It’s then, in that moment, something buried deep in me unfurls. I don’t want to waste any more time or let life slip by.I thought I was living my dream, hiking and traveling, living for myself and making time to sort through my issues, but maybe that’s not the point. Maybe I’d actually like to have a life with someone,dolifewith someone.
I look down, focusing on the cranberry sauce as my vision blurs and tears threaten to spill. I blink hard, refusing them.
Conversation dips and forks scrape against plates as dinner stretches on, but when it’s over, Ms. Sullivan sits contemplatively at the table. Max is unable to sit still, sniffing every inch of the floor as Noah and I clean up.
“Mom? Where are the UNO cards?”
I pause, hands wrist deep in sudsy water. Did he ask where the UNO cards are?
“Oh, they’re in my room. Tossed them in there while I was tidying up yesterday,” she says from the kitchen table.
I look at her, and she nods at me, her tubing bunching over her ears. I’m lost, thoroughly lost. She didn’t tidy up yesterday, and I swear a quarter of the deck he’s looking for is in my damn dress. I open my mouth to ask, but she flutters a hand at me, and I seal my lips immediately as Noah comes into the kitchen with a pack of cards. UNO cards.
Returning to my dishes, convinced if I stare any longer, I’ll give whatever I’m not supposed to away.
Noah tosses the cards on the table, and they land with athwack.
“So,” he says, striding over and standing close behind me. There’s a faint whoosh of air between us, just barely. Then his hand lands with a muted smack against his jeans, like whatever instinct to reach for me was shut down. “It’s tradition, every year on Thanksgiving we play UNO. It was one of the card games we could play with only two people, and since it’s always been me and my mom … Anyway, you up for a game?”
“Sure, just let me finish these dishes.” I glance up into the window in front of me, and the dusky night allows my reflection to stare back at me. I focus on him, standing inches behind me.
Noah grabs my elbow and this time, I don’t miss the featherlight touch of his thumb brushing the sensitive underside of my arm. “Dishes can wait. UNO cannot.”
I spin, fighting back a smile at the boyish grin riddled with competitiveness. He pinches a section of my black bow and rubs the fabric between his fingers.
Ms. Sullivan props her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her palm as she smirks between us. “Noah wins every year. I told him this year will be different.”
It slowly registers with me—the reason she’s given me the cards all night. She’s taken them out of the deck for me to keep on the side and use to beat him. To cheat. Damn, this family is ruthless.
“Who am I to keep the Sullivans waiting,” I deadpan.
After I fill the sink with water to cover the dishes, I dry my hands off and pad to the table. I slide into the chair next to Ms. Sullivan, and though it’s round, we sit in a configuration of her and me on one side, Noah on the other.
Max nudges my thigh and I side-eye him, giving him his desired attention.
“You know how to play?” Noah asks.
I narrow my eyes at him. Of course I know how to play, though I haven’t played in years. I used to convince my brothers to play with me when I was around twelve or thirteen. They decided they were too cool to hang out with me most of the time, always wanting to head off to some party or hang with the friends romping around outdoors, but every so often Adam and Liam would sit down and play card games with me. Adam took it way too seriously, constantly wanting to bet on his win, while Liam and I destroyed him despite the low stakes.
Noah holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay. Okay. I was just checking.” He winks at me and my stomach swoops.
With several cards tucked into my dress, I half expect the deck to appear thinner, lighter than normal, but if it is, Noah doesn’t notice. He removes them from the package and shuffles with precision. While he deals, my eyes slide to Ms. Sullivan who looks gleeful.
With my seven cards—number cards because I’m fairly certain I hold the majority of the good cards elsewhere on my person—I sneak a peek at Noah who’s scowling at his hand. I can’t help the twinge of guilt, but it’s quickly followed up with a thrill of getting to prank him with his mom.
Noah tosses a yellow three on the discard pile. “Your turn,” he says to me.
I pretend to study my cards, brows furrowing, but I already know I’m going to play my yellow reverse card.
The game goes around, back and forth. So far, I’ve had each color and have been able to play, but when a red seven is placed on the pile, I know it’s time to bring out the big guns.
I make a show to “adjust” my ass in my seat, slipping the draw-four cards from my dress and into my palm as smoothly as I can. “Well, I guess I have to play this then.” I slap the card down and call out green. “Draw four,” I say, biting my lip as Noah shakes his head.
“Haven’t seen one of those yet. They must be buried in the pile.” He squints at the pile like he should be able to see through the stack of cards to the bottom.
Ms. Sullivan softly snorts and hurriedly covers it up with a cough.
Noah takes the next four cards on top of the pile, and I bite back a smile.
