ME: Okay. So plan for this week: Monday I’m out picking up flowers, Tuesday I’m arranging, Wednesday morning I’m delivering, Wednesday afternoon I’m cleaning the house from top to bottom so please don’t leave anything gross lying around. Wednesday night I’m baking and arranging flowers for us. Gem will be over early Thursday morning to start cooking.

ME: I don’t know why you’d suddenly need to know my detailed schedule for the week, but some of it involves you, so there you go.

JACK: I’m around if you need help with deliveries or lugging stuff up the stairs.

JACK: I also scheduled a house cleaning for Wednesday, so you can cross that off your list.

ME: You scheduled a house cleaning?

ME: Like with people who know how to clean houses?

JACK: That’s usually who I hire to come clean the house, yes.

ME: I COULD KISS YOU RIGHT NOW.

ME: I won’t, because you haven’t given me explicit verbal consent and Harley doesn’t have time to represent me, BUT WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY IS THANK YOU!!

JACK: Nick was right, you’re very shouty lately.

ME: Omg, you and Nick have your own text chain? Adorbs.

JACK: Will you please actually ask me for help if you need it this week?

ME: I’ll think about it

GEMMA: Kiss update?

ME: Do we seriously have to do this every day?

GEMMA: Yes.

HARLEY: Yes.

ME: There hasn’t been any kissing today or any other day, thanks so much for the reminder.

HARLEY: Hang in there, friend, it’s going to happen soon!

GEMMA: In the meantime, let me know if you need me to bring over some batteries

ME: I hate you.

Fourteen

Okay, so Mr. Roberts here, Mrs. Roberts there. Gem, Jack, me on this side. Harley and Nick on the other side.” I set the final place card—a small glass bottle stenciled with the assigned name and filled with mini orange roses—at the top of the plate and stand back to survey my work.

The Thanksgiving table is set, even though it’s only Wednesday night. I wanted everything done ahead of time so I can devote my morning hours to helping Gemma cook and taking care of last-minute emergencies. The centerpiece is still upstairs in my floral cooler, but everything else is ready to go. The table looks like it was set by a hipster Martha Stewart, which means my job here is done.

Jack climbs up the basement stairs just as I’m heading to the fridge to pour myself a big-ass glass of wine. “Wow, this looks great, Sade.”