I made the mistake of taking a drink when she said that, and half the water gets snorted up my nose in surprise. As I choke and cough, my dad gives me some unhelpful slaps on the back, and my mom keeps talking, like her son isn’t dry-drowning in front of her.

“I mean, not her, obviously. But someone like her.”

When I can breathe, I respond, though my voice comes out raspy, “Why not her?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. You just can’t stop with the jokes today, can you?”

My heart sinks at her response.

“But, seriously, any new girls catching your eye?”

After what she just said, I know telling her about Holly and me won’t turn out well. Getting into a fight right when we’re about to be stuck next to each other for hours isn’t recommended.

So, again, I evade by using a vague version of the truth. “When I have a girlfriend, I promise I’ll let you know.”

Holly’s technically not my girlfriend yet even though I want her to be, so this only feels a little bit like lying.

The overhead speakers announce the flight to Denver has begun boarding, saving me from further prying. As my parents fumble with their rolling bags, I take the opportunity to pull out my phone again and shoot off a quick text.

Ben: About to board. Text u tonight.

When I’m settling into my seat, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Holly: Have fun! And don’t join the Mile-High Club without me! ;)

Hell, I already miss her.

HOLLY

Pops’s kitchen has never smelled so good. Just because there are only three of us doesn’t keep me from pulling out all the stops. I run through my list again.

1. Turkey

2. Mashed potatoes

3. Green beans

4. Cranberry sauce

5. Sweet potato casserole

6. Dinner rolls

7. Corn on the cob

8. Gravy

9. Applesauce

“Marcus, are the rolls done?” I call out.

“Am I allowed back in the kitchen?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course. I never said you weren’t.”

My big brother walks through the doorway, a wary look on his face. “You didn’t have to. Made it pretty obvious when you tried to dump a pot of boiling potatoes on my head.”

A chuckle drifts from the living room, and I glare at the wall, as if Pops might experience the burn of my gaze through the plaster.

“I didn’t try to dump it on you. You were in my way, so I told you to move.”

He crosses the kitchen to pick up a timer I didn’t notice on the counter. “You and I have different definitions of told.” He holds the timer up for me to see. “The rolls have three more minutes. Are they the last thing?”

“Yeah. Help me move all this.”

We both slip on oven mitts and carry the dishes into the dining room.

“Am I allowed in the kitchen?” Pops strolls into the room and grins when I throw my hands up at how dramatic they’re being.