Talk Turkey (5 page)

Tom cleared his throat. “The hotline closed at two,” he said awkwardly.

What? “But why are you still at the office? Are you snowed in or something? That’s terrible!”

“Er, no. Well, yes. I’m snowed in. My flight was canceled, and they’ve rebooked me on one the day after Christmas. But I’m at home.” He paused. “There isn’t an office. The 1-800 number hooks into a service that routes the calls through a system that lets me answer them on my laptop. Everyone who works for the hotline does it from home. The calls just go to the next available person.”

All this time Carson had been picturing Tom sitting in a cubicle with dozens of ringing phones around him. It seemed oddly intimate knowing Tom was actually at home.

“Oh.”

“Did you need something?”

“Wait. So the number I called—it’s not a hotline number?”

Tom sighed. “It’s my personal number, Carson. I wanted to make sure I got you if you called again, so I gave you my cell.”

“You did?” He’d been calling Tom’s cell? So had Tom even been getting paid for the calls he’d taken? Had he even been technically at work for their conversations? Despite his predicament, Carson felt butterflies in his stomach at the thought that Tom had given him his personal number just to make sure he was the person Carson talked to when he needed turkey help.

“I did,” Tom said shortly. “You sounded fun, and you were new to the city, so I thought….” He cleared his throat again. “Anyway, what did you need? Are you having trouble with your turkey? Terry, wasn’t it?”

Carson cringed and looked down at Terry. “Terry and I have become very close.”

Tom groaned. “Let me guess. Now that you’ve named the thing and had conversations with it, you can’t bring yourself to cook it.”

“Something like that,” Carson muttered. “See, I can’t cook it because it’s stuck.”

“Stuck how? Stuck in the pan? Stuck in the refrigerator? Stuck—”

“Stuck on my
hand
,” Carson barked.

He expected laughter or recriminations, so Tom’s utter silence surprised him.

Carson lowered his voice to normal tones and explained. “I was taking the bag thing out and now my hand is stuck in the turkey.”

“I’m just… I’m having a hard time understanding—”

“In the turkey, Tom. I put my hand in the turkey and now I can’t get it out,” Carson said, exasperated. “Help me get my hand out.”

“I don’t understand how that’s possible. I mean, once you cut the ties on the legs the whole cavity opens up.”

Carson studied Terry silently. The turkey’s legs were bound with some kind of twine, and with hindsight he could see how snipping them would have opened up a much bigger hole. Hell, even without cutting them, it was a bigger opening than the one he currently had his hand inside. He hadn’t realized there was more than one.

“Oh, Carson,” Tom said, his breath leaving him in a noisy gust. “You put your hand in the neck.”

“Yup.”

“
How
did you put your hand in the neck? It’s tiny!”

“I know,” Carson said flatly.

“Jesus. Okay. I’m assuming you’ve tried pulling it out?”

Carson didn’t even justify that with an answer.

“Right, right,” Tom muttered.

Carson could hear typing. “Are you googling what to do when you get your hand stuck in a turkey?”

“Yes,” Tom said, distracted. “Nothing. The Internet has let me down.”

“I called because I thought you’d have experience with this! I can’t be the first person this has happened to.”

“Probably not, but most people wouldn’t think to call the Talk Turkey hotline in that situation,” Tom said. “Okay, listen. You’re really stuck? And I’m assuming there’s no roommate, significant other, family member, or neighbor who can help?”

Carson shuffled to the side a bit and let his head rest against the bottom cabinet with a
thunk
. “There’s no one. No roommate, no boyfriend, my family’s across the country, and do you really think
this
is how I want to introduce myself to my neighbors? I don’t even have a cat,” he said glumly.

Tom let out a startled laugh. “I don’t think a cat would really be able to help you.”

“I know, but I was just illustrating my aloneness.” Carson closed his eyes and leaned harder against the cabinets. His shoulder was starting to ache from the awkward position. “I was going to get a cat, you know. To have someone other than you to talk to after the hotline closes for the season. How pathetic is that?”

“About as pathetic as me giving you my phone number in the hopes you might want to go out some time?”

Carson’s eyes shot open. “Are you serious?”

“You sounded fun, and you’d just moved and didn’t know anyone, and I thought maybe you’d be interested. But every time you called it was about turkey, so I took the hint.”

“There was no hint! No hints were given! I started making up reasons to call you just so I could hear your voice and get to hang out on the phone with you for a few minutes.”

Tom’s warm chuckle made Carson shiver. “Is this one of those times or do you actually have a turkey on your hand?”

“I actually have a turkey on my hand, unfortunately.”

“But the time you called with the ethical dilemma about whether or not buying a turkey at the supermarket contributed to ‘the alarming trend of antibiotic-laden meat leading to superbugs,’ that was made up, right?”

“No, that was real. It’s a thing, and I know you just said it was fine because you’re being paid by big agro business, but that’s okay. I’ll ask you again after turkey season.” Because he could now that he knew this was Tom’s real number. They could keep talking by phone for as long as Tom would have him. Carson flexed his hand. His wrist was starting to go numb. “So my hand, though. What should I do?”

Tom hummed. “Sit tight. I’ll be there in like twenty.”

“How? You’re in Minnesota.”

Carson heard the sound of a zipper being raised. “Actually, I’m in Ravenswood.”

He didn’t have a perfect grasp of Chicago geography yet, but Carson was positive that wasn’t too far away from his place in Lincoln Square. “But your area code is Minnesota.”

“Because I spent my first two years of college there before I transferred to Northwestern and I never changed it after I moved. I didn’t have a cell phone in California, so I had to get one when I got to school.”

Carson wasn’t sure what was going to explode first, his racing heart or his racing brain. Tom lived in Chicago. Tom had given him his number in the hopes that they’d talk more and go out,
in Chicago
. Tom had apparently been raised by the Amish or something, because who the hell waits until college to get a cell phone? It was almost too much to digest, so he stuck to the practicalities.

“The L is shut down, and the plows can’t keep up, so the streets are impassable. You won’t be able to get through.”

“By car, yes,” Tom said, his voice echoing strangely. He paused for a second, and then started talking again, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, stairs. But I have cross-country skis.” He stopped again, and Carson heard him take a deep breath. “God
damn
, it’s cold out here. I’m bummed about missing my flight, but I am pumped about this snow. We get a good one like this every few years and then I get to ski through the streets.”

Were any of the turkey diseases communicable through prolonged skin contact? Was he hallucinating? Is that why he distinctly thought he’d heard that not only did Tom live in Chicago and want to see him, but that he was going to ski over to Carson’s apartment?

“Did you say
ski
?”

“I started when I was a freshman up in Minnesota. The cross-country skiing is much better up there, but with a good snow like this, it’s pretty awesome here too. A lot of skiers are out tonight. I bet I won’t even have to cut my own track. That’s good. It means I’ll be faster.”

Carson wondered if this was what being struck dumb felt like. Or maybe he was going into shock because of the unnamed communicable turkey disease. He couldn’t form words—Tom was coming over. And his hand was still
inside
Terry. So many ups and downs.

“And here’s where I admit that I have your address, even though you already know that because it was totally legit and I did need it for the hotline. But I might have, uh, kept it.”

Carson snorted. “Not going to complain, especially since you’re coming to save me.”

“From your turkey, yes,” Tom said, snickering. “Listen, I need to let you go so I can get my skis strapped on. Are you doing okay? Your hand isn’t, like, losing circulation or something, is it?”

Carson rotated his hand, wincing at the way every little movement caused the already-irritated skin on his wrists to scrape against the bone. “I’m as good as a guy accidentally fisting a turkey can be.”

Tom choked. “I’m going to help you, but you’re going to let me take pictures first. So many pictures.”

Carson’s pulse surged. He’d let Tom take as many as he wanted, since he’d be there in person soon. Meeting Tom was definitely worth the humiliation and trauma of getting his hand stuck in Terry. “Yeah, all the pictures,” Carson agreed. “As long as you get this thing off.”

Tom gave him a squeaking grunt, and Carson’s face heated when he realized what he’d said. Though maybe that was on the table too. Carson certainly wouldn’t complain, and it sounded like Tom had given him his number so they could meet, so he had to be on the same page.

“Make that fifteen,” Tom said, his voice husky.

C
ARSON
WAS
itching with nervous energy as he waited, but he couldn’t exactly pace around with a seventeen-pound turkey attached to him. He settled for running cold water over his arm in the hopes that it might help, but none of it was able to soak down to reach his hand. He gave up when his phone rang with the building’s buzzer tone. He’d found it inconvenient when he’d moved in, and even a little cheap. The apartment didn’t have a button to ring someone in—it all had to be done by entering a code when the door downstairs texted him. Now it was a godsend. He didn’t know how he’d have hauled Terry over to the door to buzz Tom in.

Oh, shit.
Had he locked his apartment door? Carson wracked his brain, trying to remember. He’d been late for his Skype call with his family when he’d rushed in from buying the Christmas tree topper at the Christkindlmarket over in Lincoln Square, since the snow had made it a lot harder to get home. So he probably hadn’t. His mom was always yelling at him about being absentminded about safety, but this time it was actually saving him.

He jumped when he heard a knock on his door, even though he’d been expecting it. Carson’s stomach was all aflutter—he felt like a schoolboy about to meet his crush. Which he was, if he took out the schoolboy part.

“Carson?”

Even muffled through the door, Tom’s voice made Carson’s skin prickle. He sounded so much better in person than he did on the phone, and they weren’t even in the same room yet.

“I think it’s open!” he called, shaking his head at the way his voice wavered. Maybe Tom would assume that was because of pain or turkey shock or something.

Carson realized he’d been holding his breath when spots started dancing in front of his eyes. He forced himself to calm down, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the cabinet again. The door opened and shut, and heavy boots clunked across the reclaimed pine floor that had been most of the reason Carson had rented the place.

The open plan didn’t leave much question as to where he was, and less than ten seconds later, Carson felt a tentative touch on his unturkeyed wrist.

“You called for a turkey extraction?”

Carson opened his eyes and nearly shut them again out of self-defense.

Tom was flushed from the ski over, and there were droplets of melted snow in his eyelashes and hair. His full lips were bitten and chapped, and he was looking at Carson with real concern. He looked like a Nicholas Sparks cover come to life.

How was Carson supposed to deal with that?

Humor. Always humor.

“I think it’s more of a human extraction, don’t you, Terry?” he asked, bobbing his head at the turkey like he expected it to answer.

Great. Now Tom was going to think he was certifiable.

Tom’s lips curved up into a gorgeous smile. “I can’t say I blame Terry for wanting to hold on to you.” He leaned in and said to the turkey, sotto voce, “He’s a looker, isn’t he?”

Carson groaned. Tom was too good to be true. He had the same stupid sense of humor Carson did, he looked like something out of an Abercrombie ad, and given the way he filled out the worn North Face jacket he was wearing, he was athletic too.

“Do you lay it on this thick with all the men you meet on Talk Turkey?”

Tom shrugged out of his dripping jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. “Yes,” Tom deadpanned. “I swipe right on all the men under thirty who’ve just moved to Chicago and call while having a nervous breakdown in Safeway.”

“There were a lot of options!” Carson protested. He gave Tom a considering look. “Swipe right, huh?”

Tom looked at him from under his lashes, holding his gaze until Carson had to look away. Tom evidently knew exactly how attractive he was, and he was clearly not going to lose this game of seduction chicken.

“Well, I will after I do this,” he said, leaning in close.

Carson’s eyes fluttered shut as he waited for a kiss, but it didn’t come. A second later the pressure around his wrist disappeared, and Tom was pulling his hand gingerly out of the turkey. Carson opened his eyes, shocked.

Tom grinned sheepishly and held up a pair of kitchen shears. “I figured you’d be too nervous if I told you what I was going to do, so I just went for it,” Tom said as he dropped the shears in the sink and started the water. He took Carson’s hand and ran it under the stream, massaging it gently.

Carson was still reeling with the shock of having his hand suddenly free. He felt about twenty pounds lighter. Actually, more like seventeen pounds. He stifled a hysterical laugh with his unhurt hand, and Tom gave him a concerned look.