A half hour before the rest of the crew is set to arrive, I dash upstairs to grab the centerpiece from the cooler. I pulled together a collection of brown glass vessels—beer bottles and growlers, and even an antique bleach bottle—and filled each one with handfuls of orange and red and cream blooms. I arrange them all in the center of the table in a clump, taking just a second to check everything over before I snap some quick photos and run upstairs to change.

We’re a casual bunch, so I stick to my jeans, but I pull on a cute sweater and suede ankle booties, before tousling my hair and slicking on some lip gloss. I’ve gone pretty minimal with the makeup since leaving my “real” job, but I always feel better with a little lip gloss.

When I make it back to the kitchen, I do a final check-in with Gemma, who’s all set until everything is finished cooking/heating/baking. We’ve got a silver tub stocked with ice, beer, and white wine. Nick is bringing the red and the hard stuff.

I turn to Gemma and hold my hand up for a high five. “We fucking adulted the shit out of this Thanksgiving.”

She slaps my hand. “That almost doesn’t even make sense. But yes, we nailed it.”

Jack joins us in the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge so as not to mess up our perfect display. “Everything looks amazing. And smells amazing.”

“Thanks, Jackalope.” I give him an aw-shucks punch on the arm. Gemma rolls her eyes.

“That’s not an actual thing, you know.” He pops the top on his beer, and I’m so far gone at this point, I watch the bulge of his lean biceps even during this most minuscule of flexing.

“Literally couldn’t care less.” Reaching over him to the appetizer tray, I grab a cracker and pop it in my mouth.

The doorbell rings a second later, and we usher in the Roberts family plus Nick, taking coats and pouring drinks and getting everyone situated. The men naturally gravitate toward the TV, where Jack hands off the remote to Nick. They all settle into the couch and armchairs around the coffee table, where an additional appetizer plate sits ready with snacks.

Gemma and Mrs. Roberts huddle in the kitchen, going over timing and temperatures and probably solving world hunger between the two of them while they’re at it. Harley and I hop onto the bar stools at the kitchen peninsula, the perfect place to observe both groups and have easy access to the charcuterie.

“Sooooooo.” I nudge her with my elbow. “First major holiday as a couple. How’s it going?”

Harley rolls her eyes, but a slow smile also spreads across her face. “It’s not like this is the first time Nick and I have spent Thanksgiving together.”