I burst out laughing when Brent and I walk into Gregory's on Thanksgiving morning. 

Bud is doing the exact thing he said he would be. He's standing next to a cashier, an older woman, and making a big show of unjamming her cash drawer for her. The customers are a young couple with a toddler. They look on in amusement as the kid watches Bud like he's a grocery store clown sent to the register to entertain him.

Brent makes a beeline for the beer aisle, but I stay put, deciding my short list of last-minute items can wait until this whole cash drawer thing works itself out.

"Okay, last chance," Bud says, rubbing his hands together like he's conjuring strength from the cash drawer gods. "If this doesn't do it, your groceries are on the house." The mom makes a 'wow, how cool' face at the little one, who sticks his fingers in her mouth.

Bud bends down low, bounces up and down a few times, like he's winding up, then slams his right shoulder into the drawer. It clangs loudly and bursts open sending a stray bill spilling out which Bud snatches out of midair. He slides it over the edge of the counter to flatten it, and then hands it to the cashier. The mom and the toddler cheer, while the dad groans comically about having to pay for his groceries. The cashier pats Bud on the cheek and he leans in to whisper something to her. She laughs and elbows him playfully.

"Give them ten percent off," Bud says. "For letting me show off my muscles."

"Thank you," the mom says. "Can you say thank you?" she asks the kid.

"Fank u." He sticks his index finger toward Bud who meets it with his.

"E.T. style," Bud says. "I like it. Take care little guy. Happy Thanksgiving."

It's like watching a Hallmark movie. 

I almost forget I'm not sitting on my couch at home when Bud comes toward me. His eyebrows bounce up in surprise. "Hey!"

He looks different. Thinner? No. Maybe. Taller? That's not possible. He's dressed like a store manager, in a dark burgundy dress shirt and a tie. It suits him. And the color of the shirt makes his blue eyes pop like violets peeking out of a stone wall.

"Hey yourself," I say. "How's everything going in here?"

"Great," he says. "Better now that you're here."

I smile at the unexpected compliment and his face starts to match his shirt.

"What are you in for?" he asks. "Nope. That sounds like we're in prison." I laugh. "I mean, what can I help you find?"

"I need cranberry sauce. Whole berry if you have it."

"Does that mean they put you in charge of cranberry sauce?" he asks.

"Yeah. I'm not that capable in the kitchen," I say. "They're just hoping I don't mess up opening the can."

"Come with me." He starts walking, and because he's so damn confident in here, I follow him without question.

He grabs a shopping basket with one hand and starts zipping around the produce section, grabbing items: two bags of fresh cranberries, two oranges, a piece of ginger. Then he leaves produce and heads to the baking aisle. I scurry after him like I'm tracking a leprechaun to his stash of gold. He pulls a bottle of maple syrup from the shelf and a container of pumpkin pie spice. Then he stops in his tracks and turns to me.

He holds up each item as he talks me through the recipe. "Both of these," (the bags of cranberries), "juice and zest of these" (the oranges), "tablespoon grated" (ginger), "quarter cup of this" (maple syrup), "and a pinch--just a pinch--of this" (pumpkin pie spice.) "In a saucepan. Medium heat. Twenty minutes. You got this." He hands me the basket and I'm out of breath. "It'll make a lot, but you want leftovers because it's amazing on Black Friday pancakes."

He's grinning from ear to ear. He did lose weight. Maybe. God, I don't know what it is. But he's different here. Like he's ... happier. 

Why does that make me feel like crap?

"Hey Dotsky, we good? I got mine." Brent appears with three six packs of local beer and a bottle of red wine. "Well, hello," he says, taking Bud in with ample 'I'm about to make everyone uncomfortable' vibe. "Who's this tall drink of grocery store heaven?"

I didn't think it was possible, but my brother is making Bud blush rather than cringe, which is what I'm doing. "I'm Bud," he says. "I'm in Dot's class at school."

"Bud, huh?" Brent says, trying to juggle his beer and wine. I consider running to get him a cart, but my fear for Bud's survival outweighs my concern that Brent is about to break eighteen beer bottles on the floor. "Bud what?"

"Beaumont."

"Beaumont," Brent muses. He dumps one six pack and the bottle of wine in my basket, crushing my cranberries. "Why do I know that name? Do you have an older brother?"

"No, a younger sister," Bud says.

Brent winces. "Uh oh. How much younger?"

"She's a freshman this year," I say. "And shut up, Brent."

"What?" Brent feigns innocence. "I'm just saying, if she looks anything like her big brother, I'm in trouble."

I smack his arm and he almost drops a six pack. "I hate you," I say. "And why the hell are you buying so much beer? You're the only one drinking it."

"I got wine for the ladies," he says like it's an enormous courtesy. "And Dad's definitely going to have a beer with me tonight. Once I tell him my news."

"If you guys are set, I can ring you up," Bud says, likely bored of our bickering. "Can I take those for you?" He puts his hands out to Brent who gives him the two six packs. Bud puts them both in one hand and takes the basket from me with the other. He smiles and says, "Come find me up front when you're ready."

Brent slides his arm around me dramatically while we watch Bud's exit. "Man," he sighs. "That guy just made my holiday to-do list."

I shove him off me. "Don't be mean," I say.

"I'm not!" he says, offended. "He's cute. Like a ... chubby Ryan Gosling."

"And stop pretending you're gay. That's mean, too. Unless that's the big news you have for Dad that's going to make him drink."

"I'm not gay," he says, putting his arm around me again and leading me toward the front of the store. "I'm happy, Dot. And in love, and I don't know. It makes me appreciate people. Beautiful people."

I eye him suspiciously. But nothing about Brent's expression suggests he's joking.

"You think Bud's beautiful?"

"Yeah. Don't you?"

Huh. Do I think that?

"You took French, didn't you?" he asks.

"Yeah, in ninth grade," I say. "Why?"

"Beaumont," he says. "It means beautiful mountain."

"Oh yeah. It does." I laugh.

"And I know I know that name from somewhere. God, I hope I didn't bang his little sister."

"Oh my God!" I elbow him. "You're disgusting."

"But you love me," he teases.

"Meh."

* * * * *

Bud gives us an absurd discount on our groceries because he's not allowed to give discounts on alcohol. Brent thanks him with a long, inappropriately deep hug that leaves Bud flushed. 

It started snowing while we were in here. I make my brother go clear off the car, so I can wish Bud a happy holiday without being sabotaged by Brent's humiliation campaign.

"It was fun seeing you at work," I say.

"Fun?" He smiles shyly. "Okay."

"I mean, you're different here."

He clears his throat. "Thanks," he says.

"You haven't come back to our table," I say. "How come?"

He looks away, like he's hoping something nearby requires his managerial expertise, but no one is struggling at the moment. "I don't want to cause trouble for you guys."

"Why not?" I ask playfully. "I'm a big fan of trouble."

He laughs. "Well, I hate to disappoint a fan."

"Come back," I say. "Really. I want you to. And everyone's always in a good mood between Thanksgiving and Christmas. You can take advantage of their holiday spirit for a few weeks at least."

He nods, but I'm not sure I've convinced him. "I should get back to work," he says. "Good luck with the cranberry sauce. It will be a huge hit and you'll be forced to recreate it every year from now on. So, let me know if you ever need a refresher on the recipe."

"Sounds good, Bud."

My brother pulls up in front of the store and I start toward the doors.

"Hang on," Bud says. I turn back and he's eyeing my left ear. He reaches his hand toward my face and my skin tingles. A little bit. He pulls his hand back and reveals a piece of maple sugar candy in the shape of a pumpkin. He smiles. "Happy Thanksgiving." He presses the candy into my open palm, pulls another one out of his pocket and pops it in his mouth.

"You too," I say, a little sad to part ways with 'work' Bud so soon. "See you Monday."

"Yep. See you then." He turns on his heels and ventures back into the produce section, picks up three oranges, and starts to juggle them for a baby in a stroller, while Mom grins at them over a display of pomegranates.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Brent: Did you get his number?

Dot: Shut up.

Brent: I meant for me.

* * * * *