I don’t know why I’m thinking about it.
And I hate how it’s in my head.
Because I never thought of anything outside of the Baby Contract. Always figured I’d up the payout every decade until I die.
No family. No ring. No love.
Only orgasms and rock 'n' roll.
But now I’m thinking about a house,
which means I’m fucked.
A house meanshome,
and once you imagine thehomefeeling,
you notice all the places you’re alone.
And that’s a wanting that doesn’t go away.
It grows. In your ribcage. In your gut. In the back of your throat where it tastes like guilt for ever pretending you were fine without it.
“Hey.”
Andrew's hand settles warm at the base of my spine, thumb brushing.
“You still with me?”
I flinch, head snapping toward him, his hand yanking me out of the imaginary house I’d been standing in.
One I made up just to hurt myself?—
drywall and daydreams.
“Yeah,” I say too fast. “I’m here.”
His brows pull together like?—
Yeah,I saw it. No, I won’t ask.
“You hungry or what?” he changes the subject, gesturing around the kitchen. “I got green bean casserole. Stuffing. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Sweet potatoes. Pumpkin pie. And a turkey I had to go to war for.” He smirks. “Ninety-year-old vet, mean eyes. Almost took my hand off.”
My mouth parts. “Wait—you made all this?”
“Yeah.” He waves it off.
“If I didn’t, no Thanksgiving.
“We’d be eatin’ deli turkey off paper plates.”
Paola scoffs. “Bullshit.”
Andrew’s chin ticks up.
“Be honest. When’s the last time any’a you cooked a real meal, huh?”
His eyes land on Aunt Fran.
