“Are you going home next weekend for Thanksgiving, Jeff?” my mom asks from across the kitchen island.
Jeff presses his screen blank and looks up at me. His face is open, but unreadable.
“I’m not sure if I can,” he says simply.
I almost ask why not. He’s been dying to get home and figure out the finances and see his women-kin. Then I realize that I might be biting off more than I want to chew. Is he waiting to see what happens with me? With us? I take another sip of prosecco. It’s clear that this has risen a bit above my “just sex” rule, but turkey-sharing is some next-level shit. It’s only been a few weeks. Barely long enough for a tattoo to heal.
I give myself a mental bitch-slap to calm down just as he adds, “I’m scheduled to work, but I’ve been trying to get coverage.”
Ok. So it’s not me he’s waiting for. It’s work. Maybe he’s not ready for turkey sharing, either. I should be relieved. But that drop in my stomach is a lot more like cold, hard, disappointment.
I ignore it and ask my mom, “You ready for help?”
“Yes,” she says, dumping the meal from her oversized sauté pan into a bowl. I wipe the drool with my sleeve when the steam sends delicious clouds of garlic and browned butter toward me. Even Brutus lifts his head.
“That smells amazing, Kathy.” Jeff stands and helps us grab the bowls and utensils from the island.
“Butter and garlic. Few things in the world that smell better than that,” my mom says, taking her seat beside me.
I want to argue that Jeff’s aftershave lotion smells better than that. But I settle for a smile across the table at him.
“Alright, glasses up,” my mom directs. We lift our drinks. “To Tara’s adventures abroad. May they bring her the happiness and love that she deserves!”
“Salute!” Tara adds. She’s beaming as we tilt our glasses together. Her smile is lit with all of the anticipation of a school in June.
“Dig in,” Mom says, spooning a huge plate for herself.
The sound of silverware clinking against plates dominates the room for a few minutes, interrupted only by sounds of appreciation and praise we throw Mom’s way. The mushrooms melt against my tongue, earthy and savory. There’s something so peaceful about the four of us quietly enjoying the meal. The week from hell fades into the distant background of my brain along with Tara’s departure next week. I’m just so happy to be here. Now. With my family. With the people I love.
Love. The thought settles so lightly—a butterfly touching down on a leaf—that at first, I don’t feel its weight. It tickles my brain, tiptoes gently across the surface, then slides down into a crack, somewhere deeper where I can’t bat it away. Jeff meets my gaze and gives me a crooked smile around a mouthful of food. This feeling—the contentment—this cannot be linked to Jeff.
“Shit.”
All heads turn my way. Jeff presses his lips together like he wants to laugh.
“What, honey?” Mom asks.
I open my mouth. Close it.
“The mushrooms. I was saying, ‘Shiit-ake mushrooms are so good.’ Mmmmm.”
I stare back down at my plate and ignore the looks I’m getting. It’s the prosecco. These ridiculous conclusions are from Tara’s heavy-handed bartending again. Or maybe these aren’t shiitakes. Terrain sent the wrong mushrooms. I could be tripping balls.
I feel the warmth in my chest and neck when Jeff laughs at something my mom says, and I try to focus on the words floating around the kitchen. But I’m being assaulted by the clicking pieces of a puzzle I don’t want to look at. I am not feeling this. Ican’tbe feeling this. I am not—I swallow past the lump in my throat. I am not falling for Jeff.
“So, I have a little bit of a surprise for you, Dev,” Tara starts.
I force myself to focus on her lips, repeating the words in my brain so I can follow along without getting pulled back into the troubling tornado my mind is swept away in.
“Marcello bought you two tickets to Milan for the week of spring break,” she finishes.
Her eyes are narrowed on me.
“Two tickets?” I whisper.
She nods. I look to mom. She laughs and shakes her head. Of course, she’s not going to come to Milan with me. She won’t go to the grocery store with me let alone a foreign country. I look back to Tara and she leans toward Jeff before I can stop her. Before I can reach out and dig my fingers into her skinny thighs to tell her not to speak. Not to throw me a rope-less anchor while I’m already flailing in Jeff-infested waters.
“Do you think you could get off work for a few days?” she asks him.
