miss american pie
“You’re a murderer.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You just killed it. In cold blood.”
“Well, it wouldn’t shut up, would it? And now it has.”
“Okay…”
“What?”
“I just...Part of me is wondering when you’re going to do that to me.”
Jamie stops fanning the air with the placemat in her hands and gives Dani a derisive look. Dani is smiling, biting her lip in that way she does when she thinks she’s being clever. Jamie’s heart gives a little squeeze at the sight, but she tries to look annoyed instead of absolutely in love.
“Shove off,” she says and Dani laughs. “And help me. Before the entire house smells like burnt turkey.”
Dani shakes her head, giving their broken fire alarm—pulled out of the ceiling in a fit by Jamie not two minutes earlier—a sad look where it lies in the trash bin. She leaves the kitchen and goes off to their bedroom, disappearing for a few moments and then returning with a fan. Plugging it in on one end of the kitchen, she points it toward the open windows on the other side and turns it to its highest setting. Immediately, the lingering smoke starts to swirl and billow as it pushes out the screens and outside into the cool, November afternoon.
“Should I call Owen?” she asks next, crossing her arms and cocking her hip to rest against the counter like she’s all-too-pleased with herself. Jamie isn’t sure why. It’s not like she’s only one who ruined dinner.
“Don’t,” Jamie says. “It’s getting late there and I don’t want to bother him again.”
She’s already made three collect calls to Paris asking for advice on basting and temperature settings today. Any more and she might swear off the practice of cooking entirely.
Setting the placemat down on the counter, Jamie looks over their dark and scorched turkey resting there with dismay. If mangling the fire alarm on its way to the bin was considered murder, she can’t help but wonder what setting a turkey on fire in the oven counts as.
“God, I’m such an idiot,” she says, dropping her face into her hands and slumping back against the fridge.
There’s barely a moment’s hesitation before steady arms wrap themselves around her body and pull her into an embrace. “You are not,” Dani tells her, soft and serious. “Do you know how many times my mom burnt the turkey when I was growing up?”
Jamie shakes her head, resting her forehead on Dani’s shoulder and closing her eyes.
“Pretty much all of them. And the worst part is, she always made me eat it anyway. It was...I mean, ‘terrible’ isn’t even a good enough word for it.”
Jamie’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. She’s seen pictures of Dani when she was younger—all chipmunk-cheeked and a mouth full of braces. She imagines her sitting at the table with her mother, making that face she always makes whenever she drinks soda with every bite.
“I just wanted to do this right,” Jamie mutters, embarrassed by the moment of raw honesty. She feels too emotional for this and part of her is embarrassed by the thought of getting all worked up over nothing. But this is their first major holiday living together and it’s her first Thanksgiving ever and she just wanted it to go well. “And now it’s ruined.”
“Hey, it’s not ruined.” She feels Dani press a kiss to the top of her head, grip tightening a little around Jamie’s body. “Just...surprising.”
Jamie chuckles wetly into Dani’s sweater, clutching her girlfriend closer. “That’s one way of saying it.”
“How about this?” Dani asks a moment later, pulling away so they can see one another again. She reaches out and cups Jamie’s face in her hands, running her thumbs beneath Jamie’s eyes to wipe away some of her smeared eyeliner. “You order out for food and I grab us some plates.”
“For what?” Jamie asks, frowning.
Dani smiles and pulls away, going to a paper bag that’s been resting on the pantry shelves for the last day, folded shut with “Do Not Open—I’m serious, Jamie” on the side in black marker. She grabs it and opens it up, rifling around for a moment before tugging out a round tin with a plastic cover on the top. She sets it on the counter triumphantly, letting out a cute little, “Ta-da!”
It’s an apple pie. Jamie’s only ever had it one time—at a restaurant they went to on their drive to Vermont all those months ago—and it’s the only American pie she can stand.
“Poppins,” she says slowly, “did you make this?”
Dani’s face does this amusing thing, twisting in confusion. “Oh, God, no,” she answers, shaking her head. “Believe me, it would look like our turkey if I had.” She throws an apologetic look to the still-steaming, blackened turkey. “Thank god for bakeries, huh?”
Jamie laughs and kisses her, right there in the kitchen. “Guess so,” she mumbles against Dani’s lips.
They order food from the Chinese restaurant just a few blocks away from their apartment building and, when she gets off the phone and informs Dani that it will take at least forty-five minutes for it to arrive, Dani smirks.
“I have an idea of how we can pass the time,” she says and Jamie knows that look. She knows it well. A spark ignites in the low of her stomach.
“Oh, yeah?” she asks.
Dani nods and grips the straps of Jamie’s overalls, tugging her toward the living room. “Yep.”
It’s a good idea, Jamie thinks as she’s being straddled on the couch a moment later. One of the better ones either of them has ever had.
..