Smiling warmly, you greeted the guests walking through your front door. The nice British man from next door, the loud but sweet American boy and his quiet younger brother, the polar opposite brothers from Italy, the enthusiastic Chinese man and all of his siblings; it seemed the whole neighborhood had showed up with their relatives for your Thanksgiving dinner.
Not that you minded. You had encouraged your friends to bring their family, claiming that Thanksgiving was all about friends, family, and food.
You heard Alfred turn on the TV from where you stood and the groan of Arthur when the American flipped it to football. Yao was entertaining a few of the guests, while Gilbert amused some of the others. The happier of the Italians, Feliciano, followed you into the kitchen as you resumed cooking, chattering endlessly about your guests and the year they'd had so far.
Keeping up your hostess smile, you listen to him ramble until he was pulled away by Feliks, another avid gossiper among your guests.
Sighing, you let your smile fall, thinking you were alone, until Matthew spoke from the doorway of your kitchen.
"They can be a bit much," he said, sympathy shining in his violet eyes, "I certainly wasn't brave enough to invite them to my Thanksgiving celebration this year."
Furrowing your brows, you asked him, "Did you have other plans for today?"
He laughed quietly, picking up where you had left off on mixing the stuffing. "Not today, no," he mumbled to himself before turning to you, "In Canada, Thanksgiving was a month ago."
"What!?" You were shocked, but then jealousy overtook you, "I bet you didn't even invite Al."
A grin lit his face, "Nope."
You pouted. "Jerk. I'm jealous."
Finishing the stuffing, the Canadian boy teased you good-naturedly, but then decided to cut you a break. "Don't worry," he told you, "I'll invite you next year."
Just as you were about to respond, you heard a shout from the living room.
"I don't hear cooking!"
Matthew and you shared a glance, completely silent, then burst into a fit of giggles. Wiping a tear from your eye, you grinned at the soft-spoken blonde.
"Come on," your eyes still watered from the bout of laughter that made your stomach hurt, "We have to make Al's pie still."