Free Vincent's Thanksgiving Date by R. Cooper

he probably should have been, but he’d already seen evidence of how talented and competent Cory was.
    “You’re lying right now, aren’t you? I’d laugh, but oh my lord, I’m serving dinner to my best friends tomorrow. Thanksgiving dinner!” Cory marched toward the couch and coffee table, where he grabbed his wine and tossed it back. Then he straightened his shoulders. “I can do this. Millions go through this every year. I can do this.” He meant it. He was genuinely worried.
    “You can do this?” Vincent tried to be supportive when he realized, then noticed his uncertain tone. He cleared his throat. “You can do this. We can do this.” He caught himself. “Not that we are together—working together. But we’re both doing something new.”
    “What was it you said? ‘There is no right answer?’ I like that.” Cory gently pushed up Vincent’s glasses, but then didn’t seem to know what to do when Vincent stared back at him with wide eyes.
    “It’s from my therapy,” Vincent told him without moving away. He thought he might even be moving in, drifting slowly toward Cory’s smile. “Obviously there are right and wrong answers in life. But it’s to help me worry less about reactions when someone asks me what I want. It’s supposed to free me to do what I want to do.”
    “How interesting.” Cory appeared to mean it. If he noticed how Vincent was drawn toward him, he made no move to get out of his path. “Is it working? Do you feel free to do what you want to do?”
    “I--” That was a leading question, with a potentially humiliating answer. Vincent blinked and stepped back. “Didn’t you have something you wanted to ask me?”
    Cory straightened. He studied Vincent for a long time, long enough for Vincent to blush in embarrassment and then go cold with nerves. Then he shook his head. “Maybe tomorrow.” He put his hand on the door. “Will I see you?”
    Vincent’s voice was strangely husky. “I’ll have a pie for you,” he answered, only to wonder where such a confident reply had come from. Certainly not from him; false bravado was about as much his thing as baking pies. Yet he’d said it, and Cory seemed cheered as he opened the door.
    “I’m looking forward to it,” Cory offered in return, much better about saying the right thing than Vincent would ever be. Then he gave Vincent one last smile and left, shutting the door behind him.
    Vincent stared at his door, and then the mug of tea, the proof that he hadn’t imagined all that.
    Then he turned to the only thing he could turn to that wasn’t intangible fears and anxious hope.
    Pie.
     
     
     
     
    The next morning, somewhat bleary-eyed, Vincent stumbled into his kitchen to stare at the three pies lined up on his countertop. They were real. He had really done it.
    He stared at them as he ate a small bowl of cereal and downed as much coffee as his body could hold. He stared at them as he turned on the TV to watch the stupid parade. The pumpkin had a less-than-perfectly-edged crust and a spot in the center from where he’d tested it to be sure it was done. The apple had crooked latticework that he was trying to think of as charmingly lopsided. And the pecan well… it looked fine, despite how he’d had to resort to the frozen crust. He had no idea if the filling had set, but it looked all right.
    After some internal debate during a lip synced musical number, he snapped a picture of them and sent it to Judith. About half an hour later, she responded.
    “You made three pies?” There was all kinds of noise in the background, cooking sounds and the TV, someone talking. Judith’s mother-in-law wished Vincent a happy Thanksgiving and then started asking about the pies before Judith could say anything else.
    “Yes, I wanted to try something new.” The explanation was reasonable. Judith wasn’t going to buy it though, even if her mother-in-law did.
    “I can tell you are doing that keeping secrets thing that you used to do when we