Abbi: I’m just pointing out that you have to be careful going home with strangers. And, for the record, last year there were two different dipping sauces for the dumplings. There was soy ginger and also cranberry.

That does sound promising. I think Abbi’s Thanksgiving spread sounds like a winner. I decide to just accept it on the spot, and let the other women down gently.

Weston: Okay Abbi, you’re on. Please text the details when you’re ready. I’m happy to meet you anywhere on campus. I don’t have a car though.

Abbi: I can drive. And I really appreciate this. Holidays can be tense.

Weston: True Story. Send me the deets and I’ll see you on Thursday.

* * *

When Thanksgiving Day arrives, I am careful to arrive—showered and shaven—at Abbi’s front door right on time. I might even be a minute or two early. I’m wearing a crisp Dad-pleasing shirt and my best Mom-pleasing tie, because I make it a point to always know my audience.

I get teased for it, too. The guys at the hockey house call me Mr. Smooth.

“You’re referring to my skating, right?” I’d said the first time I heard it.

“Nah, man. Everything about you is smooth. The hair. The whole polite-guy thing. The ladies really go for it. I bet even your ass is smooth, but I don’t need any proof, thanks.” That had gotten a lot of laughs.

So sue me. Life is easier when you take control of every situation. If my skills with hair products and parents earn me the occasional ribbing, I’m perfectly okay with that.

Abbi’s address turns out to be an old Victorian mansion that’s been chopped up into smaller apartments. In the wallpapered vestibule, I push the buzzer for apartment 2, and a female voice calls, “Just a second!” on the other side of the door.

I wonder what Abbi is like. It doesn’t matter very much, of course. I haven’t agreed to marry her. It’s just one day of my life. And people fascinate me, so even if Abbi’s family is irritating as fuck, I probably won’t take it personally.

But I have a good feeling about Abbi herself. She’s local, which is interesting. Vermonters are pretty cool. They have a rugged mentality, and they rarely complain. And they’re usually hockey fans. What’s not to like about that?

The door opens, and I immediately lose my train of thought. I’m blinking at a pretty blond woman with shoulder-length hair. My first reaction is all hell yes and thank you, Jesus.

Then I realize this is not just any woman. It’s the hot waitress from The Biscuit in the Basket. The one who remembers every order without writing it down. The one who always seems to know when we need something more, or when it’s time to drop the check.

The one with the kissable ivory neck and gray eyes that always make me a little stupid. I’ve never asked her out, because it’s rude to hit on a girl who’s just trying to get through her shift at work. But man, I’d like to.