“Did you invite Deacon and Tabitha?” AJ asked as he stared at Deacon’s Range Rover.
Poppy glanced over. “Oh, no. I totally forgot, Roger did. They’ve been hanging out since Halloween. They know each other from, I don’t know, whatever their tech stuff is, and since his parents died…”
Great.So now she would have even more people to hear her news. Why had she decided Thanksgiving was a good time to drop the stork bomb?
She glanced over and saw that AJ was still staring at Deacon’s SUV. “Is that okay?”
“It’s fine.”
His face looked…weird. He’d always been weird about Deacon, she couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something off. She would ask him about it, but she honestly didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with whatever ‘it’ was.
She drew in a lungful of snow-damp air, then another, and finally nodded. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
AJ walked around and helped her out. The icy November chill slapped her cheeks awake. They crunched their way up the salted walkway, Poppy hyper-aware of every footstep, every swirl of wind that threatened to knock her off balance. AJ hovered at her side in a way that was protective but not smothering. It was a skill he’d perfected over the past couple months, never babying her, never swooping in unless she wanted him to, but always there. It was…nice. Except for the house, which was another thing she didn’t have the emotional bandwidth for.
They knocked twice, then let themselves in. Poppy was momentarily distracted by just how much Frankie had outdone herself, the living room was already decked for Christmas, though Thanksgiving still had the calendar’s lease. Gold and cranberry garlands twisted up the banister around framed family photos. A twelve-foot noble fir stood proudly in the corner, covered with glass ornaments and fistfuls of glittering ribbon, topped with a massive star that was so large it drooped to one side. Stockings hung along the fireplace in a row, each one hand-labeled in silver glitter glue—Liam, Frankie, Lucy, and Yaya.
The scents hit Poppy all at once: spiced cider, cloves, roasting turkey, and something sweet and yeasty. It was a miracle she didn’t immediately have to run to the bathroom. Her nausea had gotten better in the second trimester, but the ghost of all-day sickness still haunted her, especially when she was nervous. Shepressed a hand to her abdomen, as if that would somehow hold her together.
Her sisters were all in attendance. Phoebe, impossibly put-together in a merlot crushed-velvet jumpsuit, was wrangling her twins, who were armed with Nerf guns and using the ornamental reindeer as cover. Lina, the oldest, had commandeered the kitchen and was bossing around a cluster of teenagers, her own daughter, Zoya, and two of Zoya’s cousins on Ramesh’s side that Poppy had met at a few family functions. Pippa sat at the kitchen island sipping a cup of something hot that looked like cider next to Michael’s parents, technically Poppy’s grandparents, Bampi and Momo.
Frankie came barreling towards the new arrivals, her hands dusted with flour, her face flushed from the heat, and her red hair pulled up in a topknot with an apron that read, “I’M JUST HERE FOR THE PIE.” She spotted Poppy and charged over in a full-body hug, enveloping her in warmth and an aggressive cloud of vanilla perfume.
“You made it! Oh my god, you look adorable,” Frankie exclaimed, squeezing her hard. “I was worried you’d gotten snowed in, or that the plague had finally reached your house.”
“Nope, all good here,” Poppy said, peeling herself out of the embrace with a weak laugh.
“Come in, let’s get you a drink!”
Poppy glanced up at AJ, who placed a hand on her lower back. She knew he was doing it to be comforting, to literally say, “I’ve got your back,” but she tensed and moved away. No one knew anything had gone on between them.
AJ dropped his arm. She glanced up to see if her reaction bothered him, but his expression hadn’t changed.
“Someone get these people a drink!” Frankie shouted, and a glass of hot cider was thrust into Poppy’s hand by Phoebe, who then cheersed her.
She cheersed back and glanced at AJ, who had also received a glass. He took a sip and shook his head in a quick no, alerting her there was, in fact, alcohol in the drink. She set it down as inconspicuously as possible.
AJ walked over to his mother and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she followed to say hello to everyone in the great room, which included Teresa, Cora, Dr. Davies, and AJ’s grandmother Lydia, who was telling a story using a lot of hand motions. Mr. Santino sat beside her and gave Poppy a nod and a smile.
On the couch opposite them, Zion and Tristan sat side by side, with Emmanuelle there as well, curled in an armchair with a glass of wine, scrolling on her phone. All the sisters husbands and Deacon were discussing football that was on the big screen. The room was packed enough that Poppy felt like she had to squeeze between waves of laughter just to find a place to stand, but somehow it didn’t feel claustrophobic. If she was going to have a panic attack, she figured, at least she’d do it surrounded by the people she loved most.
Actually, the warmth of the house, the chaos, and the sea of familiar faces—it unknotted something inside her. Even the old hurts felt further away. This was what she’d always wanted to have growing up. This was what she would be able to give Dylan, even if she couldn’t give them the traditional family.
She drifted back toward the kitchen, where Lina was orchestrating a gravy operation that looked like a NASA launch. AJ followed, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, quietly shadowing her, always at the ready if she needed him.
“Is your brother not coming for Thanksgiving?” Lina asked.
“No, he’s?—”
“You’re late!” Poppy’s mom exclaimed as she appeared in the kitchen from the hall and walked over to hug her. “I was worried you weren’t coming.”
Poppy hugged her back, she found herself trying to keep her hips tilted away from her so she wouldn’t feel the bump. Thankfully, before she noticed, the dinner bell rang.
“Okay, let’s go people. It’s time to eat!” Frankie shouted.
Poppy dropped her arms from her mom and stepped back. “See, I’m right on time.”
The dining room was a fever dream of mismatched chairs, folding tables, and glittering glassware, the overall effect like a Monet painting that someone had spattered gravy on. Phoebe and Lina were holding court at opposite poles of the table, engaged in parallel conversations that both seemed to involve recent scandals at the elementary school. Their children orbited them, pausing to launch dinner rolls or lobby for extra soda.
