Him
: Epilogue

Thanksgiving

“Ryan Theodore Wesley! Put that knife down this instant!”

I freeze like an ice sculpture as Jamie’s mother barrels toward me, one hand planted on her hip, the other pointing to the chef’s knife in my hand.

“Who taught you how to chop onions?” she demands.

I glance down at the cutting board in front of me. As far as I can tell, I haven’t committed any major onion-related crimes.

“Um…” I meet Cindy Canning’s eyes. “Well, that’s kind of a trick question. Nobody taught me, per se. My parents have a cook that comes in four times a week to prepare meals and—wait, I’m sorry, did you call me Ryan Theodore?”

She waves her hand as if the question is inconsequential. “I don’t know your middle name so I had to make one up. Because, sweetie, you really needed to be middle-named for mangling those poor onions.”

I can’t stop the laugh that flies out of my mouth. Jamie’s mother is so fucking awesome. I’m far more relaxed in her kitchen than I expected to be.

Jamie and I arrived in California two days ago, but since I had a game the first night, Jamie went to his folks’ place while I stayed at the hotel with my teammates. After the team crushed San Jose, I did the usual post-game press, and then yesterday morning I drove up to San Rafael to join Jamie and his family.

The big holiday meal today will be the real test of their acceptance. I’ve already met Jamie’s mom and dad and one brother. So far, so good.

“These need to be chopped into smaller pieces,” Cindy tells me. She smacks my butt to move me aside, then takes my place. “Have a seat at the counter. You can watch while I chop. Take notes if you need to.”

I grin at her. “So I guess Jamie didn’t tell you how much I suck at cooking, huh?”

“He most certainly did not.” She fixes me with a stern look. “But you’ll have to learn, because I can’t spend all my time worrying that my baby boy isn’t being fed over there in Siberia.”

“Toronto,” I correct with a snort. “And I’m sure you can guess he’s the one who’s been feeding me.”

Now that the hockey season is underway, life is hectic as fuck. Practice is brutal, and our schedule is exhausting. Jamie’s my rock, though. He comes to all my home games, and when I drag my tired self home from the airport after an away game, he’s waiting there to rub my shoulders, or shove food down my throat, or screw me until I can’t see straight.

Our apartment is my safe place, my haven. I can’t even believe I considered trying to make it through my rookie season without him.

It’s easy to figure out where he got that nurturing gene from, because his mom has been fussing over me all day.

Another snort sounds from the doorway, and then Jamie’s father strides into the kitchen. “Toronto,” he echoes. “What kind of city doesn’t have a football team? Explain that to me, Wes.”

“They do have one,” I point out. “The Argonauts.”

Richard narrows his eyes. “Is it an NFL team?”

“Well, no, it’s CFL, but—”

“Then they don’t have a team,” he says firmly.

I stifle a laugh. Jamie warned me that his family was football fanatics, but I genuinely thought he was exaggerating.

“Where’s Jamie?” Richard glances around the kitchen as if he expects Jamie to pop out of a cupboard.

“He went to pick up Jess,” Cindy tells her husband. “She wants to have a few drinks tonight so she’s leaving her car at home.”

Richard nods in approval. “Good girl,” he says, as if Jess can somehow hear him all the way across town.

I have to admit I was terrified to meet Jamie’s family. I mean, I already know they’re good people. But a father and three older brothers? I had this nagging fear they’d hate me just on principle. You know, for being the guy who’s fucking their baby boy.

But Jamie’s dad has been great, and I’ve already met Scott, who’s staying here at the house. The three of us went out for beers at a sports bar last night, and when the highlights from the previous night’s games played on the TV screens, Scott had clapped his hands against the table and shouted, “That’s my brother!” every time I skated into view. And when the goal I scored late in the second flashed on the screen? Jamie and Scott went nuts.

Yup, my first ever NHL goal. I’m still fucking ecstatic about it. This past month, I’ve been seeing more and more playing time, and last night was a record for me—twelve minutes of ice time, and a goal for my efforts. Life is good.

So good, in fact, I’m feeling more generous than usual, which is why I slide off my stool and say, “Will you excuse me for a moment? I need to call my folks to wish them a happy Thanksgiving.”

Jamie’s mother beams at me. “Aw, that’s so sweet of you. Go ahead.”

I duck out and fish my phone out of my pocket. Fuck, I’m even smiling as I dial my parents’ number in Boston. The smile fades fast, however. It always does when I hear my father’s voice.

“Hey, Dad,” I say gruffly. “Is this a good time?”

“Actually, it isn’t. Your mother and I are on our way out. We have reservations at six.”

Of course they do. The only time my family held a Thanksgiving dinner at home was the year the president of my dad’s brokerage firm was going through a divorce. The guy had nowhere to go, so he invited himself over to our place, and my mother hired a gourmet caterer to cook a fucking banquet for us.

“What did you want, Ryan?” he asks briskly.

“I…just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving,” I mumble.

“Oh. Well, thank you. Same to you, son.”

He disconnects the call. Without even putting my mother on the line. Then again, he speaks for both of them.

I stare at the phone long after he hangs up, wondering what I did in another life to lose so royally in the parent lottery. But the depressing thought doesn’t have time to take root, because the front door suddenly flies open and I’m assaulted with noise.

Footsteps. Voices. Loud laughter and happy squeals. It sounds like an entire platoon has marched into the house. Which is pretty much the case, because holy shit, Jamie’s family is huge.

I feel an unfamiliar surge of nerves in my chest.

Within seconds, I’m surrounded, being yanked in all directions and hugged by people I’ve never met in my life. Introductions fly around, but I can barely keep up with the names. I’m too busy answering all the questions being hurled my way like slapshots.

“Did Jamester give you a tour of the house?” Yes.

“Has Mom shown you the pictures from the Halloween when Jamie dressed up as an eggplant?” No, but that should be corrected immediately.

“Do you get a monetary bonus every time you score a goal?” Um…

“Are you in love with my brother?”

“Tammy!” Jamie sputters as his older sister voices that last question.

I look up and replace him in the mob, and it’s like the sun just came out. It’s only been an hour since I saw him last, but he has the same damn effect on me every time.

I used to fight my reaction to him, but I don’t have to anymore. And that’s more shocking than the way his family seems ready to embrace the complete stranger who’s shacking up with their brother. Unless they’re just really good actors.

Jamie slips between his siblings and slings his arm around my shoulder. “Leave the poor guy alone, will ya? He just got here yesterday.”

His brother Joe snorts. “You think we’re gonna go easy on him because he’s only been here a day? Have you met us?”

Jess wiggles her way between me and Jamie and links her arm through mine. “Come on, Wes, let’s get you a drink. I replace it’s easier to tolerate these dum-dums when you’re drunk.”

I snicker as she drags me toward the dining room, but Jamie’s mom calls out from the kitchen just as we pass by. “Jessica, I need Wes! Jamie, too. You can raid the liquor cabinet later.”

“I wasn’t going to raid the—” Jess stops abruptly and turns to me, heaving a defeated sigh. “I swear that woman is a mind reader.”

I replace myself being ushered into the kitchen again, except this time Jamie is by my side. As his mom gestures for us to wait, he brings his mouth close to my ear and says, “Are we having fun yet?”

“Yes,” I say truthfully. Because fuck, the Canning clan has been great. Maybe I can stop worrying so much. Maybe there’s one corner of the world where I don’t have to prove myself all the time. Okay—two corners. Because life in a certain Toronto condo is going really well, too.

“Okay, boys, here’s your housewarming present.”

I look up to see Jamie’s mom setting two gift boxes on the counter. One says “Jamie” on the tag and the other “Ryan.”

“Aw,” Jamie says. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“My last bird has flown out of the nest.” Cindy sighs. “If I can’t see your apartment, at least I can give you a little something for it.”

“You can see it,” I hear myself volunteer. “Come visit.”

Jamie and I lock eyes then, and there’s humor in his. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing I am—if his mom visits, we’ll have to hide all the sex toys in the bathroom cabinet.

“I’ll do that!” she says cheerily. “Now open them!”

The siblings crowd us as Jamie and I each open a box. I lift the lid and push some tissue paper aside. Then I pull out a gorgeous hand-thrown coffee mug. It says “HIS” on the side. I hear laughter and look over at Jamie’s gift.

Another mug reading “HIS.”

“Mom!” Jess hollers. “The point of labeled mugs is so that they can tell them apart! You should have done their initials.”

“But that wouldn’t amuse me,” his mother explains, grinning.

“Thanks,” I chuckle while my boyfriend laughs.

I turn the mug over in my hands, imagining Cindy making this for me in her pottery studio. The glaze is glossy and bright, the cup broad and solid in my hands. It’s beautiful, and receiving it from her feels like the membership card to a club I really want to join.

Grasping the handle, I turn the mug upside down to see if she’s signed it. Sure enough, there’s something etched into the unglazed bottom. I have to squint to read the tiny letters.

Dear Ryan. Thank you for making Jamie so happy. He loves you and so do we. Welcome to the Canning clan.

Oh boy. There’s a burn at the back of my throat, and I concentrate hard on settling the mug back into the box. I spend more time than necessary tucking the tissue paper around it with the care of someone performing neurosurgery. When I’m finally ready to look up again, Jamie’s mom is waiting for me. The warm look in her eye makes the sting in my throat even worse.

I try to give her a casual smile, but I can’t quite pull it off. Nobody’s ever said anything so sweet to me. Nobody except Jamie.

As if I’ve summoned him, a warm hand slides onto my lower back. I adjust my stance just a fractional degree, leaning in to that hand.

Cindy is still watching us. She gives a quick wink I know is just for me. Then, just as quickly, her face is all business. She claps her hands once. “Okay, troops! The turkey is in the oven, but there’s still some heavy lifting to be done! I need someone to sauté the vegetables for stuffing. I need someone to start the grill. I need two people to whip the cream! And the rest of you get the heck out of my kitchen.”

Without ceasing their chatter, the Cannings move around the kitchen, opening and shutting cabinets and passing around bottles of beer. Jamie doesn’t leave my side, though. He and I are the calm eye of a friendly, familial hurricane.

And I hope the storm will never pass.