach.

He mumbles something in my ear, his breath tickling my hair, already starting to drift to sleep. The downside to having sex at night in the middle of the week is he gets tired and falls asleep before I get my fill of cuddle time. He works a lot, but I do too, and I’m still awake. No excuses.

I nudge him in his ribs, eliciting a sharp grunt. Ow.

Don’t fall asleep yet.

Wasn’t.

It’s been two years and I still love his sexy english accent. I’m surrounded by it, living in London, but his is the best. Some dialects are still incomprehensible, but Edmund manages to sound cultured and relaxed all at the same time. How no one else has dragged him off just because of it is beyond me.

Over the years I’ve noticed my own accent migrating away from the boring and flat one from where I grew up in the middle of nowhere, Nevada. I still get picked out as American all the time, and half the people tell me I sound so down-to-earth and charming. I’m never quite sure if it’s an insult or not.

You totally were.

I really wasn’t. His teeth nip at my ear and his fingers slide to find the ticklish spot right below the point of my hip.

You were basically snoring, hey, no fair! I burst into a series of giggles as he tries to distract me with his touch. I squirm under the sexy assault, and given a few seconds manage to twist around to face him. His hand rests on my ass.

I don’t snore, he says, cracking a grin and flexing his fingers into the muscles of my butt.

Don’t think you’re doing to sidetrack this conversation with your grabby-hands, I reply, retaliating by grabbing his sandy blond hair and yanking.

Oh, you want to go there?

Don’t you dare, don’t you dare! Despite my words, I do nothing to stop him from taking hold of my own dark locks and tugging.

All you have to do is say ‘stop’. Before I can say anything, not that I would, he rolls to his back, pulling me on top, and planting his lips on mine.

I let loose a satisfied sigh into the kiss, then roll my hips against his nakedness. Oh, you want to go there? I parrot back at him.

Mmm, love, we shouldn’t. It’s already late. His fingers do a gentle dance up my back to my neck and then back down.

All you have to do is say ‘stop’.

I get a solid five minutes of serious makeout time before he cups my cheeks. Adulthood radiates from his face as he gazes up at me. He’s always so responsible, which is a good thing most of the time. I need someone to keep me from doing impulsive stuff like buying a saltwater aquarium or getting my navel pierced. Again. It’s not so good when I want to have sex at eleven pm on a worknight.

Before he can get the words out, I plaster a sexy pout on my face, but it doesn’t stop him.

We need to go to sleep. I don’t want you late for work any more.

Oh, come on. They aren’t going to fire me if I’m a little late.

They will if you are for the tenth time.

It hasn’t been that much. I try to kiss him again because I can metaphorically as well as physically feel the moment slipping away, but he deflects me to the side, and I end up kissing the pillow.

Autumn, darling, sweetie. I love you very much, but sometimes you’re quite bad at considering future consequences.

Only sometimes? I sulk and allow myself to be repositioned back on my side, tucked against his chest as the little spoon I adore. Except right now.

Yes. Only sometimes. And only sometimes is it my duty to protect you from yourself. Remember the saltwater tank?

Bleh. I pick at his fingers as they splay across my stomach. You’re so boring.

I love you, too.

I huff, to no avail, and soon enough his breathing dips down into the realm of sleep. I’m not mad, not really. He’s right, most of the time, and overall I’m thankful for his gentle guidance. Still, sometimes I get itchy to do something fun and crazy and outlandish. At least once a week I dream about selling everything and moving to New Zealand or Nigeria or Antarctica. These three years I’ve been in London have been fabulous, but it’s two years longer than I’d planned. I hadn’t planned to fall in love.

I was never content being stuck in a small town when I was growing up. I’d always wander off into the scrub and desert which makes up most of the landscape, pretending places I discovered had been untouched by human eyes.

Any chance I got I’d be off somewhere else. I signed up for whatever meager clubs our school organized that let me travel. Dance, band, karate. I was mediocre at best at all of them, but winning things wasn’t important. It was seeing places like Elko, Reno, Salt Lake City or, best of all, Las Vegas. I still have no idea why they let us go there.

Stuck in the depths of nostalgia for an indeterminate amount of time, I find my thoughts going back to my family. I haven’t seen them in three years, either. The plan was to go to London, hang out for a year, then come back to save up more money to go somewhere else. Then I met Edmund at the advertising job I finagled my way into and everything changed.

The sounds of night filter through the window which is always cracked open, summer or winter, rain or snow. I like to smell and feel the outside. People are out there doing things right now, and here I am sleeping. Supposed to be sleeping. I could be doing things.

Like eating turkey. It’s almost Thanksgiving. It’s almost Thanksgiving? I haven’t eaten turkey that didn’t come in slices in forever. Or cranberry. The type in the can, not the real berries. I haven’t seen my family in three years. Okay, I haven’t seen them in person in three years. I don’t miss them, which sounds bad, but I did spend like eighteen years in the same house. Still. It might be fun to go home and eat turkey for Thanksgiving.

The idea is stuck in my head now, and won’t let go. I need to get it out or I won’t sleep at all. I elbow Edmund in the ribs, twice, before he wakes up. I’m surprised I haven’t broken them yet, with as much elbowing as I inflict upon him daily.

Huh ow huh what?

I want to travel to see my family for Thanksgiving.

What? He’s still half-asleep.

I want to see my family for Thanksgiving next week.

Ugh, what’s that, what time is it?

Family is, like, your mom and dad and stuff.

He grumbles. I know that. Thanksgiving. The turkey stuff?

Yes, there’s turkey. And cranberry and sweet potatoes and green beans and stuffing and pumpkin pie and parades and dog shows and football and family and it’s in three days.

There’s a short pause during which I assume he’s absorbing all the information. Your family watches football?

American football, obviously.

Oh.

I loop a leg back and over his. I’m going. You should come. I want you to come.

In three days? That’s real short notice. I’m not sure if we can get off.

Then I’ll quit. I’m going. I can get more jobs. Whatever.

There’s a fine line between getting me to do the right thing, and trying to get me to do the right thing when I really, really, want to do the fun thing. Most previous boyfriends couldn’t figure out the line quick enough. I can’t even catch it most of the time. Edmund can.

Okay. I’ll go with you. I’m sure we can work something out.

You will? Really? I take his hand and move it up to my breast, because it seems like the right thing to do, and I always do what feels right.

Someone’s got to keep you safe. He kisses the back of my head. No sex, because you can’t be late and ask for a holiday at the same time.

I roll my eyes. Arg, you’re so grown up.

Thank you. Go to sleep.

It takes another thirty minutes to drift off, not because I’m planning any of the practical things that need to be planned to go to another country for a few days, but because I’m imagining all the good things that will happen once I get home. Everyone will be happy to see me, to meet Edmund in person and not over video chat, they’ll be so proud of how successful I am, I’ll get to tell them all the stories about London life again, and get to use the word fanny without anyone knowing what it means.

He’ll take care of all the boring packing stuff, or most of it anyway. Sure, I’ve been swaddled in the comforts of civilization for a while, but I could get by with just a few items of clothing, a pocket knife, and a book. Either to read or, if things get really bad, to wipe my butt. Girl’s gotta have standards.

I dream of traveling in space.

I’m woken to an unpleasant shove against my shoulder and stupid words saying stupid things.

Bleh, shut up, go away.

The voice keeps saying things like Wake up, and Time for work, and I have coffee.

I crack an eye. Coffee?

Yes. Edmund is holding out a mug, as showered and chipper as ever, dressed in his normal button-down and slacks. Fancy man, always so dapper. Love him.

You should have led with that, I grumble, reaching and grabbing the hot mug.

I’ve laid out your clothes so you can shower and get dressed and still be on time.

With my face buried in the mug, inhaling the heat and scent of the grounds, I watch him walk around the room doing responsible morning stuff. The covers are too inviting to get out of just yet.

When we get home tonight, he continues, We’ll start packing and getting ready. I’m assuming you get the time off. I’ve already been cleared for mine.

You’re a fabulous freak. I yawn between tentative sips, waiting for the coffee to cool to less than scalding.

He comes around to the side of the bed, brushing a lock of wild hair away from my face. Such a flatterer.

I drag myself upright, pucker my lips, and bat my eyelashes so very temptingly. Bending to drop a kiss on my waiting mouth, he draws back and scrunches up his face. Yuck. Brush your teeth.

Jerk.

I’ll see you after work. Don’t be late. With his final gentle admonition, he leaves the room and then the flat, locking it behind him even though I’ll be leaving in thirty minutes. It took six months of different types of prompting for me to remember to lock the door myself after I leave.

Waiting until five minutes past the point where I could still not be late, I struggle out of the clutches of the bed and stagger into the bathroom. Thirty-five minutes later I leave, all dressed and made up to face the outside world.

Having successfully snuck into work without being noticed as late, I wait until lunch to ask my boss for some time off.

Knocking on the frame of her office door, I lean in. Hey Bernadette.

Hi Autumn, how can I help you? Shouldn’t you be at lunch?

Yeah, I’m about to go. I just wanted to ask for some time off to go visit my parents for Thanksgiving.

Oh, the turkey thing? Um, how’s the Anderson project? She says at me over the top of her glasses.

The project is for an account which is always a bit of trouble, but I’ve managed to smooth some things out with them for now. It should hold