imagines | p.s.

everybody forgets thanksgiving

thanksgiving doesn't get enough love

You felt like you were cheating Patrick out of something this Thanksgiving.

You had told him that you didn't really want to see your family this year, because you weren't on the best of terms after earlier incidents. So, he decided that he'd stay home with you, even though he wanted to meet your extended family. He wanted to see if his girlfriend's cousins were as cool as she was, he told you, since you'd been engaged for a few months now. He was okay with waiting until maybe next year or Christmas, though. But it wasn't just that.

Shortly after you two had decided to stay home for this Thanksgiving, it was agreed that the day before Thanksgiving, you both would head over to Pete's for a dinner with some friends. It didn't seem like a bad idea when you said yes, but now it was the night before you were set to go over and you had nothing done.

It was around nine o'clock and Patrick was on his way home from the studio. You were supposed to have two side dishes done by now to take over tomorrow, but nothing was cooked. You were covered in flour and spices and the counters were coated in egg and breadcrumbs and other miscellaneous things. Needless to say, neither the green bean casserole nor the apple pie were done.

You weren't much of a cook in the first place, but these two dishes didn't seem like a challenge at first. Now, though, with the kitchen a mess and your stomach knotted with stress, you felt like an idiot for volunteering to cook.

You wiped your shaky hands on your jeans- they were already practically ruined, a little more shit on them didn't matter- and pressed your palm to your forehead. It seemed a little silly to be so distraught over a pie and a casserole. However, you'd already promised to make this a nice Thanksgiving with friends, and there was no way you'd get this done by eleven tomorrow.

Frustrated, you pushed a couple of ruined pie tins across the counter and put your head in your hands. You were so utterly stressed that you could hardly think; the only thing you wanted to do was go to bed and cry until everything magically fixed itself. You didn't crawl into bed, but hot tears began to roll down your floured cheeks. Just your luck, Patrick walked in the house at that same moment.

"Baby? You in the kitchen?" He called, walking through the living room. You rubbed your forehead.

"Yeah," you said weakly. "Enter at your own risk."

Your fiancé set his coat down on the couch and slowly walked into the mess of a kitchen, his brow furrowed. His eyes widened when he registered the practical disaster before him.

"Did a bomb go off in here?" Patrick asked lightly, rubbing his stubbly jaw (the winter beard was coming out to play). You tried to laugh back at his joke, but you felt so bad that you couldn't.

"Guess you could say that."

Patrick went quiet shortly after you did, no longer laughing or grinning. He made his way over to you and put his hand on the small of your back.

"What happened here, baby?" He asked you, so gently that you bit your lip.

You sighed a little. "I... I couldn't get the casserole or the pie right. I just made a mess in the process, I guess," you admitted.

"Is that the only reason you're crying, then?"

You couldn't bottle this up right in front of him. "No," you mumbled.

Patrick turned you so that you were facing him. He looked especially pretty today.

"Tell me what's bothering you, baby," he said softly. You bit on your bottom lip and sighed a little.

"I feel like I'm cheating you out of a good holiday," you said, feeling stupid. "I already basically banned you from meeting my family and now I'm probably going to screw up everything for tomorrow."

Patrick furrowed his eyebrows. "You're not cheating me out of anything, sweetheart."

"Well, I feel like it."

Patrick ran his hand over your hair, breathing out softly. He didn't say anything for a couple of minutes; he just shook his head a bit.

"I can promise you that you aren't," he finally said, "and I'm not just saying that because I love you. I don't care that I don't get to meet your family this month."

"But-"

"Ah, I'm not done," Patrick chuckled. He took your face in his hands, his eyes softening. "I really couldn't care less if you forgot about Pete's tomorrow altogether and slept until four."

"You would too care." You rolled your eyes.

"Okay, I'd care, but that's not my point," he said. "My point is that I just want to spend Thanksgiving with you, okay? You're not ruining it by messing up a pie or by not wanting to see your family. Those are little things."

Finally, a small smile creeped across your face. "So you really don't care that I'm a shit cook and don't like my family?"

Patrick laughed. "Tell you what. I'll pick up a pie and boxed casserole mix early tomorrow. Nobody will ever know the difference."

"They might," you pointed out.

Your fiancé shrugged, kissing your forehead. "Okay, maybe. But who's gonna care?"

And nobody did: you and Patrick did ending up sleeping late and arrived at around noon at Pete's house the next day, but nobody cared much about where the pie or green bean casserole came from.

The kids there destroyed the pie, anyway, so not many adults could have commented on it anyways.

this was so fuckingbad im embarrassed but hi im not dead