Chapter 7

On Thanksgiving morning, Matthew woke to the sound of Alex’s soft snoring, a counterpoint to the muffled stillness in his room. Sitting up, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and peered out— the snow had piled much higher than expected, maybe nine inches, with flurries still swirling through the air.

Downstairs, the faint clatter of pans told him his mom was already at work in the kitchen, preparing the day’s feast. In the distance, through the frosted glass, he spotted his dad’s broad figure in a Carhartt coat and fur cap, walking toward the barn to check on the horses. There were never days off for a farmer, not even today.

Matthew’s gaze drifted back to Alex, curled tight under the quilt on the air mattress. The look on his sleeping face made him appear younger, almost fragile. His black hair spilled across the pillow in a wild tangle, and a single dark mole—what his grandma would’ve called a beauty spot—dotted his left cheek.

His hands rested atop the quilt. They were smooth and soft with nails neatly trimmed, in stark contrast to Matthew’s own rougher palms and bitten-down nails. He flexed his fingers self-consciously, wondering if Jessie’s hand lotion could fix that. He shook off the thought with a little huff.

What he couldn’t shake was the compulsion to stare at Alex while he slept. The longer he looked, the more something stirred—his pulse quickened, his senses heightened. Every detail pulled at him: the curve of his jaw, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way the quilt hugged his frame.

Matthew slid out of bed—bare feet hitting the cold floor, wearing only pajama bottoms—and kicked at the heap of blankets on the floor. “Hey, sleepyhead, rise and shine.”

Alex groaned, burrowing deeper. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Matthew grabbed an old Hawkeyes T-shirt from his closet and yanked it on, running his fingers through his tousled hair. “C’mon, man,” he called again. “Get up, or you’ll miss breakfast.”

Alex groaned again and rolled over, pulling the quilt over his head. Matthew let out a wicked little chuckle.

“Well, if that’s the way you want it . . . ”

He launched himself onto the air mattress, landing with a thud and jostling Alex awake.

“Time to get up!” he called out, obnoxiously cheerful.

Alex yelped, flailing under the covers, then surged up, grabbing Matthew and flipping him over. “Oh, you’re so dead, Hargrove!” he laughed, pinning him to the mattress. Matthew giggled and wrestled back, their limbs tangling in the quilts.

Alex changed tactics, fingers digging into Matthew’s sides, tickling mercilessly. Matthew squirmed, gasping through laughter—he was stupidly ticklish. He decided his only defense was to wrap Alex in a bear hug, pulling him close to stop the assault.

For a heartbeat, time slowed. Matthew buried his face in Alex’s hair, the messy strands brushing against his cheek. His senses flared—Alex’s warmth, the faint citrus of his shampoo, the sound of his laughter.

Then he felt something—firm and unmistakable—pressing against his belly through the flannel. The realization sent a jolt through Matthew, electric and dizzying.

He broke free fast, leaping up with his arms raised like a victorious wrestler. “I win!” he crowed.

Alex laughed breathlessly as he pushed himself to his feet.

“Yeah, sure, champ.”

Matthew’s heart was hammering and his face was flushed—he decided to chalk it up to their roughhousing. They stood facing one another, trying to slow their breathing,

“Breakfast?” he finally said, jerking a thumb toward the door.

“Race you,” Alex taunted, and they bolted, chasing each other down the hall to the stairs beyond.

*

The kitchen buzzed with Thanksgiving morning energy. Ellen stood at the counter, wrist-deep in a bowl of stuffing mix. She looked up as they came bouncing into the kitchen.

“Well, I see you two are awake,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “You guys hungry?””

“Starving,” Matthew said, while his mind replayed that brief, charged moment when Alex was pressed against him. He wondered if Alex had noticed it, too.

“Help yourselves to the sausage biscuits in the basement freezer,” she said, nodding toward the stairs. “I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

Matthew looked over at Alex, who was leaning on the island counter, stretching and yawning. “How many do you want?”

“How many are you gonna eat?” Alex replied.

“Three—my usual,” Matthew said, already heading for the basement door.

“Same for me, then.”

Matthew gave him a thumbs-up and bounded down the steps, his bare feet thumping on the risers. Left alone with Ellen, Alex shifted awkwardly.

She gave him a gentle smile and asked, “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a log, Mrs. Hargrove . . . uh, Ellen,” he said. “Well . . . that is until Matthew wrestled me off the air mattress,” he added with a grin.

She laughed, shaking her head. “That sounds like him. Always rambunctious with his sisters, too—tries to keep everybody on their toes around here.”

Before he could reply, Matthew reappeared, a stack of frozen sausage-and-egg biscuits in hand. Right on cue, Jessie and Grace shuffled in from upstairs—Jessie with wet hair wrapped in a towel, Grace yawning and stretching.

“Did you grab some for us?” Jessie asked, eyeing the pile in Matthew’s hands.

He loaded the biscuits into the microwave, tapped in the time and hit “start,” then leaned casually against the counter with his arms crossed. “Nope. Just brought up six for me and Alex.”

“Six?!” Grace exclaimed, hands on her hips. “You guys are such pigs!”

Ellen gave her a stern look, her lips pursed. “Oh, hush. Go get your own from the freezer. There’s plenty for everybody.”

The microwave timer finally chimed and Matthew opened the door. He scooped the hot biscuits onto plates and handed Alex his share, then led the way to the living room.

Alex plopped onto one end of the couch, plate balanced on his knee, while Matthew sank to the floor next to him, leaning against the cushions. They dug into their biscuits eagerly, the salty taste cutting through the morning haze. The TV droned on about a winter storm warning—calling for heavier snow by midday—but it was background noise to their chewing.

Tom stepped in then, shaking snow from his coat and kicking his boots off by the door. His face was ruddy from the cold, his breath still fogging faintly in the icy air that had drafted in with him.

“The horses are good,” he said, hanging his fur cap on a hook. “You boys heading out later?”

“Yeah,” Matthew said through a mouthful. “When we finish eating, I was planning to show Alex the horses and barn.”

“Have fun,” Tom replied. “But be careful and don’t wander too far. Snow’s picking up later—gonna be a real humdinger. Roads could get dicey. We may be on our own for Thanksgiving dinner tonight.”

“Oh, well—more turkey for us!” Matthew exclaimed, talking through a mouthful of sausage biscuit.

Tom chuckled, a low rumble. “I reckon so. Always looking at the bright side, aren’t you?”

He ran his hands through his salt and pepper hair and disappeared down the hall to the master bath to clean up for the day.

The boys polished off their biscuits as the news anchor rattled on about expected snowfall totals and wind chills. Matthew stood, stretching, and grabbed both plates.

“Come on,” he said to Alex, heading for the kitchen.

He loaded their plates into the dishwasher, then steered Alex toward the screened-in porch that led to the backyard, and the pasture beyond.

*

The porch was a clutter of farm life—boots lined up by the door, a rack of heavy coats smelling faintly of hay and leather. Matthew tossed Alex a thick parka, then pulled on his own.

“Suit up,” he said, digging out gloves and a scarf from a bin. “Time to brave the wilds of Iowa.”

Alex tugged the coat on, its weight settling over him like armor, and followed Matthew outside. The snow crunched under their boots as they set off, the back door banging shut behind them. The air bit at their faces, sharp and cold, but the parkas and gloves kept the worst of it at bay.

They trudged down the long, gentle slope toward the barn, its red paint vivid against the white. The fenced-in paddock beside it held six horses nosing at the hay Tom had scattered for them earlier that morning.

They walked in companionable silence at first, their breaths puffing out in clouds, mingling with the flurries that continued drifting down. As the barn loomed closer, Matthew broke the stillness.

“What’s your family doing for Thanksgiving in Nashville?”

“They’re gonna be at my brother’s house. His wife has a big family and they’ll all be there. Be a crowd for sure. On the one hand, I’ll miss all the food—but on the other, I’m glad I don’t have to spend the day answering their questions. ‘Do you have a girlfriend yet?, Alex,’ ‘Well, why not Alex?’—and my favorite—‘When are you getting married, Alex?’ It gets old in a hurry.”

Matthew nodded. “Yeah, I could see how you’d get sick of that. So, is your brother’s wife Korean?”

“Yep, third generation. One set of grandparents came from Wonsan before the war, and the other came from Seoul, like my parents did.”

“How did she and your brother meet?”

“When James was in law school at Vanderbilt, I think. She was working as a paralegal or something in Nashville. Now she’s a full-time mom.”

“It’s cool they found each other like that. It’s gotta be hard to meet other Korean people to date around here. Not exactly a ton of them living in this part of the country. Would your parents freak out if you married somebody who wasn’t Korean?”

Alex glanced over, eyebrows lifting beneath his cap. “Well, they’d prefer if I found a nice Korean girl—but no, they wouldn’t freak out. They just want me settled.” He kicked at a clump of snow, then asked, “What about you? Would your folks care if you did marry a Korean?”

Matthew blinked, taken aback. He suddenly realized he’d never thought about it. Growing up in Van Buren County, everyone was pretty much the same shade of pale.

“I don’t think they’d care,” he said hesitantly. “As long as it’s a girl, they’d be fine with it, I guess.”

Alex tilted his head, a daring look in his eye.

“So, you think they’re worried you might not marry a girl—or just worried you wouldn’t get married at all?”

He got that Alex was trying to play it off as a joke, but the words stung him regardless. For a split second, panic flared in his mind—did he suspect something?

He quickly recovered and replied in a comical tone of voice:

“Oh, yeah, totally. Promised I’d marry the quarterback from high school, but Dad said I should aim for a basketball forward instead. Better jump shot.” He let out a goofy laugh and Alex joined in, the tension easing.

They pressed on toward the paddock and Matthew seized the chance to pivot. “Anyway, check these out,” he said, gesturing to the horses. “Quarter horses—bred for speed. That big one’s Doc, my favorite.”

Doc, a pinto with a white blaze and chestnut patches, ambled over, his breath steaming in the cold. At eighteen, he was old—almost as old as Matthew—and the dark hair around his muzzle was turning white, but his eyes still had a spark to them.

Matthew reached out, gently stroking the his head.

“Hey, buddy, how are you?” he murmured, then glanced at Alex. “Wanna try?”

Alex stepped up, tentatively, and ran his gloved hand along Doc’s neck. The horse huffed, leaning into it, and Alex smiled broadly.

“Never been on a farm before, but I gotta admit—this is cool.”

“Oh yeah?” Matthew said. “Stick around and I’ll have you riding him eventually.”

The snow began to fall harder, thick flakes swirling as the wind picked up, cutting visibility to a hazy blur. Matthew squinted toward the house, its warm lights barely visible up the hill.

“Storm is really picking up,” he said. “We’d better cut this short and head back before it gets any worse.”

They turned around and began to trudge side by side up the slope—two lone figures in a sea of white—as the wind howled and the snow covered their tracks.