Page 22 of For Crosby

“Could you pass the gravy?” Finlay asked her mom across the dining room table.

Her mom held out the gravy boat, but passed it to me instead of Finlay. “Guests first,” she said.

Finlay rolled her eyes as I accepted the gravy.

“Then I should get it first,” Caden said from Finlay’s opposite side.

“Best friends before boyfriends,” I assured him. “Especially after what I caught you two doing last week.”

“Sabrina?” Finlay said with wide eyes.

“What?” I feigned innocence. “I caught you cutting class and binge-watching Outlander. What’d you think I meant?” I leaned forward and winked at Caden.

Finlay’s parents laughed. They got my humor. And they’d been kind enough to have Caden and me over for Thanksgiving. He was from California and wasn’t going home, and it didn’t make sense for me to drive to Florida for a day or two and have to drive back. I was already heading home for Christmas, so my parents were fine with me staying at Finlay’s.

“So, we know how Finlay’s and Caden’s semesters are going. How about yours?” Mr. Thatcher said to me.

“As you’d expect. I’m pulling straight A's in my classes and beating off guys with a stick in my free time.”

A deep belly laugh rumbled out of him, and my heart soared. They’d lost Finlay’s twin brother, Cole, a few years ago leaving a void a mile wide in their home—especially at the holidays. I was pretty sure that’s why Finlay liked having me home with her when she visited. I added the comic relief they needed to distract them from what was missing.

“She’s not kidding,” Caden said. “I figured Sabrina for a football girl, but she’s got hockey players lined up for her.”

I cocked my head and glared at Caden.

“What? Am I lying?” He winked purposefully.

“She’s been out with one and the other just drives her crazy,” Finlay said, clearly having her boyfriend’s back and paying me back for my comment.

“She left him tied to a tree,” Caden added.

“Sabrina,” Mr. Thatcher admonished.

I shrugged. “The guy had it coming.”

Mrs. Thatcher looked to me with those same thoughtful green eyes Finlay had. I braced myself for the kind-hearted lecture inevitably awaiting me. “Finlay’s dad and I didn’t like each other at first.”

“We didn’t?” Mr. Thatcher asked.

We laughed as Mrs. Thatcher’s head tilted. “Remember Amber?”

“Oh.” He grimaced. “Amber.”

“Yes, oh Amber,” Mrs. Thatcher said.

Finlay reached for a dinner roll. “Who’s Amber?”

“Story for another day,” Mr. Thatcher said, grabbing his own roll and stuffing it in his mouth.

“Nice save,” Mrs. Thatcher said to her husband before looking to me. “All I’m saying is sometimes first impressions can be wrong.”

“Nope. My first impression was dead on,” I said, pushing around a piece of turkey on my plate.

“Says who?” Finlay asked.

I glared at my friend. “Whose side are you on?”

“I want you to be happy,” she said.

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