Page 1 of Love Harvested on Thanksgiving
CHAPTER ONE
ALEX
The trunk of my SUV slams shut with a loud thud, and just like that, I’m out of my parents’ house. I balance a box on my hip, nudge the front door closed with my foot, and try not to think about the fact my parents aren’t inside. By now they’re probably halfway to Florida.
And me? I’m standing in the same driveway I learned to ride my first bike in, finally moving into my own place. Reluctantly, I hop in my car, and I leave the little house behind.
College ended months ago, but it didn’t feel likereallife had started until now. I spent the whole summer shadowing my parents at Oak & Rye, learning everything they could teach me before taking off to their new beach home. How to handle theproduce deliveries, how to sweet-talk cranky vendors, how to keep the books balanced.
I’ve spent my childhood running down those aisles. Now the keys are mine. Now the market is mine. And the little two-bedroom above Main Street is mine, too—if I can get these boxes from the car up the stairs without passing out.
A gust of wind kicks leaves across the driveway, a trail of red and gold. The air is chilly and carries the smell of woodsmoke from the neighbor's chimney.
I heft a box out of the trunk and hug it against my chest, wobbling a little under the weight. The November wind whips my hair into my face as I make it down the sidewalk, climb the staircase and stop in front of my new door.
I fumble for my keys while balancing the box on my knee. With a click, the door flies open, and I step inside for the first time as the official tenant.
The place smells faintly of fresh paint, sharp and clean. The walls are soft gray, white marble floors stretch out beneath me, so glossy I can see my reflection.
I set the heavy box down beside the couch. Deep green fabric, rich and velvety, sitting right where the delivery guys dropped it a few days ago. My parents picked it out for me along with the rest of the furniture—cozy and modern. I stand here for a second, taking in the space. Soft cream-colored curtains hang over the tall windows. A large TV is already mounted on the wall, framed by empty whitewashed bookshelves that connect seamlessly to the console underneath. They’re waiting for me to fill them with something—cookbooks, and all the paperbacksI’ve collected from the bookshop I have worked part time at for the last four years.
I never had any interest in reading, until I met my best friend that is. We met in college, and she got me a job at Nook & Fable. She convinced me to try out some fantasy books, and I was hooked after that.
A muted rug of soft grays and tans sits under a large ottoman. It matches the deep green couch, dark and rich against the lighter tones of the walls and floors. It looks expensive.
It’s all so new. Which is exciting, but also a little overwhelming. My parents thought of everything, right down to the lamps on the whitewashed end tables and the fluffy throw blankets draped over the couch.
I make trip after trip down the stairs, lugging in the rest of my boxes and bags. By the time I drop the last one by the couch, my arms ache and my lungs burn. Why are books so damn heavy? Who needs a gym membership when you’ve moved to the third floor?
I flop onto the couch, sinking into the deep cushions. It swallows me into softness, and I let my head fall back with a groan. My stomach growls loud enough to echo. Unpacking can wait. Food first.
I pull out my phone, swipe open DoorDash, and start scrolling. It doesn’t take long for my favorite place to pop up. Butter chicken, jasmine rice, and garlic naan. Steaming hot comfort. I add it all to the cart, hit order, and toss my phone on the ottoman.
The shower’s calling my name. I peel myself off the couch and drag a towel out of one of the bags. The bathroom smells ofpaint and lemon cleaner, and the water warms fast. I step under the spray.
By the time I’m done rinsing the shampoo from my hair, I hear the doorbell ring. My mouth waters at the thought of the soft buttery naan sitting on the other side of my front door.
I quickly towel myself off and throw on the oversized t-shirt I pulled out earlier and pad barefoot across the marble floors to the front door.
I set the bag on the ottoman and light the pumpkin scented candle my mother thoughtfully placed on the TV console. The apartment quickly fills with the spicy-sweet scent of November tangled with tangy tomato and garlic.
The TV clicks on, the giant screen glowing against the gray walls. I flip through the channels until I land onFriends.The Thanksgiving episode.
I curl up on the couch with my plate, dipping naan into the butter chicken soaking with the creamy sauce.
My mind drifts from the TV. This will be my first Thanksgiving alone. No big family dinner, no kitchen crowded with loved ones bickering over the football game.
My parents always hosted Thanksgiving, family from all over would come. Now that they are in Florida, my family is traveling there.
I can’t leave the market, so I’m stuck here. Alone. The thought sits heavy in my chest, dull and sad.
I bite into a piece of chicken, and let my mind wander, trying not to dwell on the quiet apartment. The Thanksgiving festival. The biggest fall event in town. Every November, thewhole town shows up for the Thanksgiving festival. Booths line Main Street.
And this year, Oak & Rye is winning the contest.Iam winning the contest. Every year it’s the same: who can bake, roast, or fry up the best thanksgiving dish.
My heart kicks up, the sadness from earlier melting away in a buzz of excitement. This year, it’s my turn. No parents standing behind me, no professors reminding me I have a paper due—just me.
Winning isn’t just about bragging rights—it’s about proving Icando this. That I belong here. That Oak & Rye’s future is in good hands.
