Chapter 6
Thanksgiving was two days away and Matthew eagerly anticipated the chance to spend a few days with his family on the farm. He was packing his duffel bag—tossing in flannel shirts, jeans and a few pairs of socks and underwear—when Alex let slip his lack of plans.
“What? You’re not going home for Thanksgiving?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“Nah, I’m just staying here,” Alex said, leaning back in his desk chair, spinning a pencil between his fingers. “My parents are going to my brother’s place in Nashville and a bunch his wife’s family will be there with all of their kids. It’s gonna be a total circus. With finals in a couple of weeks and Discrete Math kicking my butt, I can use the time off to get caught up.”
Matthew paused, a sock dangling from his hand. “So you’re gonna stay in the dorm? Alone? For Thanksgiving?”
Alex shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “It’s fine. I’ve got ramen and Netflix. I’ll survive.”
“Unacceptable, Alex Kim,” Matthew said, zipping his bag shut for emphasis. “You’re coming with me.”
Alex blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“If you’re not going home, then you’re coming with me, dude. It’s Thanksgiving. Green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie—any of this ringing a bell? Seriously, I’m not letting you sit here by yourself, eating instant noodles while I’m stuffing my face with turkey and dressing.”
“Well . . . I don’t know,” Alex hedged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want to crash your family time.”
“You won’t be. Mom loves feeding company, and Dad will just be happy I brought someone who doesn’t talk back like my sisters.”
Matthew set the duffel bag at the foot of his bed. “Please, Alex. It just won’t feel right leaving you here in the dorm all by yourself. It’ll be lit, I promise. You can even bring your homework if you need to study. C’mon, whaddya say?”
Alex opened his mouth to protest again—but he really wanted to see Matthew’s world, the sprawling fields and weathered barns he’d heard so much about. He was curious about the Hargroves, this tight-knit clan Matthew spoke of with such fondness.
Besides, the thought of spending the holiday with Matthew—rather than holed up alone in the dorm, or even worse, in a car on the way to Nashville with his parents—was simply too enticing to pass up.
“Well . . . okay,” he said, finally relenting. “If you’re sure.”
“Dead sure,” Matthew replied, and that was that.
*
The next day they piled into Matthew’s pickup truck, the rust-streaked beast his dad had driven up during Homecoming. The cab smelled faintly of hay and motor oil, its dashboard littered with gas station receipts and a faded Hawkeyes sticker.
They stashed their backpacks behind the seat and settled in as Matthew gunned the engine. It sputtered once, then roared to life, and they rolled out of Iowa City, heading south toward Van Buren County.
The sky hung low, a heavy blanket of clouds promising snow by morning. The forecast had mentioned a couple of inches—nothing brutal, just enough to dust the fields and make everything look like a postcard. Matthew kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, as he pointed out landmarks along the way.
“See that silo over there?” Matthew said, nodding toward a lone silver tower poking above a rise. “That’s the Gustafson’s farm. They raise the best sweet corn you’ll ever eat—Mom trades her apple butter for it every summer.”
Alex leaned forward, peering through the windshield, soaking in every detail. “Apple butter? Like, homemade?”
“Yup. She cooks it in this big copper kettle over a fire pit in our backyard. Takes all day, but it smells amazing. She’ll probably send you home with a jar, if you want.” Matthew said.
A few miles later, they passed a rickety wooden bridge spanning a narrow creek that spilled out of a nearby pond. “That’s where Jessie and I used to fish,” Matthew said. “Caught a catfish once, bigger than her head. She screamed like it was a horror movie when it flopped at her.”
Alex laughed, picturing it—a younger Matthew, sun-browned and grinning, teasing his sister by the water. “You’re such a country boy,” he said, shaking his head.
“I bet you’ve never even seen a cow up close,” Matthew shot back, his eyes crinkled with amusement.
*
The drive stretched on, the landscape unfolding in a patchwork of bare fields and skeletal trees. Matthew pointed out a faded red barn where his uncle once lost a bet and had to paint it in a blizzard, and a stretch of road where Grace swore she saw a ghost one Halloween.
Alex listened, rapt, the stories painting a picture of a life so different from his own—suburban cul-de-sacs and strip malls swapped for rolling pastures and wide-open skies. It was all new to him, but he was fascinated.
They talked about smaller things, too—how Matthew’s cousin Jake always cheated at Uno by stacking the deck when nobody was looking, or how Alex’s mom once banned him from the kitchen after he accidentally started a grease fire while trying to fry bacon in her cast iron skillet.
As the miles rolled by, Alex caught himself stealing glances at Matthew—the way his hands gripped the wheel, the faint razor stubble along his jaw catching the dim light. It made his chest feel funny.
By late afternoon, the sky had darkened, the first flakes of snow drifting lazily down as they turned onto a gravel drive. A big, white farmhouse came into view, with a wraparound porch, surrounded by an enormous yard dotted with trees.
A handful of sleek quarter horses roamed a pasture that ran down a long, sloping hill behind the house. At the bottom of the hill stood a large red barn that could’ve come straight out of a Grant Wood painting.
As they pulled into the driveway, Alex saw smoke curling from the chimney, and heard the faint sound of laughter as two girls—Matthew’s sisters, he guessed—darted across the yard, chasing after one another.
Matthew killed the engine and turned to Alex with a big grin.
“Welcome to chaos central!”
Alex stared out at the scene. “Looks . . . perfect,” he said.
“Yeah,” Matthew agreed. “It kinda is.”
*
The farmhouse glowed beneath the darkening November sky, its windows spilling light onto the snow-dusted yard. They grabbed their bags from behind the seat and stepped out into the cold. Snowflakes caught in their hair as they climbed the steps to the porch.
They let themselves in and were greeted by the scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon, and the low murmur of voices coming from the living room. Matthew ushered Alex in with a grin.
“Welcome to our humble home—brace yourself!”
The entryway opened into a sprawling, lived-in space—about forty years old, modern enough but still rooted in tradition. The kitchen was on the left, its oak cabinets and granite counters framing a big dining area where a long table stood ready for tomorrow’s feast.
To the right was the living room, cozy and open, with a stone fireplace crackling merrily. A massive flatscreen TV was mounted above it, tuned to a football game with the volume low but audible. Overstuffed couches and a worn recliner faced the hearth, a patchwork quilt draped over one armrest. The hardwood floors were polished by decades of Hargrove footsteps.
“Mom! Dad!” Matthew called, dropping his bag by the stairs. “We’re here!”
A flurry of motion followed. Matthew’s mom, Ellen, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a faded apron. She was a slight woman with blonde hair pulled into a loose bun, her hazel eyes—Matthew’s eyes—warm and quick.
“There’s my boy,” she said, pulling Matthew into a hug before turning to Alex. “And you must be Alex. Oh, it’s so good to finally meet you! Matthew’s told me so much about you.” She beamed, her voice brimming with welcome.
Alex felt his cheeks heat up. “Uh, thanks, Mrs. Hargrove,” he said with with a nervous smile. “It’s good to meet you, too.”
“Oh, none of that ‘Mrs.’ nonsense—you just call me Ellen,” she said, waving a hand.
Matthew’s dad, Tom, ambled in behind them, a tall, broad man with weathered hands and a face carved by sun and soil. His brown hair was streaked with silver, his blue flannel shirt rolled to the elbows.
“Good to see you, son,” he said, clapping Matthew on the shoulder, then offering his hand to Alex. “And welcome, Alex. Hope you’re ready—tomorrow’s gonna be a crowd.”
“Thank you for letting me tag along with Matthew, sir,” Alex said, shaking Tom’s hand. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Tom was about to respond, but was interrupted when Jessie and Grace burst in the front door, faces flushed from their footrace in the front yard. Jessie, sixteen, had Matthew’s height and a mischievous grin, her dark hair in a messy ponytail. Grace, fourteen, was shorter, quieter, with blonde hair like her mother.
“Finally!” Jessie said, punching Matthew’s arm. “Thought you’d ditched us for college forever.”
“Missed you too, pest,” Matthew shot back, ruffling her hair. He turned to Alex. “Alex, these are my sisters. Jessie’s the loud one, Grace is the smart one.”
“Hey!” Jessie protested, but she smiled at Alex. “So you’re Matthew’s roommate?”
“Yep, that’s me,” Alex said, with a nod. “Nice to meet you both. Matthew’s told me all about you.”
The introductions blurred into chatter—Ellen asking about the drive and how classes were going for both of them, Tom suggesting that Matthew show Alex around the farm tomorrow.
They finally gathered in the kitchen for a simple supper—cold cut sandwiches, a bowl of chips, and cans of soda fizzing on the table. Alex piled the ham and Swiss cheese onto thick slices of homemade bread, as Matthew teased him about his “fancy tastes” in food.
“I mean, I know it’s not as good ramen, Kim,” he said, drawing the words out for comic emphasis. “But it’s the best we could do on short notice.”
“I’ll let it pass this once, Hargrove,” Alex shot back, grinning from ear to ear as he wolfed his sandwich down.
*
Later, after the meal, Matthew led Alex upstairs to his room. It was like a time capsule—the previous August frozen in place.
A twin bed sat against one wall, its plaid comforter rumpled, with a faded Hawkeyes poster clinging to the wall above it. On a desk along the opposite wall sat a computer, next to a dusty model tractor. Bookshelves sagged with sci-fi novels and old texts, and a photo of Matthew and his sisters grinning in a hayfield was pinned to a corkboard on the wall.
On the floor, Ellen had set up an air mattress for Alex, layered with quilts and a pillow that smelled faintly of lavender and laundry soap.
They took turns in the hall bathroom before settling in—Alex showering first, then Matthew. The house was silent save for the faint murmur of the TV downstairs. Matthew stretched out on his bed, hands behind his head, while Alex sank into the air mattress, the rubbery material squeaking beneath him. The room was dark, lit only by the soft glow filtering through the window, with snowflakes ticking lightly against the glass.
“Tomorrow’s gonna be lit,” Matthew said, staring at the ceiling. “Mom’s famous for her stuffing—sage and sausage—best you’ll ever have. And her pecan pie? Lethal. Uncle Dave will probably try to prank someone with a fake turkey call again, and Grandpa will tell that story about Thanksgiving in Vietnam. It’s the same one every year—how he traded his rations for a can of cranberry sauce.”
Alex chuckled, pulling the quilt tighter, but said nothing.
“So what about you? Do Koreans have anything like this?”
“In a way. There’s Chuseok—a sort of Korean Thanksgiving. Happens in the fall, based on the moon. When I was a kid, we’d go to my grandparents’ place in Chicago and make these rice cakes called songpyeon. They’re shaped like little moons, stuffed with sesame or beans. Everyone would dress up and we’d go to the cemetery to pay our respects to our ancestors. It’s a big family holiday, but . . . heavier, you know? More about duty.”
Matthew turned his head, eyes glinting in the dark. “Rice cakes, huh? They any good?”
“Yeah, if you like sticky stuff. My mom’s a champ at making them—perfect every time. I always sucked at it. Too impatient.”
“What’s the cemetery part like?” Matthew asked, genuinely curious.
“Quiet, “Alex said. “You clean the stones, leave food out. It’s a way of giving thanks to our ancestors, so a kind of ‘thanksgiving’ in a way, I suppose. Felt weird as a kid, but it’s cool looking back, connecting to people I never met. I liked hearing all the stories.”
They continued to swap tales in the dark for a while, but eventually fatigue crept in. Matthew drifted off first, his breathing steady, while Alex lay awake a moment longer, staring at the shadowed ceiling.
The long drive, the good food, the stories—all settled over him like the snow falling outside—and soon he, too, drifted off to sleep, the farmhouse holding them both in its gentle embrace.
