Unspeakable Acts (bwwm)

24

| Alyssa Mitchell |
thanksgiving eve
📍lake Tahoe

The room went quiet.

Not all at once. It happened slowly, like sound was being pulled out of the air piece by piece. The rustling of foil stopped. The low hum of conversation faded. Even the refrigerator seemed louder somehow.

Cameron's words lingered. Why can't they just get a job. Being homeless is a choice. I felt it in my chest first. That tight, sharp pull that always came when someone spoke about suffering like it was theoretical. Like people were bullet points instead of lives.

My fingers paused around the silverware bundle I was wrapping. I pressed a little too hard into the napkin, knuckles whitening before I noticed.

Before I could speak, Jaxon spoke. "Thinking is a concept many people can't grasp." His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was calm and flat and confident in a way that made the words land heavier than yelling ever could. He didn't look at Cameron. He didn't stop what he was doing. He just kept wrapping silverware beside me like nothing else in the room mattered, it made my heart skip.

Cameron scoffed. "I'm just saying."

"No," my grandmother said gently, still slicing pumpkin pie with steady hands. "You're judging."

That was it. No anger. No lecture. Just truth.
The room shifted again. Jasmine looked uncomfortable, her movements slower now. My mom's mouth pressed into a thin line. My stepdad glanced toward my brothers, who had gone quiet, markers hovering over the containers like they suddenly understood this was something bigger than them.

Cameron muttered something under his breath, but he didn't push it further. Jaxon still hadn't looked at him. I studied Jaxon's face from the side. His expression was neutral, almost blank, but I could feel it. Something beneath the surface. Something personal.

Earlier that morning, he'd told me he had never had this. A family like mine. A house full of warmth and noise and people who showed up. I wondered what he had seen instead.

The line started moving again. Containers passed from hand to hand. Turkey and ham. Mac and cheese and potato salad. Mashed potatoes and rolls. Pumpkin pie sealed carefully into separate boxes. My brothers wrote little notes on the lids in messy handwriting. "Happy Thanksgiving. You matter. We hope this makes your day better."

My grandmother always said helping people would come back to you. Not as a reward exactly, but as grounding. As perspective. As a reminder that the world was bigger than your own pain. Jaxon leaned closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

I nodded. "Yeah. Just tired of hearing things like that."

"Yeah," he said. "Me too."

There was a pause, then he added softly, "Some people have never been one bad day away from losing everything." I stopped wrapping silverware.
I turned my head slightly to look at him. His jaw was tight now, eyes focused on his hands like he was concentrating on not saying more.

I wanted to ask. I wanted to know. But something told me that whatever lived behind that sentence wasn't ready to be touched yet. Instead, I nudged his pinky with mine. He laced our fingers together instantly.

It took most of the afternoon to finish everything. Crates stacked by the door, filled with warm food and handwritten notes. The house smelled like comfort and effort and exhaustion. My feet hurt. My shoulders ached. But it was the good kind of tired. The kind that meant something mattered.

When the shelter volunteers arrived, my grandmother hugged each of them like family.
"Thank you," one of them said, eyes glassy. "This means more than you know."

My grandmother smiled. "We're all just doing what we can."

I watched Jaxon carry crates to the door with my stepdad. He moved easily through the space, natural and steady, like he belonged here. Like he always had.

Something warm and heavy settled in my chest.

***

Later, after everyone scattered to shower or rest or disappear into different corners of the house, Jaxon and I ended up outside by the lake. The sky had shifted into soft purples and deep blues, the air sharp enough to sting when I breathed too deeply.
I lean into him, his arm wrapping around my shoulders without hesitation.

"You were amazing today," I said quietly.

He shrugged. "I didn't do much."

"You did," I said. "You stood up for people who weren't even in the room."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I've seen what happens when people don't get help." The words felt heavier this time.

I tilted my head up to look at him. "Jaxon."

He exhaled slowly. "Another time. Okay?" I nodded, even though curiosity burned in my chest. "Okay."

Inside, laughter echoed faintly through the house. Warmth. Safety. Jaxon stared out at the lake, his arm tightening around me just slightly. For the first time since meeting him, I wondered if loving him meant eventually standing between him and something dangerous.

That night, lying in bed beside him, the house quiet again, I thought about Thanksgiving tomorrow. About family and gratitude and truth. And I couldn't shake the feeling that while we were giving thanks for everything we had, Jaxon was bracing himself for something he hadn't told anyone about yet.

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