Or waiting for the sex to be bad.
I was never really the sexiest girl, never felt that comfortable with any of it, honestly. My high school, college, and culinary school dating was fine, but never really earthshaking. I never understood how people got all insane when it came to sex; when I was getting it I enjoyed myself, but when I wasn’t, it never really bothered me all that much.
Until Bernard. Sex with Bernard was incredible, intoxicating, and likely the reason I was so blind as to who he really was. It was boundary shattering. Soul opening. I had no idea that two bodies could create that much intense pleasure. It was like I’d been eating basic roast chicken my whole life, sometimes dry and kind of unsatisfying, sometimes juicy and delicious, but never something that was much more than simple sustenance. Bernard was roasted duck. Skin crisp and crackling and fatty, meat succulent and the slightest bit gamy and exotic—everything that chicken, while the same general shape, isn’t and never can be. I got addicted to him, to his touch, to the taste of him, to the feel of his body against mine, to the way he filled me up. He could just look at me a certain way across the room and my knees would go weak. He could whisper something in my ear on his way through the kitchen, and I would have to excuse myself to the bathroom to furtively give myself relief before I could continue to function. It was the most centered I ever felt in my body, aware of every nerve ending, every inch of my skin alive and craving his touch. And with that intense physical connection came the emotional one, as if breaking open that sexual barrier also broke open every secret chamber of my heart and soul, and I let him know me the way no one has ever known me, every deep dark scary part of me, and it was safe and I loved him and I believed it was forever.
I’ve convinced everyone, including myself, that sex isn’t important to me. That relationships aren’t important to me. But the truth is, I can’t imagine myself being with anyone for any length of time who makes me feel any less than Bernard did, and at the same time, I can’t imagine ever letting anyone else in that deep again. Because when they go away, if they go away, that wound is too big to heal fully. I’ve had plenty of injuries in my life, and usually, with proper care and time, it’s like they never happened. But the damage Bernard caused was apocalyptic. The scars are numerous and varied and I keep finding them in the oddest places. They are still tender when pressed. Why haven’t I dated? Because the only thing that scares me more than never feeling what I had with Bernard is the idea that I might indeed find that again.
So now I’m prepping Thanksgiving and keeping focused on a wonderful meal for the Farbers and then repeating a wonderful meal for my mom and Aunt Claire and Lynne, all the while trying to deal with the duality of being excited to see Shawn tonight, and nervous about what might happen. At least for the moment, it’s quiet and I’m just concentrating on crimping a piecrust as attractively as I can manage.
Shelby and Brad and the kids are all at a local senior facility, serving Thanksgiving brunch to the residents who don’t have family to visit them. It’s the perfect thing to keep the kids aware of how important giving back is, especially during the holidays, and it keeps them all out of my hair so that I can get their dinner organized. Ian has been helping all week, and he is a more-than-competent sous chef, but to be honest, I really like the solitude of doing this work alone. It’s my twentieth Thanksgiving, I realized earlier this week. I’ve officially been making this meal more than half my life, having taken it off my grateful mother’s hands my first year home from college. I’d been missing having access to a kitchen, and came home from my first semester of dorm life ready to cook anything and everything. My mom, always a very good if not particularly passionate cook, was delighted to hand over the reins and we never looked back. Even in France, if I couldn’t get home for the holiday, I always made as full a Thanksgiving dinner as possible for local friends and ex-pats.
I brush the tops of the two apple pies with an egg wash and sprinkle the tops with coarse raw sugar crystals and slide them into the oven. I set the timer, then check my list. The turkey is in, slowly burnishing to a golden brown. The stuffing and sweet potatoes are in their casserole dishes, ready to be reheated while the turkey is resting. The mashed potatoes are in one of the slow cookers, where they can reheat gently on low without collapsing. Green beans are prepped in the steamer; the dough for the rolls is in its second rise. Shelby set the table in the formal dining room, and Geneva and Darcy helped with decoration, and it is a lively riot of autumn leaves and gourds and cut-out crayoned turkeys. In the very center, an ancient wicker cornucopia, with real fruit spilling out onto the table. Everyone has a mini pumpkin with their name written on it to mark their places. They’ll have their dinner at three, and then go to a movie, whatever animated movie has been released for the holiday weekend, and then come home for turkey sandwiches and cold stuffing and a night of board games.
I’m just pulling the pies out of the oven to cool on a rack in the butler’s pantry when I hear the cacophony of Farbers coming in the front door. I smile, listening to the joyous noise of them. When I was growing up, our house, while no less loving, was a quiet place, just the three of us. We laughed long and loud, to be sure, but it was still the difference of a small chamber ensemble versus a full symphony.
“Ellllooooiiiise!!!” Geneva comes flying into the kitchen, her long chestnut curls a banner behind her, slamming her tiny body into me with the force of a miniature tank.
“Ooof. Hello, sweet girl. How was your morning?” I say, reaching down to pull her up into my arms and receive the loving kiss on my cheek and the tight little arms around my neck.
“It was great, Eloise! I gave them a show! I danced and sang and made everyone happy!”
“Boy, did she.” Brad comes in and peels her out of my arms, dropping her unceremoniously onto her feet; she sprints off as soon as she touches the ground. “Happy Thanksgiving, Eloise.” He kisses my cheek in the same spot as his rambunctious and affectionate daughter. “Smells amazing in here. Anything I can do to be helpful?” he says, grinning, as he snakes his hand out toward the casserole of stuffing. I swat at it and put on my angry grandmother tone.
“You leave that stuffing alone, Bradley Farber.” My falsely stern tone makes him sheepish.