8
STANDING IN THIS house is always a strange experience. A tradition in its own right, I suppose. Elle welcomes us into her home, effusive and lovely as usual, not a single blond hair out of place. Her white blouse is tucked neatly into a beautiful royal blue skirt, pin straight without a wrinkle. I wonder how she manages to sit in it for it to look like that. I picture her propped up against the wall. Lying flat across the couch.
We step into the foyer, the sun reflecting off the marble floors to the ornate chandelier that hangs in the middle of the . . . reception room as Elle calls it. It’s impossible not to endlessly compare the life here with what my mom and I had. The kind of woman my mom was and the kind of woman Elle is. My mom would have answered the door with jam on her face and a pen stuck in her hair, bare feet and chipped toenail polish. No reception room for us.
“Did you get here okay? No traffic, I hope?”
Bless her for acting like this is actually Thanksgiving and not a random Saturday in November. I follow her to the kitchen and dutifully place the pies
on the countertop.
“Everything was smooth sailing.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she says. She glances at Luka and clasps her hands underneath her chin. She looks like she should be posing in a J.Crew catalog, the holiday edition. “And I am so glad you brought a friend.”
“I’m glad to be here. Thank you for having me on such short notice.”
Luka hands her a bouquet of flowers handpicked from the farm.
She buries her nose in the blooms, cheeks flushing pink. I smile into the palm of my hand. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one affected by Luka.
“I’ve heard so much about you from Charlie and Stella. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
Her eyes dance back and forth between us with what I assume is weighted significance. I forget, sometimes, that despite all the ways Charlie and I have welcomed each other into our lives, my interactions with Elle are still very limited.
“I can only imagine the horror stories you’ve heard, then.”
“Nonsense.” Elle places the flowers in a vase she pulls from above the fridge and then click-clacks her way over to the oven and checks inside. I don’t think I’ve ever walked around my house in stilettos. I don’t think my shoes have ever made it past the threshold of my door. “My children have nothing but good things to say about you.”
It’s a quick slip of the tongue. Two words really, a possessive pronoun.
The entire kitchen instantly feels as if all the air has been sucked out of it.
Maybe I make a sound, or maybe my body is talking loud enough for that not to be necessary, but I feel electrocuted with it. Stiff and creaky, like a scarecrow in a cornfield.
Elle stands quickly, face pinched. For the first time since I met her, she looks flustered.
“I just meant”—she tucks her hair compulsively behind her ears—“I just meant . . .”
“It’s all right.” I give her a small smile and clear my throat. “I know I’m
not—I know what you meant.”
“Stella.” She looks stricken. “I—”
Whatever she was going to say thankfully gets lost in a commotion from the front door. This dinner is enough without the added reminder that I am the child her husband had with another woman. I hear several bags hit the ground, a muffled curse, and then the very clear sound of glass shattering against marble. Elle drops her head back and looks at the ceiling with a rueful
little smile.
“That would be Charlie,” she says.
I snort a laugh, and the tension slips from the room right along with Elle, off to collect Charlie from the foyer. He is a grown man masquerading as a
bull in a china shop. I sigh and shake off the strangeness of the conversation, the confusing cocktail of surprise and regret. Surprise makes sense. Regret I don’t know what to do with. Luka shuffles closer, those brown eyes of his warm as he squeezes gently at my arm. His knuckles brush gently under my
chin.
“Okay?” he asks quietly.
“I’m fine,” I say, and I’m surprised to find that I am. Or at least fine enough that I don’t want to reach for a wine bottle and start guzzling. That’s a positive change from how I usually feel at this point of the evening. I give him a smile and tip my head toward the fancy crystal wineglasses set out on the counter. We’re debating which wildly expensive bottle to open first when the door to the kitchen swings open, hard enough that it smacks right into the wall and comes back again.
“You brought a date?” Charlie booms in place of a greeting, arms full of the scattered remains of what he’s brought to dinner. Large torn pieces of a paper bag, the twine that I assume was once a handle. The crust of a pecan pie and what looks like the lip of the ornate ceramic vase that was sitting in the entryway. Charlie’s eyes dart from Luka’s shoulders to me and back again, narrowed in confusion. I don’t know what’s more amusing—that Charlie doesn’t immediately recognize Luka or that he’s managed to channel a lifetime of protective brother aggression into a single question.
Luka glances over his shoulder at Charlie, away from where he hasn’t stopped twisting open a cabernet sauvignon. His forearms flex and release, flex and release as he twists the corkscrew around. I am transfixed. “Hey, man. Long time no see.”
Charlie bobbles the collection of items in his hands again, a majority of them returning to the floor. “Oh my god, it’s happening.”
I flush scarlet. Charlie should be on the Inglewild phone tree. I snatch the bottle of wine from Luka and pour myself a hearty glass. So much for not wanting to drink the discomfort away. “Nothing is happening, Charlie. Luka just came to dinner.”
“With you,” Luka adds with a sly grin and a wink. I huff. “Together.”
There is some silent exchange between Luka and Charlie—a raised eyebrow, two in return—that has Charlie practically wiggling in delight.
Honestly. Luka takes the wineglass from my hand and sips—a pointed, silent exclamation point on whatever that conversation just was.
“I mean, sure, technically we arrived in the same car,” I babble. I don’t slap him away, but it’s a near thing. I let him have my glass and fetch a new one. “So yes, we are here together. Together as friends in harmony.”
“Sure seems harmonious,” Charlie quips, rolling his lips between his teeth.
I roll my eyes at him and he returns the gesture. It’s a strange thing to see my expressions mirrored on his face. The same big blue eyes, dark cobalt when the light hits them right. We could be twins if not for the sheer width and breadth of his shoulders. He towers over my small form, and I feel every inch of our height difference as he takes three steps across the kitchen and scoops me into his arms. My feet dangle uselessly as I curl my arms around his shoulders, the toes of my shoes tapping against his shins.
“Good to see you, short stack.”
I pinch between his shoulder blades, and he chuckles warmly somewhere above my head. “Good to see you too.”
He releases me and wanders over to Luka, giving him the same treatment short of picking him up off the floor. I smile into my wineglass as I watch them hug, a bit of pie crust still stuck to Charlie’s arm. Luka mutters something in a low voice, and Charlie barks out a laugh, his eyes shining
bright when they find mine again.
“Are we eating or what?”
By the time all the dinner platters are situated on the table, my dad still hasn’t arrived, his absence hanging ominously over all of our heads. It’s like the thick black clouds that roll in before the storm, lightning flashing in the distance. You know something bad is coming, but you can’t outrun nature.
Elle ushers us into the formal dining room, not to be confused with the cozy family dining room or the breakfast nook just off the kitchen.
The table looks like a Norman Rockwell painting. A pristine white tablecloth and shining silver dishes. It’s a far cry from the dixie cups and
paper plates I grew up with. The only touch that indicates actual humans intend to eat this meal is the tiny cardboard turkeys marking out the places where people should sit. They are well loved and faded, the names written with an unpracticed hand. It makes me smile to think of a much smaller Charlie painstakingly putting pom-poms on toilet paper rolls to make them look like little turkeys. I can imagine him putting them together as a kid, the same wild curls I have chaotic on top of his head, tongue sticking out in concentration.
My name is marked with a much newer, much more professional name card. A simple Stella printed on a tiny piece of cardstock held with a heavy paperweight that looks like a leaf. The edges just barely brush the bottom curve of the a. This isn’t one that is carried from year to year. It was probably printed this morning. Ordered from a fancy supplier, stamped on heavy cardstock with grooved edges.
I find my seat and see a new card keeping mine company. Luka with a burnt orange leaf. I stare at that for a long time until everyone else is settled and seated.
“Will Dad be joining us?” Charlie stares hard at the empty chair at the head of the table. I know they have their struggles, my dad and Charlie.
Charlie often bears the weight of unfair expectations. He works at the same firm as my father, primed to one day fill his shoes. It sits heavy on his shoulders, a dull meekness settling over him every time they’re in the same room. I hate it. I hate watching him cave in on himself, tucking away all the parts of himself that make him so wonderful.
“If we’re lucky, no.” Elle calmly fills her wineglass to the very top. A heavy pour if I’ve ever seen one. Charlie and I stare at her. Luka makes a sound like he’s trying not to laugh. I’ve never heard Elle say anything negative about anyone—let alone Brian. Not even when I showed up on her front doorstep, the worst kind of surprise, I’m sure. She took one look at me, made a humming noise under her breath, and offered me a lemonade.
Charlie recovers first. “Feeling okay, Mom?”
“Delightful, sweetie. Did you want some wine?”
“Is there any left?”
She tilts the bottle back and forth. “Just a touch.”
Charlie puts his hand out for it and drinks directly from the bottle. Sitting next to Elle, I see the subtle similarities between them. The same turn to their lips. A dimple that winks in the flickering light of the candles. Mischief that hides in the corner of Elle’s eyes but sits boldly in Charlie’s. The kind that grows now as he finishes off the bottle. “This might be my favorite Thanksgiving yet.”
I’m about to agree when I hear the front door open, clumsy, lumbering footsteps moving in the direction of the dining room.
Charlie curses under his breath. “I spoke too soon.”
We all listen in silence as my father meanders his way around the first floor of the house, nonsensical in his direction. He takes two steps forward and then circles back. Stumbles, trips, and then hurries his steps toward the kitchen. It sounds like he slips at one point, and catches himself with his
shoulder against the wall.
Luka leans closer to me. “Is he—”
“Drunk?” Elle takes a very long sip from her too-full wineglass.
“Probably.”
That’s a new development. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad drunk. He usually shows up late, booming an excuse about the office, a client, a new deal, something about how important and needed he is at the firm. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with so much as a hair out of place. He’s always buttoned up, pristine. Cold and untouchable.
He finally elbows his way into the dining room, his movements uncoordinated, messy. His arm catches one of the silver candlesticks as he slowly makes his way around the table, knocking it over and almost setting the tablecloth on fire. Charlie snatches it up before anything can catch, the butter dish moved neatly on top of the small black ring of burn. His series of movements are effortless, anticipatory. Like he has practice cleaning up messes exactly like this.
I always thought I was the one with the short end of the stick. Brian Milford left my mom high and dry as soon as the pregnancy test turned positive. But here, seeing this, watching Charlie warily observe his dad as he
slumps in his seat at the head of the table—I can’t help but feel like I lucked out.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he mutters, staring directly at his dinner plate, not bothering to look anyone in the eye. He reaches forward and scoops some mashed potatoes out of the serving bowl . . . with his hand.
And I can’t help it. I don’t know if it’s the tension of coming here, the continued disappointment of my father and all his shortcomings, or the stress of the upcoming visit from Evelyn, but as I watch the self-declared corporate god nibble mashed potatoes out of the palm of his hand like a toddler, I—I lose it. My shoulders shake as I try to keep the hysteria at bay. I swallow compulsively, over and over. But it’s a losing battle, and as soon as Luka’s hand finds my thigh under the table, checking on my mental state, I’m sure, a loud bark of laughter leaves my mouth.
Oh, how badly I wish that Norman Rockwell painting looked like this. I might commission something.
My dad frowns at me. It’s the first time he’s looked directly at me in close to a year, I think, and he has some gravy stuck to the corner of his mouth.
“Estelle,” my name is slurred around the edges. “Control yourself.”
My giggles continue, albeit more subdued. “All right,” I acquiesce with a little head nod, agreeable as ever, but with a healthy dose of sarcasm I’ve never been brave enough to use with my father. I can’t help it. Not when he’s reprimanding me with a handful of potatoes. “Sure, I’ll do my best.”
Charlie’s laughter slips loose at that—a boom of a chuckle that has my dad jolting in his chair. I peek over at Luka, and I see him smiling into a bite of green bean casserole. With his hand still on my thigh, fingers just barely grazing the inside of my knee, I am suddenly, absurdly glad he’s here with me. That I won’t have to tell him about this later over FaceTime, curled up alone on the couch. Having him here, it’s a shot of comfort and confidence. I find his hand under the table and squeeze, his warm eyes darting up from his
food and holding mine.
Charlie was right.
Best Thanksgiving ever.
ELLE DOES NOT agree with that overall sentiment. That much is clear as soon as my dad passes out face-first with his forehead narrowly missing the cranberry sauce. It’s the fancy stuff too. No wiggling mass of cranberry that still looks like the can here. There are actual berries and slices of orange, and I’m strangely disappointed that I won’t get the visual of my dad’s face stained pink to reference the next time he’s an asshole.
Though I think the mashed potato thing will do just as well.
We decide to treat him like a fixture at the table, no more life to him than the cardboard turkeys. I wonder if Elle is going to gently coax him to bed, but she stands and disappears to the kitchen, returning with my two pies and a fresh bottle of wine. Charlie snaps several pictures on his phone with a wistful sigh.
“I know we were all worried about the type of shit this guy was going to pull tonight,” he says. Elle makes a face at Charlie’s string of profanity. She has a rule about language at the dinner table. “Sorry, Mom. But all in all, I think everything turned out nice.”
My dad snorts, his entire body jostling once. He resettles, and one of his hands lands in the gravy bowl.
“I mean, look at this tablescape.” Charlie snaps another picture.
“Perfection.”
Luka’s hand is still on my thigh beneath the table, his palm curved slightly, fingers almost tucked in the crease between my knee and leg. That hand feels like it weighs ten thousand pounds, every place his skin touches mine lighting up like a circuit board. He squeezes every now and again, and when his pinky lightly caresses the inside of my leg, I jump so hard I knock over a basket of dinner rolls. He hides his smile in his napkin and leaves his hand where it is.
“Are these Layla’s pies?” Charlie’s hands are already reaching for the pumpkin pie closest to him, fork caught between his teeth. I shake my head.
“No, they’re a sugar-free recipe I made at home.” At Charlie’s horrified stare, I chance a glance at Elle. While this evening has been different from all
the others in her obvious dismissal of my dad, I’m still not sure what I can say in front of her. I don’t want her to think I’m ungrateful. I don’t want her to withhold an invitation in the future. I am hungry for family, connection, and roots however they come.
But when I slide my gaze over to her, she’s smiling serenely into her wineglass, a secret look in her eyes that tells me she already knows what I’m going to say.
I shrug, sheepish. “I wanted the pie to taste bad.”
Charlie collapses back in his chair. “God, Stel. You could have bought pecan like I said! That would have been contrary enough.”
I could have. “Just save this pie for Brian in the morning.”
Elle raises her glass with a hiccup. “Cheers to that.”
“ THAT IS NOT what I expected.”
We’re halfway back to the farm, an extra large chocolate frosty clasped between my hands. Luka has a carton of spicy nuggets held securely between his thighs, half of one caught between his teeth as he maneuvers us onto the highway. I breathe a little bit easier the farther we get, the stars beginning to peek out as we head away from the suburbs.
“It’s not usually like that.”
“You mean your dad doesn’t typically eat out of dishes with his hands before passing out?” Luka offers me a nugget, and I shake my head.
“Yeah, that was a first.” I let my head rock against the back of the seat and watch as the streetlights dance across his skin. Yellow, orange, deep muted red. A soothing pattern that lands heavy on his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. He flexes his hands on the wheel. “I know I gave you a hard time, but I’m glad you came.”
Luka looks pleased, his entire body straightening half an inch. He shoots a quick glance over to me before his eyes find the road again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, if only so you believe that it happened.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I’m not sure I would have if I hadn’t seen it for myself.”
“And for moral support,” I add a bit more seriously, feeling brave. I remember what Layla said in my bedroom the other morning, how just because you tell someone how you really feel, it doesn’t mean they’ll leave. I don’t think this is what she had in mind, but it’s a step in that direction. As big a step as I can manage right now, anyway.
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I know. I’m not. I’m just—” I think of his hand on my knee, the way he hugged Charlie in the kitchen. How Elle pressed a kiss to his cheek when she saw us out the door. His hands on my shoulders as he helped me into my coat, his fingers slipping under my collar to untuck my hair. “I’m just glad is all.”
My Luka box is rattling in my chest, all sorts of things threatening to spill out.
I check the farm’s social accounts as we rumble along, a pleased little wiggle in Luka’s heated seat when I see that Evelyn has commented on the picture of Beckett I posted the other day. You can’t make out his face in the shot, just the silhouette of a tall man in the golden light of the setting sun, miles and miles of fields rolling out behind him. Evelyn has commented, Can’t wait to be here in two weeks, with a complicated series of emojis, and it lights a thrill of excitement and opens a pit of dread at exactly the same moment. Excitement because our follower numbers are already climbing with just that one comment and dread because, well, now I have to lie in the bed I’ve made for myself.
I darken my phone and rest it against my chest, chewing on my bottom lip.
“We should probably practice.” It’s something I’ve been thinking about since our walk through town. Given my reaction to his hand on my neck and his palm on my thigh, I think I need a little bit more exposure before Evelyn is here. I don’t trust myself not to squeak every time Luka kisses my cheek.
“Practice what?” Luka is unconcerned, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel, thumb curled along the bottom curve.
“Being a couple.”
A couple that touches each other. Kisses each other.
“Oh?” He hits the turn signal even though there isn’t another soul for miles, headlights glancing across cornfields as he makes the turn down the long winding road that leads back to the farm. “Was tonight not a solid go at it?”
It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in, but when it does, I have to hold my body still. I don’t want to give anything away with the curl of my shoulders, the set of my jaw. Not that he could see it anyway. We’re far away from streetlights now—on the backcountry roads that light up only with the full moon.
I breathe out slowly through my nose. I didn’t think tonight was part of our plan. I thought tonight was us. The real us.
“Is that why you came? To pretend?”
