Invisible String – Taylor Swift
OLIVE
TWO YEARS LATER
improved in the two years we’d been dating, despite what he claimed. How that man hadn’t caused several accidents in his lifetime I will never understand. He’d always insisted it was a sign that his driving was never as bad as I made it out to be, but the two hours with my hand clutched onto the Jesus handle of the passenger door begged to differ.
Why had I agreed to let him drive the majority of the journey again?
“You okay over there?” he asked, taking his eyes off the road to glance at me. My heart didn’t restart until he looked back at the road, indicating left up an all too familiar street. At least he’d started using his turn signals–well, most of the time.
“Totally fine, just watch that—” the bouncing of the car hitting a pothole finished my sentence for me as my old house came into view, looking every bit as cozy as I remembered it. A soft blanket of snow covered the front lawn and rooftop, and with the dim light shining out of the living room, I could already feel the comfort of the late afternoon beginning to burn.
We’d moved away six months ago after I’d graduated from culinary school. The early mornings and late nights spent grueling over burning stoves, sticky batter, and crying over failed croissants had all been worth that moment when I finally got my diploma. I was still trying to figure out where exactly I was going to land. I’d been doing a mix of private cooking and pulling odd shifts at restaurants since I’d graduated, and I loved the freedom of it all.
And it had all been down to Dad. One Friday night when I was still at home, he’d convinced me to come to work with him. I’d ended up cooking most of our meals at home by that point, my knife skills now apparently up to scratch.
From that first shift, I was addicted. The rush of the kitchen, the absolute speed and skill necessary for the job–but also the creativity, the passion. I ended up spending a few months working there until I’d decided to apply to culinary school.
God, Dad had been so proud. He was so happy I was following in his footsteps, but I think more that I wasn’t such a liability in the kitchen anymore.
Ben couldn’t have been more supportive. He spent nights helping me prep for classes, running across town to pick up odd ingredients I had forgotten to grab, and allowing me to use him as a guinea pig for new recipes.
When we’d left town, set up somewhere new, it was a decision between the two of us. He wasn’t from here anyway, and I felt ready to move somewhere new. Our place was small, but it was ours.
Ben pulled the car in behind Dad’s and came to a safe halt. We had made it alive.
“Now are you sure we brought enough pie?” Ben asked as he put the car in park, turning to look over his shoulder at the stack of pie boxes sitting in the backseat, a seat belt wrapped around them in the name of safety.
“We have four pies, that has to be enough,” I tsked, holding back the smile that was threatening to break out on my lips. Dad and Ben got along, but that didn’t mean the old man didn’t make him work for it. All those years of complaining about him hadn’t eased from Dad’s memory very easily, and he had been determined to make sure Ben worked for his forgiveness for torturing his daughter for so long. He’d always find some very small, meaningless way to criticize him–like not taking enough pie to Thanksgiving dinner or being too stingy with his topping on pizza, or the biggest sin of all, ordering food from the wrong place.
Ben knew what the game was and never once complained. Although he had once argued back that he had in fact used enough pepperoni, which had resulted in a scowl so harrowing you would’ve thought the world had come to an end. He knew it was all in jest, and I think he enjoyed trying to match my dad’s expectations.
“I still think we should’ve picked up a pecan,” he replied, those hazel eyes every bit as magnetic and gorgeous as they always had been.
“Nobody likes pecan, Ben.”
“I like pecan.” He pursed his lips, scowling.
I shook my head. “No, you think you like pecan, but nobody ever eats it.”
“That’s not because nobody likes it, that’s because you have four pies at a Thanksgiving dinner for three people.”
“Well, this year Hanna and Rob are coming, so it’s four pies for five.”
He brought his hands up to his face and groaned. “Oh God, that means we definitely didn’t bring enough pie.” He parted his fingers so he could look at me between them. “Is it too late to run to the store?”
I failed to stifle a laugh. “Yes, it’s too late.” I wanted to tell him how adorable he was, that even after all this time, he could still make me laugh and smile and how I would never take that joy for granted. But instead, I just rolled my eyes at his dramatics and said, “It’s too cold, can we please go inside now?”
“Sure, just one more thing,” he said, lowering his hands.
“What?”
“I love you,” he said, beaming wildly. The words came so easily, but they always had my heart squeezing that little bit tighter in my chest.
I couldn’t help but smile. “I love you too, you crazy pie man.”
“Hey–say that again when he bites my head off for only bringing four pies.”
“We can tell him it was my job this year,” I suggested.
He looked at me with an eyebrow raised. “It will still be my fault.”
“Probably,” I shrugged. “But I’m sure you’ll survive.”
We climbed out the car. I grabbed our overnight bags and Ben grabbed the four pies (apple, chocolate, pumpkin and, although I’d argued it was an odd choice for November, a peach cobbler) and we made our way inside the house.
The familiar and irresistible smell of my father’s decadent cooking filled the air, and I yelled out to let him know we’d arrived. Immediately, Meatball ran up to me, greeting us with her usual yaps. The scampering of four extra paws followed as my dad’s newest dog, a dachshund who’d been found collarless beside a road and lovingly renamed Linguine, followed. He’d surprised us all by adopting another rescue shortly after I left, claiming that Meatball had looked a little lonely without me around. Between the two, I couldn’t tell you who was the more spoiled dog, with Linguine copying Meatball’s demanding ways.
With a gleeful cry, Dad emerged from the kitchen, immediately pulling me close to him.
“It’s so good to have you home kiddo,” he said warmly.
I closed my eyes and pulled him in for a hug, my heart swelling as I realized how much I’d missed seeing him so regularly. It had been easy when I had been still coming home every few weeks for dinner and to see him, but I’d only seen him a few times since the summer, and found myself missing both his cooking and his company. We spoke every few days, but there was something different about being around somebody that phone calls could never replace.
He still worked at the restaurant and had even taken up a few more shifts during the week to keep himself busy. I tried to tell him to take it easy–he was supposed to be retired after all–but he’d just waved me off and told me not to worry so much. I knew he loved the work; he wouldn’t do it otherwise.
He finally let me go, and turned to Ben, a familiar narrowing of his eyes causing a smile to creep onto my face.
“Ben,” he greeted, voice low and void of inflection.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Joe, it’s good to see you!” Ben said cheerily, ignoring the look from my father. I knew Dad would cut it out after the football went on and they’d had a few beers, but for now they played the game.
“Are these my pies?” Dad asked and Ben nodded. “Four this year? Don’t you think that’s too many? Don’t you know anything about food waste?”
“Oh, I’m sure Olive will manage one entirely on her own.” Ben looked at me, smiling. My undying love for pumpkin was well noted between us.
Dad just grumbled, probably agreeing with Ben but not letting him think about it for a single moment, and carried the boxes away into the kitchen.
“Just make yourself at home, you know where to go,” he shouted.
I took Ben’s hand, issuing him a reassuring squeeze as he looked down at me as if to say “you don’t get this from my parents”. And he was right. They had adored me from the second they’d met me. Despite Ben’s warnings that they were all strictly people of science, they didn’t seem to mind having an art major turned professional chef join the family.
In the background, I heard Dad shout something about the peach cobbler, so I led Ben up the stairs and up to my old room, sensing that he might already be in need of a break from the grumpy man act.
Dad had updated the room after I left, joking that he didn’t want to give me an excuse to move back, but had instead made it more comfortable for when I visited. He’d removed the posters from the walls, painted over the old dusty pink with a soft sage green, and replaced the small bed with a double, making it easier for me to bring Ben with me. There were still signs that this was my room, however. My old dresser was still there, and though I’d left it empty, I knew Dad had filled it up with some of Mom’s old clothes when he’d finally felt ready to move them from his room, but not quite ready to get rid of them. Some of the old art I’d left had been hung up too, something I’d argued against, but he insisted he’d loved.
I dropped our bags beside the dresser, and watched Ben flop onto the bed, his brown hair falling out of place with the motion.
“What time do Rob and Hanna get here?” he asked.
It had become something of a tradition to have them over at Thanksgiving. Hanna had given birth just before last year’s celebration, and the baby had turned their lives upside down. I’d invited them over, and they seemed grateful for the adult contact after a few weeks with a newborn.
“They should be here soon, but with Cleo they’ll probably be late.” I said.
I was excited to see my goddaughter again. She’d started walking last week and had been causing all sorts of chaos since. They’d turned into devoted parents, Cleo being the absolute center of their worlds. It warmed my heart to see them so happy as parents.
I walked over to the bed, and laid down next to him, his eyes flickering open to study me, those hazel eyes on me. Instantly, his arm was on my waist pulling me close to his warm body. “Happy to be home?”
I nodded my reply and resting my head on his chest. “I miss it sometimes”
“I know,” he said, his breath warm on my skin.
“But I love our home too,” I said, looking up at him and watching a smile grow on his lips.
When he’d gotten his new job, we’d decided to find a place together. It was a small one-bedroom apartment close to his new school, with a big enough kitchen for me to be able to work easily. It instantly felt like home, somewhere we both belonged together, his physics textbooks and my art history and cookbooks mixed together on the bookshelves.
He leaned down and kissed me gently, those familiar soft lips never taken for granted.
“How did I get so lucky to have you in my life?” he asked, and I stared back up at him, knowing I was just as lucky, just as happy, to finally have him.
“Probably some sort of miracle,” I smirked. He playfully nudged me in response, lips finding mine again and pressing softly. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me into his body, and I knew he was planning on never letting me go.
Our lives were tangled together permanently now, tied together with that invisible string that had always kept us coming back to each other.
