They disappear back into the dining room, leaving me stranded in the kitchen, wondering what parallel universe I’ve woken up in.
The turkey is dry, which is surprising.
Mom used to love cooking back when we had nothing, but somewhere between the trailer park and this mansion, she forgot how to do anything for herself.
Sharon doesn’t seem to notice the state of the turkey. She carves razor-thin slices with an electric knife and lays them on our plates, waving around the table at the various side dishes for us to help ourselves.
Lumpy mashed potatoes. Stuffing that’s somehow both burned and undercooked. Green bean casserole with a suspicious gray tinge.
Yum.
When the second bite of turkey gets stuck in my throat, I have to force it down with a swig of beer or risk choking.
“Is there gravy?” I ask.
“Darn it, I knew I was forgetting something.” Mom swallows her titter with a sip of wine. “Too fattening anyway, right, Hayley?”
Haven’s eyes narrow, and her hand pauses en route to her mouth with her nearly empty glass of wine. She’s drinking as fast as my mother, but I’d be a hypocrite to call her out on it. I’m on my second beer, and we’ve only been here an hour.
“It’sHaven.”
My mom ignores her.
I focus on forcing down another bite, but my attention keeps snagging on the empty place settings with their swan napkins and gleaming silverware.
Ezra, and…?
“Who else is coming?” I say carefully, setting down my fork.
Sharon looks up, and her expression flickering into confusion before settling into that dreamy, unfocused look I’ve been seeing all evening.
“Tyler, of course.”
“That a friend of yours?” I ask, right on top of Haven’s curious, “Tyler?”
“Stop being difficult, Kai,” Mom says through a sigh. She checks her watch, tutting softly. “Richie was meant to pick him up from school. Practice must have run late.”
“There’s no practice on Thanksgiving.” My jaw clenches. “And you told me Dad wasn’t busy.”
Mom smiles at the empty chair like someone’s sitting there. “Did Tyler tell you they made him team captain?”
“Who the fuck’s Tyler?” I grit out.
Haven’s hand finds my knee under the table, squeezing hard. She must have noticed my face draining of color.
“Jesus Christ, is she doing the Tyler thing again?” says someone from the doorway.
I recognize the voice, but I almost don’t recognize the man walking into the room. The face that used to sneer at me is a ruin. Scar tissue puckers the side of his mouth. His nose sits crooked, and a thick pink line runs from his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone.
I did that to him.
He’s wearing black joggers and a black puffer jacket zipped up to his throat, as if the house isn’t warm enough for him. His phone is in one hand, the other shoved into his jacket pocket.
“Ezra, darling!” Mom rises from her chair, arms outstretched. “Come sit! Dinner’s getting cold.”
My brother ignores her, his eyes locked on mine. “Didn’t think you’d show,” he says flatly.
“Wouldn’t have if I knew you’d be here,” I retort, but my voice is too weak to pull it off.
