The morning sun was unforgiving. Not only did it shed light on a blinding hangover, but with open eyes, the mess from the night prior was hard to miss. Throw pillows were tossed chaotically around the living room. An extension cord used to make the cellphone's charger longer was draped over the couch, not plugged into the phone that was surely dead, or at the very least, nearing its last electronic breath. The table beside the couch still held an emptied glass of wine, a matching empty bowl that had been used to eat way too many helpings of chicken and dumplings, and—last but not least—a limp dildo suctioned to its glass top.

I stretched the length of the couch. "Morning, Hulk," I muttered to the inanimate object that was obviously mocking me.

I hadn't used it. Hulk's virginity remained intact. The thing was... I wanted to use it. How could anyone blame a girl after having a night of too much wine, a lot of laughs, and Oliver Mulligan on the other end of a phone call that lasted hours? For the first time in a long time, I fantasized about someone else. Not just fantasies that made me want to get off with a glowing hunk of green rubber, but I had memories to go off of. Visions of being used by a culinary god all over his apartment—memories dormant since our first class together—became front and center in my mind. From the kitchen counter, to his couch, to a crazy maneuver in a hallway that had landed us in his bed—hot, erotic memories. After our call ended, my wine-buzzed brain was flooded with all things Ollie, and my vagina was raring to go. Hulk was pulled free from the shower with every intention of giving myself one hell of a Thanksgiving Day orgasm. It only took one small glance into my room to see an empty bed for all the pent-up sexual frustration to dwindle away to nothing.

It wasn't a complete waste of time. Even though I had lost the want to get myself off by seeing one of the last pieces of Steve I had left, I didn't cry. Tears threatened to unleash, and maybe the wine was there to help stop it. But there were a few deep breaths, the slapping of a dildo to the end table, and a lot of memories of Thanksgivings past, good and bad, that sent me off to a much-needed sleep. The cellphone's dying battery chirping became an alarm clock. The mess in the room was practically a gift. Now I could spend the day cleaning instead of sitting here crying like originally planned. Plus, there was still a baking exam to study for.

I rolled off of the couch, head aching and still wobbly from a night of alcohol, and began adding to the mess of pillows by tossing couch cushions beside them. Somehow, the phone had almost made it back to the floor and was nestled as deep into the seat as it could get. I was elbow deep into the back of it before I could pull it free. Sure enough, the battery life was red and blinking. It also displayed three missed calls from Hallie, and knowing my best friend, she was likely having panic attacks over my holiday mental state, combined with my silence.

I reached for the unused charger, quickly jammed it into the open port, giving the object a smidge more life, and selected Hallie's number.

"Sloan! What the hell?" Hallie answered on the first ring without a hello. "I called you three times this morning! Why didn't you answer? I'm in my car!"

"Turn back around." I groaned, knowing that I was causing Hallie to miss out on family time. "I'm fine. I was up late and slept in."

"Slept in? It's like noon!"

I collapsed into the heap of floor pillows and shielded my eyes from the sun with the crook of my elbow. "Yeah. There was some wine involved. And cooking. And a whole marathon of Chopped!"

"How's that different from any other night? Why stay up late when you can Roku that shit?"

"I was on the phone with Ollie." I cringed as soon as the truth left my lips. That was an idiotic confession to make in this moment.

"Say what now?"

"Hal," I begged. "Don't make a big deal..."

"Ollie? As in Oliver Mulligan? As in your teacher and boss and former lover?"

Another cringe. "Can we not call him that?"

"What? Oliver?"

"My lover."

"Former lover. Or..." I could hear her smile, "current lover?"

Another flashback of being fucked up against a wall followed. It didn't take long for it to be driven out by a sharp pain from my splitting headache, thankfully. I only had one lover, and that was Steve. Sex was a different story.

"It's not like that."

"Sounds like it is."

"It's not. Can we not talk about it? He just wanted to make sure I didn't come back to his business as a depressive vegetable."

"Mmhmm." Hallie didn't sound like she believed that line one bit. "And?"

"And what?"

"Have you turned back into a potato? Are you doing okay? It's okay to ask me to come home, you know?"

"I'm okay," I answered before even verifying with myself that it was a fact. My sinking lips were determining it was a lie. I still had an entire day that I needed to convince myself otherwise. Holidays sucked.

"It's okay to not be."

My exhale was heavy. If only I had a dollar for every time someone had told me that. Right now, yeah, it's okay not to be okay. But what happened if that never changed? What if I was never okay again? Good days were good. That doesn't mean that the bad ones hurt any less, or that there was any sort of light at the end of the tunnel with crying fits that sprung themselves on me in the least opportune times. That was something that wasn't okay with me. No one tells you how long those what-ifs are around to haunt you when you're a widow in your early twenties. There was a pit in my stomach that constantly nagged at me because of it.

"What's that sound?" Hallie questioned, bringing me back to our conversation and out of my tanking headspace. "That roaring sound? Did you kill another appliance?"

"I don't know. Probably." I groaned and listened carefully for what Hallie was referring to. It was coming from outside. Definitely a motor of some sort. "Sounds like a motorcycle."

I sprung forward as soon as the thought left my mouth, rushing to get to my knees to pull my tired body up. The engine died out before I could get to the door. None of the neighbors owned a motorcycle that I could remember. Had I really ever paid attention to their vehicles? No. But that nagging feeling in my stomach had jolted in another direction... Ollie owns a motorcycle.

I bolted for the door. "Shit, shit, shit!"

"What?" Hallie asked. "What's going on?"

I opened the door to peer into the driveway, but there was no need. The person I was least expecting to be at my house was currently standing on its front stoop, locking eyes with me.

"Shit," I muttered one last curse into the phone before allowing my jaw to drop open and stay there.

Ollie stood in a red and black plaid shirt—one similar to the one he'd worn the first day I'd ever laid eyes on him. Its sleeves were rolled up his arms, showing the tattoos I once salivated over but had since been hidden away for professionalism. A pair of aviator sunglasses were sitting on top of his messy hair, having not been there long—I could still see the indent on his nose where they had been sitting.

"You look like ass." He grinned and held up a grease-saturated McDonald's bag.

"Who was that?" Hallie questioned with too much excitement. "Oh my God! Sloan! Was that your lov-"

"Gotta go!" I ended the call and tossed the phone over my shoulder. It hit the couch behind me. My eyes remained wide as saucers. Ollie was here, at my home.

"Is your hangover as bad as mine?" Ollie handed off the bag of delicious-smelling food. There were definitely fries in the bag, possibly nuggets as well. "Tell me you have coffee. I couldn't bring that with the bike."

Before I could even attempt to form an answer with actual words, Ollie was pushing past me and into the disheveled living room. The room was not even the main issue. I had just woken up and hadn't even seen myself yet today. Quickly tugging out the rubber band from my hair that was barely holding anything anyway, I shoved it into the pocket of my sweatpants. Fingers were used as a quick comb before following Ollie into the house.

"What are you doing here?" My surprise was not hidden with tone. "It's Thanksgiving. How did you get McDonalds?"

Ollie, not answering the question, was too busy looking around the state of the small townhouse's living quarters. "Did a bomb go off?"

I dropped the bag of food into the nearby armchair and crossed my arms. "I asked questions first!"

"I'm hungover as fuck, and wanted greasy food. It's the only place open on a holiday. I recall you drank a full bottle more than me last night. You have to be hurting." He finally turned and pointed off somewhere else. "Sloan, why is there a giant green dick on that table?"

My face flushed to hot pink while Ollie was grinning like a madman. I dove for the table beside the couch as he chuckled behind me. I tugged on Hulk without it even budging. The stupid thing really was a beast with a very unforgiving suction feature.

I panicked. "It's not mine!"

Ollie's nose lifted in disgust.

"No! Well, yes, it's mine, but it was a gift." I gave it another yank. This time the table jolted upwards with it, nearly sending a wine glass and bowl flying to the floor if Ollie wouldn't have caught them first. "I don't use it."

He laughed again. "Right. That's why it's out, sitting beside your wine from last night."

I pulled Hulk again, bringing the damn table right along with. Fuck it, I thought, and dragged the table by the dildo until I could get to the coat closet. Using my knees, I pushed the entire table into the closet, knowing I would have to explain the reason for its vanishing act to Hallie later. I pushed until it could go no further. The door just barely closed behind it.

This is what I got for wanting an orgasm.

Ollie's chest was still quaking with laughter while I was slapping my hand on my overheated forehead. Maybe it was embarrassment, maybe it was shock, maybe it was the damn hangover. Hoping for the latter, I went for the fries.

"That was quite..." he chuckled once more, "limp?"

Giving up on how ridiculous the whole situation was, I popped a chicken nugget into my mouth and released a little giggle before rolling my eyes. "It also glows in the dark. According to my best friend, those are," I held up air quotes with my fingers, "bonus features."

Ollie looked down at his crotch, back at me, and smirked once more. "Well, damn. I've been going about it all wrong."

His ability to make me laugh was impressive. There was still the fact that he made me cry just as often. Oliver Mulligan was a puzzle made up of so many personalities that I couldn't keep them straight. Somehow, I knew this was the version of Ollie he really was deep down. He was correct when he said a girl had fucked him up—made apparent by the walls he put up around the personal parts of his life. What he was doing right now was not his norm anymore, and I knew why he was branching out.

I offered the open bag of food. "Are you here to make sure I'm still stable?"

Ollie smiled, but it wasn't the same as it was before when he was belly laughing. He placed the wine glass and bowl on the floor. "How's it going today?"

"You didn't ask if I was okay. That's the question I get asked the most. It's also the reason you're here. I'm alone on a holiday and mentally unstable. A liability for you. Correct?" I gave the bag a little shake, reminding him that there was perfectly good, unhealthy fried food within it we both needed this morning.

Ollie grabbed a nugget and popped it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "I believe you're okay. That's why I didn't ask."

As nice as that was to hear, he was so off. Instead of crying over my dead husband all night, I laughed so hard I cried over a cooking show. I fantasized about another man. Now, I was standing in my disaster of a living room eating chicken nuggets with that very man. What about this scenario was okay? All romantic thoughts of Ollie were officially off-limits. He was my teacher and boss... nothing more.

"I'm not here to cradle your depressive ego. You can't help the way you mourn. You're standing here, not crying, hiding a massive dildo that we both know is now glowing in that closet. You're okay."

I giggled silently.

"Maybe I'm here because I'm the one who's not okay. Ever think of that?" He chuckled and took a handful of fries from the bag that was still extended.

Even though Ollie laughed at the end of a question that perhaps was supposed to sound absurd, it didn't feel far off from the truth. This was a man who could spend the holiday with his family and was alone by choice. Now he was here with me.

"I'm joking. I felt bad about stealing your time away from studying last night. It's the teacher in me. Let's learn some baking."

"Thought you hate baking, Chef?" I said, teasing.

"I do. Let's get this shit over with. Where's the kitchen?"

I pointed to the open archway behind him. Ollie took the lead, picking up my backpack from the floor where I'd abandoned it the night before. I followed him with our greasy hangover cure. The food was hitting the spot.

Anxiety came with Ollie seeing a kitchen of old mismatched appliances, a sink that attempted to soak you if turned on with high pressure, and stacks of paperwork that I was avoiding from Steve's passing. This was nothing like the multiple kitchens he got to work from daily. Thankfully, Ollie didn't say a word about any of it. While I made us coffee, he attempted to familiarize himself with coursework for a subject he had no love for. I was more than capable of studying the basics of measuring on my own, but I appreciated the help he was offering. I learned faster on nights when Hallie was here assisting.

We worked for hours. Using previously made notecards, Ollie repeatedly went through the stack until I had nearly all of them memorized. Not only was Ollie a perfectionist in his kitchen, but also his teaching. The man remained serious, didn't give away answers, and became frustrated when he didn't even know the correct answer. In fact, I was certain he was learning right along with me—constantly muttering how much he despised baking, as if I wasn't aware.

By four in the afternoon, we were fried. Our hangovers had dissipated with endless cups of coffee, but our arguing and nagging at each other had not let up. The kitchen chairs had become more than uncomfortable, causing us both to stretch and groan with our yawns. Perhaps not staying awake until nearly six in the morning would have helped.

"Wrong," he said in a gruff tone. His annoyance with me was annoying me. "Answer again. If it's not right, we start over."

My head hit the tabletop much harder than planned. The agonizing groan that followed might have been linked to that or the fact that I was over our studying session. The way he was in class made him look like a saint compared to this.

"Try again."

"No," I said, whining without lifting my head. "I'm hungry."

"I can tell." Ollie laughed. "You're getting bitchy."

I lifted my head with a scrunched nose. "I'm not being a bitch, Ollie! You've turned yourself back into my dickhead teacher. Can you pick a mood please?"

"I don't have moods!" he argued, losing the smile he had a moment ago when tormenting me. He leaned back into the chair and tossed the stack of notecards to the table. They scattered, with some even falling to the floor with his fit.

"No?" I held up a hand to count on my fingers. "I've met the asshole from the grocery store, the sex god from the bar, the paranoid professor—who is also a dick, the depressed chef. Then there was last night..."

"Hold up." His hand lifted, stopping me from saying how sweet he had been last night. Ollie grinned. "Let's go back to sex god."

"Jesus." My eyes rolled. My hands slapped down to the table that I stood from. The chair noisily slid backwards until it hit the cabinetry behind me. "That would be the only part you took away from that sentence."

Hunger was getting the best of me. Other than our small lunch, I had eaten nothing since last night. Reaching out for the closest edible thing on the countertop, I grabbed a loaf of French bread and opened the cabinet to grab the softened butter. If he was going to force this studying session to continue, carbs were needed. Lots of them.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to make spaghetti and garlic bread!"

"On Thanksgiving?"

I pivoted on one heel to glare at him. "We had chicken nuggets for lunch. You're going to judge me for making spaghetti for dinner?"

"Depends." Ollie stood from his seat. "You going to continue being a bitch if I help you make it?"

"Probably!"

His head cocked, as if saying he could roll with it if I could. This could be the most hostile spaghetti experience either of us had ever encountered.

Ollie began gathering ingredients while I collected a few pots and pans. The oven was preheated for garlic bread, leaving one wannabe chef praying that my appliances would play nice for once. It would not be anything fancy—that was for sure. We were quiet as we worked, dancing around each other like we had learned to do in the kitchen of Mulligan's. It wasn't until I began the process of the bread that Ollie piped in with his overly opinionated self.

"What the fuck is that?" He cringed and grabbed my wrist before I could halve the bread.

I yanked my wrist back. "A bread knife! Honestly! You're the damn knife teacher!"

He stopped me again, this time taking the knife right out of my hand to survey it. It was quickly tossed aside. Knife by knife, he pulled each out of the wooden block, inspecting them before giving them a toss.

"Seriously, Ollie!" I yelled. "You are throwing knives?"

"Not like they're going to cut anyone!" he said, retorting. "They're dull. The bread knife has no teeth on it! What are you going to do, push it through the bread?"

"It works fine!" Reaching across his work area by pushing him out of the way, I took back the bread knife. I slowly sawed the bread in half, attempting to ignore the fact that Ollie's head was shaking the entire time.

"Stop, stop, oh dear god, stop!" His hand rested on mine to halt me.

Again, he took the knife from me, this time holding it up in front of my face. His thumb and pointer finger wrapped around the blade and he slowly lifted. I was watching the blade rock back and forth within the wooden handle.

"I'm not trying to be an ass." He sighed. "This is really unsafe, even for a knife that's dull, and I'd like for you to keep your fingers intact. I have a thing for them."

My eyes lifted above the blade to a pair that looked surprised by his own sentence. "My fingers?" I bit my lip, stifling a giggle. "That your kink, chef?"

"Not like that." He gave the knife a toss again. "They just hold a blade nicely. Some people don't have the knack for that. You do."

It was one of the nicer compliments he'd given me. Coming from the knife teacher, that is. With school work, he definitely had it out for me. Finally, something I had done right was brought to light.

"I'll do the bread." Ollie pushed me aside with his hip, causing the room to fill with giggles again from both of us. "You finish the sauce. It needs to be seasoned."