“I was trying to gauge if Max would guard you at my behest.” He winks at me, and my knees get mushy.
“Do I need to be guarded from you?”
Oh. My. What the hell? The smile falls from my face, and deep down I know the answer.
“I’d never hurt you, Lily.”
I nod and busy myself looking out the sliding glass doors down to the pasture. The sun has finally crested higher in the sky and the dewy grass, glistening, ripples in the breeze along with the branches of the trees.
Noah clears his throat. “How about that turkey? Have you seen my mom this morning”
I shake my head. “I was just contemplating breakfast when you walked in.”
“No, no,” he says. “We don’t eat breakfast on Thanksgiving. We starve until dinner. Those are the rules.”
“And here I was thinking you were the golden boy of this town,” I quip just in time for Ms. Sullivan’s door to open.
She shuffles down the hall mumbling about Max’s barking and “shitty shenanigans.” She’s put on some wrinkled lounge pants and a brown crewneck that readsLeftovers are for Quitters. The sweatshirt isn’t oversized, so I have the sneaking suspicion she ordered it for this Thanksgiving.
Noah shakes his head, moving deeper into the kitchen. “Nice shirt, Mom.”
She grins at me, walking past and slipping something into my hand. I look down at a draw-four UNO card.
“Keep that,” she whispers, and I glance toward the kitchen, then back at her. “Put it in your pocket. Wait, you’re wearing a dress.” Her tired eyes scan me from head to toe, then she smirks. “He likes you in anything, you know.”
My eyes widen. “Uh, no, that’s not what?—”
“But that dress is going to drive him wild. Good choice.” She hobbles off, patting Max on the head twice. Then she moves to wrestle with the sliding glass door and steps onto the porch for the first time in a while since I’ve been here. Max follows her out, staying by her side as she closes her eyes and sucks in as much air as her lungs will allow.
I need to find a way to get better seating out there.
Leaving her in peace, I stride into the kitchen. Noah has the turkey seasoned and poised for cooking. He dumps a bag of sweet potatoes in a strainer.
“What can I do?” I ask.
“Feel like washing these?”
“Sure.” I move toward the sink where Noah hands me a bowl and turns on the water. He knocks my elbow with his.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Lil.”
Ms. Sullivan secretly hands me three more draw-four cards, two-draw two cards, and five skip cards—with zero explanation throughout the night. Honestly, at some point I begin to just accept them, tucking them securely behind the black bow tied around my waist like it’s my new normal.
We eat a spread of food: turkey, green beans, stuffing—which is different than the southern dressing my mom used to make—cranberry sauce, skillet sweet potatoes, rolls, and two pies for dessert—apple and pumpkin.
Ms. Sullivan eats more than I’ve ever seen her eat, which still isn’t much, but I can tell by Noah’s hopeful expression he’s encouraged by it. I’m worried she may end up demanding over fifty dollars for this meal, and I mentally count the cash I have on me. Luckily, Noah pointed out I’d dropped a twenty in the truck the other day, so I’m doing better than I thought.
Our conversation throughout dinner mostly revolves around the food, him and I trading stories of our Thanksgivings growing up, and Ms. Sullivan telling me all about her younger years—when she was my age, attempting to make a name for herself on stage as a dancer. She did a few gigs here and there but ultimately had to retire her dream.
My chest tightens as I listen with a mix of sadness and guilt. Perhaps guilt that she didn’t get to realize her dreams, and that despite the circumstances of my running away, I am.
Her gaze wanders toward the window, the thin blanket she had to grab halfway through our meal pulled up and over her shoulders. Part of me wonders if she’s thinking of Noah’s father, how different life might have been if he’d stayed in the picture.
Both Noah and I can’t look away from her. Her expression is so full of acceptance—my heart breaks.
Yet, in the middle of it all, her teasing words settle back into conversation, and the joy on her face returns with her and Noah bantering—it’s like an unspoken message, even if she doesn’t say it. She’d sacrifice her dreams all over again if it gave her Noah.
My mother’s watercolor painting flickers in my mind, and I’m grateful she’s been privileged to continue her dream of painting throughout motherhood when many moms end up sacrificing those hobbies.
