“Yeah, yeah. You love me too. Bye.”
I end the call, dropping my phone on the coffee table and nestling deeper into the couch. Or at least I try to. Mom has gradually transitioned the whole house into this crisp, clean aesthetic over the past few years, and although it looks sharp, I miss our ugly, comfy furniture from before she went Barbie Dream House on us. I could inflate the air mattress again or, God forbid, actually go up to my room, but somehow, that feels like more work than just leaning into the discomfort. I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to imagine that the sunlight seeping through the bay window is a warm beam of Florida sunshine. Maybe my reject LaCroix flavor is just a poorly mixed beach drink. And the hum of the heat kicking in…crashing waves, I guess? I give the too-small throw blanket another shake, trying to cover at least my legs, but it’s too itchy to be my pretend beach towel. No wonder I’ve never seen anyone use it.
I ditch the blanket and scrunch my knees toward my chest, trying to make myself as small and sleepy as possible, but a piercing screech in the backyard interrupts my nap before it even begins. Maybe that’s…an injured seagull? The screeches double, then triple, followed by bubbly laughter too loud to ignore. I sit up, peering out the window at a small flock of kids, most of whom I don’t recognize. They’re running laps aroundthe neighbor’s yard, tiny arms flailing in their swishy little puffer jackets, leaving a trail of miniature hats and gloves strewn across the icy grass. Their moms are supervising from the safety of the patio, balancing full glasses of wine in perfectly manicured fingers and laughing over a joke I’ll never hear. Just as I’m trying to decide who I’m more jealous of, one of the husbands swings open the back door, wandering out to top off their wine glasses. When he reaches the last of the three women, he weaves an arm around her waist, pressing a long kiss onto her forehead before beginning his pour.
My heart does a pirouette in my chest.That. Thatis what I’m most jealous of. Mom is with Dad, the neighbor is with her husband, Kat is with Daniel, and I am with an itchy blanket and a reject flavor of LaCroix. What I wouldn’t give to be someone’s first choice.
I turn away from the live action made-for-TV movie unfurling outside the window, drawing in a deep breath and holding it there. Anything to temporarily fill the hollow feeling. And then the voice in my head reminds me of the thing I’m desperate to ignore:It doesn’t have to be this way.
I rub my lips together, weighing my options. What’s worse: acting out a lie that makes you happy, or sitting lonely in the truth? Before I can decide, my phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I lunge for it. One new text from Ellie with a link to aTribunearticle about Sip’s reopening. Cool. It’s sweet of her, but it doesn’t affect me half as much as the trio of pictures from last night perched above it in the thread. Tipsy Ellie smiles at me from the screen in all three. She’s barely propped up by Tipsy Murphy, who is faking the world’s least convincing laugh.Neither of these poor, inebriated idiots knew what we know now, but if they did, would they have done anything different? I’ll take the awkward morning after if it means I get to keep last night. I hold my thumb against the pictures, saving all three, and warmth flickers in my chest as the blackout curtains on my memory part just an inch, just enough to access a hint of a moment from last night. It plays like a fuzzy vintage film in my head: me and Ellie, laughing as we battle the air mattress pump and test the firmness of our bed for the night. I can still hear her laugh, like jingle bells caught in a spin cycle, as she fell onto her back, deflating the mattress. I can still see a shadow of something warm and curious in her eyes as she caught her breath. The memory fades, and I know that whatever last night was, it was never supposed to last, but I can have it again—and hell, maybe save my grade and Ellie’s grad school dreams too. My fingers fly across my phone and hit send on a text before I have the better sense to stop them.
is the thanksgiving offer still on the table?
eight
In hindsight, braving the grocery store on Thanksgiving Day was a rookie mistake. Doing it hungover? Now that’s just plain stupid. But here I am, slogging back into the house sweaty, demoralized, and forty dollars poorer.
I drop my armful of grocery bags onto the counter with athunk, peeling off my coat to admire the red indents the bags left in my forearms. When I asked Ellie to swing by to pick me up in an hour, I pictured myself dressed and ready to go with a premade pumpkin pie in hand, but according to the clock above the stove, that was fifty-five minutes ago, and I’m still in last night’s clothes with nothing but ingredients to my name. You don’t con your way into a passing grade by showing up to your fake girlfriend’s family Thanksgiving empty-handed.
I tug my laces loose and kick my no-longer-even-close-to-white Converse into the corner before I can track any more of November’s worst into the house. On top of all the remaining sleepover damage, I guess I’ll be cleaning the floors before myparents get home. Before I can organize my mental to-do list, the doorbell rings.
“Be there in a sec!” I shout, although I’m not sure why. No way Ellie can hear me over the long, melodic doorbell song my parents have programmed. Assuming it’s Ellie at the door, of course. I guess it could be a neighbor’s cousin who mixed up the address, or maybe a mailman who doesn’t observe federal holidays. I’d welcome anyone who would buy me just a few more minutes, but one peek through the window and the flash of Ellie’s white-blonde hair confirms that there’ll be no such luck. Damn. I knew I should’ve built in buffer time.
I shuffle toward the door, checking my reflection in a foyer window on my way. Last night’s clothes look about as good as you’d imagine after wearing them for eighteen hours or so, and the half-assed pile of hair on my head is less of a messy bun and more of a disheveled knot. The whole look is only made worse when I tug open the front door. Unlike me, Ellie has showered off any and all evidence of her hangover.
“Hey again,” she says with a playful smirk. “I parked behind you. Hope that’s okay.”
The home security system beeps twice, and I punch in the code to turn it off, thankful that my parents haven’t made good on buying that doorbell with a camera yet.
“Come on.” I wave her inside. “You’re helping me bake.”
“You didn’t say anything about baking,” Ellie says, shedding her coat to reveal a worn black band T-shirt tucked into an emerald silk skirt. And, of course, her Doc Martens. “I thought I was just picking you up.”
“I thought that too before the grocery store was out of pies.”
The look she gives me would be better suited for someone toying with the idea of scaling Everest. “You tried to buy a pietoday?”
“It’s my first Thanksgiving not poolside,” I remind her. “I’m doing my best.”
Having caught on to the very obvious “no shoes” vibe the house gives off, Ellie pairs her Docs neatly by the door, then trails behind me into the kitchen.
“Sorry it’s still a mess.” I wave a hand toward the deflated air mattress that’s still sitting in the center of a fairy ring of crumbs.
“Don’t apologize,” she says. “I helped make the mess, remember? Let me help clean it up.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“And you don’t have to bring anything to Thanksgiving,” she says with a knowing look. Touché.
“Aren’t we supposed to be buttering up your mom?” I remind her. “I can’t do that if I look like a freeloader, showing up without any contribution.”
“Fine, fine,” Ellie concedes, “so long as you promise never to use the phrase ‘buttering up’ in regard to my mother ever again.”
I snort. “Scout’s honor.” Digging into the grocery bags, I pull out two slightly dented boxes of Rice Chex, two jars of peanut butter, and way too many bags of chocolate chips. “This shouldn’t take long.”
Ellie squints at my grocery haul. “Muddy buddies?”
“In this house, it’s puppy chow.” I wedge my thumb beneath the tab of one of the cereal boxes, pry it open, then reach for my phone. The recipe is still pulled up in my browser, and I scrollpast the pages of pointless storytelling every food blogger feels inclined to write before landing on the actual instructions.
