Otto lifts a shoulder. “But there were a lot of potatoes.”
The two of them tumble into an argument, and I’m glad to have the attention off me for a second. No wonder people complain about the holidays. There are so many moving parts and people and traditions. And this is only five people. Marcus’s Thanksgiving has twenty. My parents knew exactly what they were doing starting the Florida Thanksgiving tradition before I was old enough to know any other version of this holiday.
The bickering dies down, ending in a compromise: the potatoes will remain in the big ornate bowl for the sake of not dirtying another dish, but they’ll stay on the counter, and anyone who wants them will simply need to go get them. A perfectly reasonable solution, although you wouldn’t think it by the tick of Kara’s jaw.
“The turkey smells awesome, Otto,” Carol says. “And Kara, the rest looks absolutely delicious.”
“Well, the stuffing is a little burnt,” Kara grumbles, “but thank you.”
I can hear Ellie’s voice in my head from earlier this afternoon.If we can make it perfect, why wouldn’t we?
“Come on,” Kara says, “let’s say grace.”
Everyone extends a hand to either side, and it takes me a moment to get the hint. I wasn’t raised in a praying family, and I’ve never even eaten dinner with a hand-holding family, but when in Rome. Carol takes my right hand, and I place my left in Ellie’s, simultaneously calmed and confused by the stroke of her thumb against the soft space between my thumb and forefinger. They all recite something close to a nursery rhyme, and I remember to chime in at the “Amen.”
No sooner have we dropped hands than the plates start passing, a revolving door of dishes moving from one person to the next. It’s methodical and silent, apart from the clanging of serving spoons against dishware and the quiet murmurs of compliments on the juiciness of the turkey or the snap of the green beans. When the carousel of casseroles has completed one full rotation, everything returns to its place, each dish settling back in to the only configuration that will allow it all to fit.
“So Murphy,” Kara starts, lifting her first bite of stuffing to her lips. “Ellie mentioned you have a job lined up after you graduate?”
It feels like my brain is cracking its knuckles. I guess Ellie wasn’t kidding about her mom’s priorities; I guess we’re getting right to it.
“Right, uh, sorta,” I say. A weak start. “I’m already running the marketing for Sip, but once I graduate, I’m planning to start my own marketing consulting business.” I turn to Ellie for reassurance that I said the right thing, and she squeezes my thigh under the table to confirm that, yes, I got my line right.
Kara, however, is slightly less encouraging. “You’replanningto?” She peers at me over her glasses. “It’s just an idea, then?”
“No, I’mgoingto,” I correct myself quickly. “It’s, uh, already in the works. You wouldn’t believe the number of small businesses in Geneva who are trying to work with me.” That’s not entirely a lie. She really wouldn’t believe the number: zero.
“Add Monarch to that list,” Carol chimes in, bumping that number up to one. “We could use the help.”
“I’ll put you on the wait list,” I say to Carol with more confidence than I’m entitled to. Look at me go, marketing my nonexistent company.
“So you’re planning to stay in the area, then?” Kara asks. It’s directed more toward her daughter than me.
“We’re figuring it out,” Ellie says. “Murphy still has at least a year of school left after I graduate. We have time.”
Kara nods toward her daughter, then turns her attention back to me. “I can’t imagine the suburbs can compare to your summer in New York.” If she sees me flinch, she doesn’t acknowledge it. The easy part of the lie is over; we’re on hard mode now.
“Oh! Yeah. My internship.” I pick up my fork and skewer a few green beans. “New York was cool.”
The silence that follows feels light-years long, and Kara looksat me, stone-faced, through all of it. I don’t even taste the green beans as I chew them; all I can focus on is my own heart beating in my ears. When Ellie nudges me with her thigh, I swallow hard and try again. “I mean, I could even see myself living there. In New York, I mean. I could see…us…living there.” I turn toward Ellie, whose limp smile reads as less of a good job and more of an eh, you could’ve done worse. It’s enough of a smile to show her dimple, though, which feels like a win to me.
Carol waves a spoonful of cranberry sauce as if to command our attention. “Lemme get this right. You’d live in New York and work with shops in Geneva? How would that even work?”
“Um, yeah.” Panic creeps up my throat like a stubborn pill. I gulp it down with my green beans and try again. “Yeah, I would. There’s so much you can do remotely these days, and…”
“And we’re figuring it out,” Ellie says for a second time in as many minutes. “What’s important is that things are looking great for Murphy’s business already.”
Kara lifts a brow. “Oh?”
“Yup,” Ellie continues, and I unclench my glutes while she takes the lead. “We’ll have no trouble affording a nice apartment, and I’ll be able to pursue my next steps wherever we are. Los Angeles, New York…”
“Hey,” Otto interrupts, wiping turkey grease from his lips, “what about Chicago? Ever thought about livin’ in Wrigleyville?”
I work up a smile before letting him down gently. “I’m not sure I’d want to live in Wrigleyville,” I say. It sounds nicer than the truth: that Wrigleyville is a petri dish of overgrown frat boys and, therefore, a complete no go for anything but a night on the town.
“Wrigleyville is right by Boystown,” Carol points out. She looks quite proud of herself for knowing that.
“That’s true. I could definitely see myself living there,” I say.
