“My children would loathe me,” I state.
“What the hell makes you think that?” Moretti chuckles.
“I’d have them in one of these straitjackets until they were my age, carry them around so they could not be harmed.”
“You raise them to let them go,” Marshall informs me, as if I don’t get the gist of it.
“Exactly why that will never happen.”
I hear giggles behind me and glance back. One of the girls who was with SofieFairfaxlast night is holding up her phone.
“Delete that,” I sneer.
“No,” Noelle gasps. “That’s gold.”
“Gospodi,” I mumble.
Marshall sets his phone face down on his lap, leans back against the heated leather seat, and looks out the window like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “You think they’ll have real food?”
“Real food?” Faulker chuckles.
“I want my mom’s homemade stuffing and lumpy gravy. Green bean casserole, and turkey my uncle cooks in the fryer.” He clears his throat, like he didn’t mean to sound homesick. “They’re probably all at my aunt’s by now,” he adds. “Everyone talking over each other. My dad trying to act unemotional about football, which he pretends not to prefer over hockey. What about you guys? What do your families do?”
Faulker exhales a quiet laugh. “My family treats meals like state functions. Multiple courses. Assigned seating. Generational recipes that haven’t changed since someone wore a crown unironically.”
Marshall turns, interested. “Wait. German royalty is a thing?”
“Was,” Faulker corrects. “Very much was. Titles, estates, expectations. For them, Thanksgiving is less turkey, more roast goose or venison. Potatoes are done six different ways. Bread that takes three days to make, always made by the staff. Then everyone politely discusses politics they absolutely agree on.”
“And you?”
“I eat. I nod, though, silently disagreeing on most of it. Then I disappear into one of the wings of the house and hide until dessert,” Faulker says. “Black sheep perks.”
Marshall grins. “Your home sounds intense.”
Faulker snorts. “You asked.”
Marshall shifts, looks to me. “What about you, Killer? What’s your family Thanksgiving like?”
“My brother’s military, if we’re together, we eat when we can. Whatever’s hot. Usually, pelmeni or borscht. Black bread. Pickles. Something strong to drink.”
Marshall frowns. “No turkey? No stuffing?”
This kid... “You do realize Thanksgiving is an American tradition, yes?”
Marshall opens his mouth, then closes it and chuckles, “Okay, fair.”
Faulker leans in, clearly enjoying himself now. “Germans and Russians didn’t steal land from Indigenous people and make a whole holiday to celebrate it.”
Marshall winces. “Jesus.”
“I’m just saying,” Faulker continues. “Different cultural baggage.”
Marshall thinks about that for a second, then laughs despite himself. “Okay, okay. But when all the crap over there ends,” he gestures vaguely to me, “What are Russians and Ukrainians eating together?”
I shrug. “Whatever survives the destruction.”
Marshall cringes. “Brutal.”
