Chapter 184: SinBin Thanksgiving I

JAKE’S POV

The roar of an industrial blowtorch was not how I planned to wake up on Thanksgiving morning.

I threw off my flannel blanket, shivered against the draft whistling through my second-story window, and shoved my feet into wool socks.

Down below, the gravel driveway buzzed with the loud hiss of propane.

I pulled on a Briar Hockey hoodie, jogged down the creaking stairs, and opened the kitchen door.

Out in the frosted driveway, Bear was standing in Carhartt overalls and a faded knit cap, constructing what looked like a missile launcher. He had two twenty-gallon propane tanks hooked to a cast-iron burner stand, topped by a forty-gallon stainless steel cauldron that could have comfortably boiled a calf.

Steam curled from his mouth as he held his flip phone to his ear, his massive back turned to the house.

"Yeah, Dad," Bear said quietly in a voice softer than his usual. "Don’t sweat it. Just finish your double shift and get some rest... I know working at the rail yard in November is tough."

He paused, listening, kicking a chunk of frozen slush with his boot.

"No, we got plenty of food up here. Sheridan left us some cash before he took off to Nora’s place, and Jake’s pretending he knows how to cook. We’re good. Love you too, Dad. Tell Ma I’ll call her Sunday."

He snapped the phone shut and slipped it into his chest pocket.

Pittsburgh was a nine-hour drive, gas was four bucks a gallon, and his dad was pulling sixteen straight hours fixing track switches in the freezing sleet to keep the union pension afloat. Bear hadn’t complained once about staying behind.

He just channeled all that blue-collar muscle into forty gallons of peanut oil.

I stepped back into the house, letting the kitchen door latch click shut, and found Milo sitting on the bottom step of the main stairs.

The kid had his knees pulled up to his chest inside an oversized gray hoodie, staring blankly at his phone.

"Look alive, rookie," I said, hitting the side of the banister with my palm. "Today we feast like barbarian kings."

Milo didn’t blink. He just turned the phone screen toward me.

A text message from 2:14 AM glowed in the dim hallway: Can we talk when you get back for winter break? I think things are changing between us.

The sender was Sarah. High school sweetheart from Maine. The girl whose framed picture sat on Milo’s nightstand beside his state championship puck.

"College claims another victim," I muttered gently, clapping him on the shoulder. "Distance is a butcher, kid. But right now, we got a bird to drop. Come on."

Before he could answer, my own phone vibrated in my sweatpants pocket.

I pulled it out, half-expecting Knox checking in to brag about Ellen Bennett’s cooking.

It wasn’t Knox.

It was a Venmo notification:

Patricia Connelly sent you $250.00: ’Have fun with your hockey buddies, sweetie! Treat yourself to some turkey! XOXO Mom & Richard.’

Beneath the payment was an attached photo: my mother and her new husband sitting in a customized emerald golf cart under blinding Boca Raton sunshine, wearing matching pastel visors and holding chilled mimosas.

Two hundred and fifty bucks.

A tidy, tax-deductible wire transfer to make sure their holiday tee time didn’t get cluttered with a son who reminded them of their messy divorce.

I stared at the screen for three seconds, swallowed the cold, familiar knot in my throat, and pocketed the phone with a sharp grin.

"Right," I announced, clapping my hands together. "Milo, get your ass off the stairs. Operation Deep Bird is officially underway."

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen was an active war zone.

Bear stomped in through the mudroom, leaving snowy treads across the worn linoleum. "Where’s the Creole garlic marinade? Oil is already climbing past two hundred."

I gestured grandly toward the brown paper grocery sack sitting on the counter. "Right there, Big Man. Hand-selected by yours truly yesterday afternoon."

Bear reached into the sack, pulled out the contents, and froze.

He set three items on the counter one by one: a tub of whipped scallion cream cheese, a jar of capers, and a six-pack of cinnamon-raisin bagels.

Bear stared at me. His left eyelid gave a slow, dangerous twitch. "Connelly."

"Yeah?"

"What is this?"

"Breakfast?" I offered, taking a half-step back toward the fridge. "I grabbed everything from the yellow sticky note on the fridge!"

"The yellow sticky note," Bear said, his voice dropping an octave, "was from three weeks ago when Knox wanted bagels after Sunday practice. Where is the green index card I taped to the microwave?"

Milo, who was leaning against the counter slowly buttering toast, suddenly froze mid-spread.

The butter knife hovered in midair. His eyes went wide.

"Wait," Milo whispered. "The green index card?"

Bear and I both swung our heads toward him.

"Milo," Bear growled. "What did you do?"

"My truck windshield was covered in three inches of frost at seven this morning," Milo squeaked, backing toward the pantry. "I couldn’t find my scraper! The card was thick stock! I just needed to clear a square so I could see down the driveway!"

"You used our Thanksgiving grocery list to scrape frozen sleet off your windshield?!" I yelled, throwing my hands up. "The ink ran into the defroster vents!"

"It cleared the driver’s side!" Milo shouted defensively.

Bear squeezed the bridge of his nose, letting out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire. "Every grocery store in Briar would be closed by now. The gas station down on Route 4 only has beef jerky and windshield wiper fluid."

"Gentlemen, calm down," I said, rolling up my sleeves. "This is why you have a playmaker in the house. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome."

I tore through the pantry cabinets, hauling out supplies.

Two sticks of salted butter. A splash of Worcestershire sauce. A mountain of garlic powder. Half an onion, diced into oblivion. And a fresh, unopened bottle of Frank’s RedHot.

I dumped it all into a small saucepan, cracked open a can of Miller Lite, poured half into the pan and chugged the other half.

"See?" I stirred the bubbling red mixture with a wooden spoon. "Spicy beer-butter glaze. It’s rustic. It’s artisanal."

"Fine," Bear muttered, inspecting the saucepan. "Now, tell me how you plan on injecting that into a twenty-two-pound raw turkey without a meat needle?"