“Is Mr. Chapman not joining us this year?” A curious look sits at the forefront of her gaze and tears spring to my eyes, both sad and relieved I don’t have to see him this year. I almost want to laugh at the formality of the question. Will has come for every Thanksgiving since eighth grade, more constant than the revolving door of stepfathers who graced the head of whatever table we found ourselves at. I crumble the paper in my fist, meeting her gaze and hardening my jaw.
“No, not this year.”
My mother flies through the door, hair still in rollers as she narrows her eyes at Gerta. “I don’t believe Ken is paying you to socialize with my daughter. Please finish the table setting.” Gerta looks down and quickly fills Will’s place with a name I don’t recognize, the act sending the chill of loneliness deep into my bones. My mother’s glare moves to me as she sizes up what I’m currently wearing: sweatpants and an Astor Hill Athletics hoodie. Obviously, I’m planning on changing ahead of dinner but the grimace sitting on my mother’s prim face almost makes me wish I wasn’t.
“I laid out a dress for you,” she says, her tone dripping with disgust and I sigh, not having the patience to put up with her.
“Thank you, maman.” I grind my teeth, turning back into the hallway I just entered from.
“And make sure to do something with that bird's nest! Tes cheveux sont en désordre!” I choose to ignore her as I march into the guest room my mother and Ken have me set up in. His home is probably my favorite of the several I’ve found myself in over the years. There’s a coziness to it even though it is massive. Maybe it’s the warm lighting, the lived in furniture, or simply the fact that I don’t totally despise Ken. He’s kind to my mom, and god knows he wants to have some sort of pseudo father/daughter relationship with me, paying for anything I’ve even suggested wanting over the past few years. I give it a year before my mother fucks it up.
I pull the silk garment off the bed, the fabric having no stretch, and I can tell that it’s going to fit just a little too snug, the way almost everything my mother buys me does. I sigh, pulling it over my head and stand in the mirror.
I wish Grant was here.
The thought crashes into me for what feels like the millionth time today. Every thought somehow brings me back to him, makes me miss him more.
I grab my phone off the dresser to my left and flip to our messages. I start to type but realize I’ve already said everything there is to say. I’ve said sorry. I’ve told him that I choose him. That I love him. The ball is in his court and from where I’m standing, he seems to want nothing to do with it. Like the idea of us repulses him now. I try to block the image of him on the that basketball court out of my mind, the way he couldn’t even look at me. The pain slices me from the inside and I quickly click over to the group chat Sloane started at the beginning of break, desperate to think of anything else.
Happy Thanksgiving Please tell me that I’m not the only one contemplating running away from home this evening.
I sit on the bed behind me, the fabric of the dress tugging against my skin and I start to worry that if I even smell the food in the dining room, the dress will rip.
Sloane
I’m drunk, so not all is lost
Olivia
I have news. You’ll never guess who I’m with…
Jean
Who? Who? Who???
Sloane
Please we are on the edge of our eats!!!!
I smirk down at my phone, thankful that this weird little makeshift friend group has come together when I needed it most. Something shifted after I told Olivia the truth. Sloane would say she had topull teethto get me to even talk to Liv, but after she begged me to ambush her the other night, something clicked between us. We started off cordial, but at some point it felt like the ice between us melted. Like we realized we have no reason tonotto like each other, and every reason to. I even helped her pack for break after Ian broke the story in the Astor Hill’s paper about her crazy insane love triangle, quietly thanking god that it kept his prying eyes off Grant and I.
Olivia
Ben
Jean
YASSSSS bitch I knew he’d come crawling back.
Olivia
I suck in my stomach taking myself in via the full length mirror in my room. Then I let out the breath, watching how the dress pulls taught.
Fuck this.
I move to my suitcase, pulling out a sweater and a pair of dark washed jeans—an outfit that is definitely not formal enough for the occasion, but much more my speed and doesn’t feel like being stuffed in a sausage casing. I replace the dress, feeling much more myself, before going downstairs to join the others.
The entire dining room is full of people, a few who I’ve met in the past during social events held by thenortheastern elite, but mostly people I’ve never seen in my life.
