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A warm, buttery aroma of garlic and melted mozzarella hangs heavy in the air of the Walsh kitchen, a stark contrast to the crisp, chilly November night outside. The traditional turkey is nowhere in sight. Instead, a bubbling, golden-brown lasagna sits in the center of the dining room table, a small act of rebellion from Cindy Walsh. She carries a large glass bowl of salad, its romaine leaves glistening, and sets it down next to a plate of her famous rosemary-garlic bread.
Brandon Walsh sits across from Dylan McKay, a soft, expectant smile on his face. He watches as Dylan runs a hand through his perpetually damp, tousled hair, the scent of the Pacific still clinging to him. Earlier, Dylan had turned down Kelly's last-minute invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, a decision that had surprised them both. His excuse: he wanted to go surfing. But now he is here, at the Walsh’s dining room table, his face relaxed and his eyes fixed on Brandon.
"You really didn't have to do this," Dylan says, his voice a low, familiar rumble.
"Well, I wanted to," Brandon replies, his smile widening. He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against Dylan’s. The contact is brief, a private, fleeting acknowledgment. "My mom made lasagna, not turkey. This is the Walsh family's idea of a rebellion against holiday tradition, so it seemed fitting for you to be here."
Dylan lets out a soft laugh, the sound both rare and genuine. “It was a pretty crass move, ditching Thanksgiving dinner at the beach for lasagna in Beverly Hills, but I'm glad I did.”
“You did it for a reason,” Brandon says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And I’m glad you did.” He looks at Dylan’s eyes, a silent conversation passing between them.
Just then, Jim and Cindy enter the room, and the moment shatters. Jim is carrying a bottle of sparkling cider, a small, knowing smile on his face as he glances at Brandon and Dylan. He sets the bottle down with a clink.
“Okay, my boys,” he announces, gesturing to the table. “Let’s eat before this masterpiece gets cold.”
They all sit, and Jim begins to pour the cider into four glasses. Brandon and Dylan pull their chairs in close, a natural proximity that they’ve shared for months. The small group is about to raise their glasses when the shrill, demanding ring of the telephone slices through the quiet evening.
“I’ll get it,” Brandon says, a sigh escaping his lips. He rises from the table and walks into the kitchen to pick up the old-fashioned wall phone.
Dylan watches him go, his gaze following Brandon's every move. He hears a one-sided conversation—a brief greeting, a few short answers. Brandon’s voice is measured and calm, but a subtle change in his posture suggests something is wrong. When Brandon returns to the dining room, he is no longer smiling.
“Who was that, honey?” Cindy asks, her hand resting on the serving spoon.
Brandon sits back down, his expression unreadable. “Brenda,” he says, his voice flat. “She called from the road. She said she’s fine, just calling to wish us a happy Thanksgiving. She… she ran into someone.”
Jim takes a long, slow sip of his cider. “And who would that be?”
“Emily,” Brandon says, the name hanging in the air like a storm cloud.
Silence descends on the room, thick and heavy. A slight shift in Jim’s eyes is the only sign of his reaction.
He sets his glass down with a precise click. “I just hope she brought her fire extinguisher this time.”
The quip breaks the tension, and Brandon can’t help but let out a short, surprised laugh. The moment of levity is welcome, even if the underlying worry about Emily Valentine is not. Brandon looks at Dylan, who has a small, knowing smirk on his face, the kind that says, We’ve been through this before .
The lasagna grows cold as Brandon and Dylan share another silent conversation, this one about the past and the complicated mess of their shared lives.