I turn, and there’s my mom: a little shorter than me, wearing a denim skirt with a shirt tucked in, long graying hair tucked into a bun. I straighten a little and brace myself.
“Hi, mom,” I say, and hold my arms out for a hug. It’s fairly brief, and then she’s pulling back and looking at my face, and, yep—there’s the frown.
“You look so nice,” she says. “And you’d be even prettier without all that makeup.”
It’s eyeliner and mascara. Not even winged eyeliner.
“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already moved on, brushing her hands over my shoulders. I’m wearing a knee-length dress with a cardigan over it, and she grabs my neckline and tugs it up a little bit.
“You need a tank top under this one,” she says. “And you’re not wearing tights?”
“Nope.”
Now she sort of squeezes one arm and then looks at my waist, and I can already feel myself turning red.
“You know, Caitlin from church started walking ten thousand steps every day and it’s really helped her—”
“I’m gonna go see if they need help in the kitchen,” I tell my mom before we can fight, turn on my heel, and leave.
* * *
It’s freezingon the back porch, but I’m not going back inside for a jacket. I feel like if I spend one more minute in there right now I might either scream at everyone or throw some pies or possibly run myself head-first into a wall. Freezing is much better.
This is why I don’t visit home too often, even though I live a twenty-minute drive from the house where I grew up. Not visiting is easier than admitting I’m not the perfect, virginal, golden child I’ve been playing for years now. My parents and about a third of my siblings are… intense in a way that usually makes me feel pretty awful, and particularly awful this Thanksgiving with my internet-sex-friend-who-is-my-real-colleague situation.
I still don’t know what to do about it, though I have managed to avoid James for a full week now. I know I’m being an asshole, but the thought of having an actual conversation with a nice person who I’ve donethatwith is just… a lot.
So when the door behind me opens, my whole body stiffens as I prepare for the thirtieth iteration ofso when are you going to get married and have babies already, don’t you know your eggs will dry up.
“Hey, kid,” Gideon’s voice says, and I relax.
“Hey,” I say.
“Brought you this,” my oldest brother goes on, and a huge, thick jacket drapes around my shoulders. “You looked cold.”
“Thanks. I didn’t want to go back in.”
“Don’t blame you.”
“It's just—” I say, and gesture wildly at the backyard because there's way too much here for me to unpack in a few sentences.
“I know,” he says and puts an arm around my shoulders.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m glad you did. I think Hannah is too.”
“Well, that makes two of you,” I say, and Gideon laughs softly in the dark. He’s almost a decade older than me, the eldest of twelve, and was basically my primary parent from the time I was born until he left for basic training when I was ten.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asks, and I just snort in response. Of course I can. With these parents? “Here.”
He hands over a flask, warm from his body heat.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Booze.”
“No shit. Whatkind?”
