Page 74 of Oar Than Friends

Thanksgiving had been his favourite holiday. The day would start with my dad and Jake going out on the boat, just the two of them. They’d net a small catch of oysters, then take the haul around to his guys who worked for him, who all had the day off. It was their thing. When they got home, my mom would make them shower while she cleaned up the catch he’d brought in for us, and we’d all be forced into matching pyjamas for the rest of the day to eat oysters and turkey, and watch the Patriots beat whomever they were playing. The boys would arrive at the house right before the football, and the entire neighbourhood of friends and family would be able to hear them shouting at the TV until bedtime.

Since Jake died, Vinny had started going out with my dad. They’d crack a beer at six a.m., pour one for Jake, then get to work. But it wasn’t the same, and everyone knew it.

Even if I’d had the option, I wouldn’t have gone back.

I was still in my deep funk as I trudged up the steps to my dorm, where I had to make a lightning change of clothes – no thanks to Professor Osmonay – and run to meet Imogen before our lab classes that afternoon, from where we had to head straight to land training at the boathouse.

Except when I got to my door, one of the Downing College orderlies was standing outside with his hand up in a knock.

‘Hello?’

He spun around to me, ‘Kate Astley?’

‘Yes?’

‘I have a package for you.’ A large cardboard box was thrust into my arms, one with an English postmark on.

I’d not ordered anything. I wasn’t expecting anything. My mom wouldn’t have ordered anything without telling me it was en route, mostly because she was the total worst at keeping a secret, but also because she’d already sent my pyjamas for today. Don’t ask me if she thought I’d be wearing them to class, I didn’t want to know the answer.

‘Are you sure this is for me?’

He tapped the box with the electronic pen. ‘That’s your name, isn’t it?’

I looked at it again, then nodded to confirm that yes, it was indeed my name. Didn’t clear a single thing up in my confused brain though.

‘Then it’s for you.’ He held out his pad. ‘Sign here, please.’

I did as I was asked, still wondering what this mystery box was as the guy walked off. Kicking the door shut behind me, I put the box on my bed and went in search of scissors, which I found in my bathroom after remembering I’d used them to trim the dead ends off my hair last night.

It was like one of those Russian nesting dolls because inside the main box, was another smaller, polystyrene box, with a thick cream envelope on the top.

Ripping it open, I pulled out a piece of matching cardstock.

Yankee Doodle,

Happy Thanksgiving, I didn’t want you to miss out on your pie.

I baked it, but I promise I was under adult supervision, and tested it first.

Love, Oz x

Ps. This year I’m thankful for you.

I read it once more, just to double check. My brows shot into my hairline as I gently removed the polystyrene lid and breathed in the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. Inside, a little crooked around the edges where the crust had broken off, was a pumpkin pie.

No one had ever sent me a pie before.

No one had ever baked me a pie before.

This was the very first pumpkin pie I’d ever had all of my own.

I lifted it out of its box with all the care and dexterity of an archaeologist with a newly discovered ancient relic and carried it over to my desk, then stood back. I stared. I stared until my throat thickened, and the weight in my chest built and built until the pressure burst out into a flood of tears, cascading down my cheeks.

Oz. Sweet, kind Oz cared enough about me to make sure I wasn’t missing out on pie. He knew how much I loved pie, and he’d made this one for me even though I knew he didn’t cook, and I quote, ‘I burn water given half the chance.’ But this pie didn’t look burnt, it looked perfect and – after wiping my sleeve under my nose – smelt perfect, almost like the one my mom made.

Another fat tear slid down my cheek and dropped on the floor.

I don’t recommend crying and eating. It’s kind of messy, hard to breathe and even harder to swallow, but the pie couldn’t sit untouched like that while I went off to my afternoon of labs – it wouldn’t be fair. The ruler sticking out from the middle of two piles of coursework made for an excellent knife substitute, and I sank it deep into the dark orange filling until I’d cut a perfect slice.

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