She doesn’t need me like she once did, and while I’m thrilled she’s thriving, my demotion from a main character in her story to someone standing just offstage is bittersweet.
I’ve just finished sprinkling the final layer of breadcrumbs onto my famous mac and cheese when a thunderousbangrattles my front door.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume I was seconds away from being the victim of a break-in. But by now, I can easily pick out the specific sound of my brother’s knock. He’s the only person on earth who knocks like he’s trying to escape a killer clown. Granted, my neighbors are questionable—I’m convinced the guy in 4D performs satanic rituals during full moons—but Elliott’s earthquake-inducing knocks are overkill. As if on cue, my upstairs neighbor (who plays the violin at all hours, yet never improves) bangs a broom against the floor in protest. Definitelynotthankful for her this Thanksgiving.
I yank on the knob and zero in on him. “I’m not going to get my security deposit back if you dent my front door.”
With a lopsided smile, he shoves a to-go bag from Goldblatt’s into my arms as if that’ll make up for his obnoxious entrance. “Hey, Yaya. Where’s Aves?”
Before I can respond, his eyes drift over my shoulder and he pushes into the apartment, his face lighting up. And just like that, I’m forgotten. Not that I mind. Elliott won’t admit it, but he hates that Ava goes to school so far away. He stayed local for college, like I did, so we kept up with Sunday dinners even during his frat-star phase.
The six-four hockey player lingering in the hallway gives me a sheepish smile.
Confused by the expression, I frown, giving him a once-over. That’s when I notice what’s at his feet.
A dog.
A ridiculously cute dog with big brown eyes, a pink tongue lolling out the side of its mouth, and a green and blue striped bowtie around his neck. Did I say cute? I meant the cutest freaking thing I’ve ever seen.
What the hell?
“Who’s this handsome fellow?” I crouch down to pet the chocolate lab, who thanks me by licking a layer of moisturizer off my face with his kisses.
“This is Goose,” Logan says, his chest puffed out a little. “Elliott said he texted to tell you we were coming. Is it okay?”
Elliott most definitely did not text me, but Logan looks nervous, like I’m about to turn them away. And the dog is practically smiling, already charming his way into my heart. “Yes, of course. I totally forgot. Come on in.”
As if he’s thanking me, Goose barks, which is quickly followed by another bang of the broom upstairs. With a sigh, I lead Logan inside, taking his coat and the bottle of wine he holds out with a dramatic flourish.
Drinks are poured and a bowl of water is set out for Goose, and soon we’re squeezing around my tiny kitchen table (a table meant for two, maybe three, but definitely not four plus a nosy dog), piling our plates high with honey BBQ wings, creamy three-cheese mac and cheese, creamed spinach, and cornbread biscuits. It’s not a traditional Thanksgiving feast, but I don’t know how to baste a turkey, and I don’t plan to learn anytime soon.
“My trainer’s going to murder me,” Logan moans, scooping a third helping of creamed spinach onto his plate. “What is in this stuff, Maya? It’s crack.”
“I helped, you know,” Ava pipes up, pointing her fork at our guest.
“Taking the dish out of the oven doesn’t count,” Elliott teases.
“Says who?” She flashes him a mischievous grin before turning back to Logan. “What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?”
“Not much,” he says with a shrug. “I’m Canadian; born and raised in Ottawa. Our Thanksgiving was a month and a half ago.”
Lips pressed together, I survey him. I envisioned him being from Los Angeles or Dallas. I blame the lack of an obvious Canadian accent.
“I’ve lived in the US since I was nineteen, but we usually have games on American Thanksgiving, so it hasn’t been on my radar,” he adds. “The team’s pretty pumped to be with their families this year. It’s why I’m on Goose duty.”
“He’s not yours?” Ava pats her lap in a failed attempt to lure Goose over to her.
He’s doubled as my shadow throughout dinner. I haven’t given him any under-the-table scraps, but he’s been curled up at my feet, nonetheless.
“Oh, hell no.” Logan barks out a laugh. “I’m not nearly responsible enough to have a dog. Goose is Cole’s. He went home to San Diego, but his usual sitter’s out of town, too, so I volunteered to babysit.”
“That was nice of you,” I say coolly. Focus fixed on my wineglass, I bring it to my lips, pretending the sound of Cole’s name didn’t make my heart skip a beat.
“Mm-hmm.” He shoves an enormous forkful of stuffing—his second serving—into his mouth. “Not sure if he’ll like this, though,” he mumbles around the food. “Having to compete with his dog for your attention.”
“Who’s Cole?” Ava asks, suddenly sitting a little straighter, her dark eyes full of curiosity.
“Logan’s teammate,” I answer.
