Talk Turkey by Bru Baker Page B

last. As overwhelmingly crowded as the city was, the suburbs were infinitely worse.
    “Yeah. It’s my cell, but I don’t have a landline here.”
    And he probably wouldn’t get one. Nor was he willing to give up his old number just yet. He’d probably have to at some point, but it was a nice reminder of home right now.
    Tom made a nonverbal sound of agreement. “I’ve been gone four years and I still have my five one zero,” he admitted.
    That sent a pleasant shock through Carson. He’d met a few California transplants since he’d arrived in Chicago, but no one who was from northern California like him.
    “San Francisco?”
    “Oakland,” Tom said. “And nine one six, that’s San Jose?”
    “Sacramento.”
    “Nice. How long have you been in the Windy City?”
    Carson glanced down at the calendar. Notes about cable installations and furniture deliveries were scrawled all over the page, starting just after the first of the month. “I drove up after Thanksgiving.” It was kind of a waste to have a car in the city. He hadn’t realized how little he’d use it. It was nice to have it handy so he could take those death-defying trips to the suburbs for the mall and IKEA when he wanted, but he was really happy with his neighborhood and all the little shops and restaurants within walking distance. He’d even gotten used to taking the L to work. Plenty of people in his office drove, but the monthly parking was higher than his grocery bill.
    Tom whistled. “That’s quite a drive.”
    “How long since you left Cali?”
    It was a completely inappropriate question to be asking a stranger on a turkey helpline, but Carson didn’t want the conversation to end. If there was a little give-and-take, he could pretend he’d met Tom in a bar and was just chatting him up, not that he was a customer calling about turkey.
    “Ah, hmm,” Tom hedged, but just as soon as Carson opened his mouth to apologize for prodding, Tom spoke again. “I had to count, and it took me by surprise that it took two hands,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve been gone for almost seven years. Moved away for college and never went back.”
    Assuming Tom started college right after high school like Carson did, they were only a year apart in age. Most of the people he met at the Chicago Stock Exchange were a good ten to twenty years older than him, and the ones who weren’t all had busy social lives that left no time—or inclination—to take their California transplant of a coworker out after hours.
    Most of them belonged to a slew of clubs and young professionals groups that kept them out late every night, drinking and eating at Chicago’s upper-crust restaurants. Carson did okay as a systems analyst, but he didn’t make the kind of bank that the traders did. Not that he’d join them even if he could afford it. He preferred staying in.
    “So, Carson from California, shall we talk turkey?”
    Carson grimaced. “That was terrible.”
    “It’s my one joy in this job,” Tom said, unrepentant and cheerful. “Did you have a question about turkey preparation? Or need a recipe? We’re—” There was a pause and a soft rustle. “—two weeks from Christmas, which is when I assume you’ll be cooking your bird?”
    Carson coughed. “Yeah. But I’ve never cooked a turkey before, so I’m a little worried. And I have no idea what size I should get. Hence me calling.”
    “A good question,” Tom said, his tone reassuring and confident. “I can definitely help you with that. How many people are you feeding?”
    The tiny warmth that had been building in Carson’s chest died. “Just me.” He braced himself for Tom stuttering through an apology, or worse, some sort of overbright assurance that spending a holiday alone was perfectly normal.
    “Well, I have a really important question for you,” Tom said without missing a beat, his tone just as chipper as it had been a minute ago. “How do you feel about leftovers?”
    He’d assumed he’d be