I frown at Ellie. “We can’t be thankful till dessert?”
“Did El Bell not tell you?” Carol asks. “During dessert, we all say what we’re thankful for. It’s tradition.”
I turn toward Ellie. Did she tell me? I don’t remember, but admittedly, we were speed running through each other’s personal lives. I’m liable to have missed a detail or two.
The squeak of Kara’s chair rivals sneakers on a high school gym floor. She gets up, and for a moment I’m sure she’s walking out. Instead, she heads for what I now know is the credenza. “Did she tell you we keep a journal?”
“I don’t think I brought it up,” Ellie says.
Her mother tugs open a drawer and starts riffling through a stockpile of takeout napkins. “Here it is.” She returns to her seat, shifting her plate to make room for a small notebook with gold spiral binding and a pale-blue cover featuring a watercolor-style hummingbird. “We’ve been doing this since the kids were little.” She turns back the cover, running her finger along the smudged pencil script. “Here it is. 2004, Marcus is thankful for Mom and Dad. So sweet. Ellie is thankful for grape juice.”
“Still true,” Ellie murmurs into her wine glass.
“Otto was thankful for no snow, Bruce Springsteen, and that he has tomorrow off work. Grandma was thankful for Grandpa and vice versa, I was thankful for my new teaching job, and Carol was thankful for”—she squints and frowns at the page—“her divorce lawyer.”
“Also still true,” Carol says. “I might say that again this year.”
“No repeats,” Ellie says. “That’s another rule. Except for Grandma and Grandpa. They got to be thankful for each other every year.”
“It’s a bullshit rule,” Otto grumbles. “If I’d knownthat, I wouldn’t have listed multiple things those first few years.”
“Try having a crappier life,” Carol says. “Then you’d have less to be thankful for.”
“Or more,” Kara says. “We were extra thankful during the recession.” She flips a few pages, presumably landing on 2008. “Marcus is thankful for his Xbox, Ellie is thankful for her slippers, Grandma and Grandpa are thankful for each other again, Otto is thankful for…” She draws in a deep breath, then rattles off about fifteen household items from the toaster to the towels.
“I did towels already?” Otto groans. “We have different towels now, does that count as a repeat?”
“Still counts,” Ellie says, a tiny satisfied smile pulled across her lips. Why do I get the feeling she’s the one who made up this rule?
“I think it’s great that you can’t do repeats,” I say, angling for the title of most supportive fake girlfriend. “It’s a great tradition. My family never really put much emphasis on the thankful portion of Thanksgiving.”
Ellie pivots toward me, her smile relaxing into something more genuine. “You’re lucky. First year, fresh start. You can be thankful for anything.”
I run my tongue along the front of my teeth, sucking out any turkey that might be wedged in the gaps. My instinct is to opt for something goofy: I’m thankful that my hangover didn’t last. For the dry shampoo that’s hiding my hair washing crimes. For the happy accident of bringing puppy chow instead of a store-bought pumpkin pie that wouldn’t hold a candle to Aunt Carol’s, I’m sure. It’s all true, and it’s all to avoid the sappy, entirely unhilarious reality: I’m thankful to be here on a day I otherwise might’ve spent playing second fiddle or entirely alone. Instead, I have the undivided attention of a girl who gives me butterflies—no, not just butterflies. Hummingbirds, flapping their watercolor wings at an impossible speed just behind my chest.
Ellie presses her thigh against mine again, and I turn toward her, worried that I’ve said or done the wrong thing. Instead, I’m met with a sheepish smile as her gaze hovers over my lips. Maybe I’m not the only one losing track of what’s pretend and what’s very, very real.
twelve
Once the plates are cleared and the excessive compliments on the food have run out, we all retire to the family room for what seems to be a weird intermission separating dinner from dessert. I guess we all need a little time to kick back and digest—all of us, that is, except for Kara, who keeps her post in the kitchen, busily scrubbing dishes and boxing up the mashed potatoes we all forgot to eat. I must’ve offered a half dozen times for Ellie and me to take over as cleanup crew, which had really been more of an attempt to secure a little private time to talk to Ellie. Unfortunately for me, Kara was having none of it, and I’ve been booted to the living room with the other noncontributors.
Everyone else seems to have accepted their place on the sidelines: Otto is slumped into his leather recliner, snoring softly; Aunt Carol is working her way through a small mountain of Black Friday newspaper ads on the floor; and Ellie is cozied on the far end of the leather couch, half watching the football gameon TV. Following their cues, I join Ellie on the couch. I loop an arm around her to guide her closer, and Ellie takes the invitation, snuggling in. With her back flush to my chest, she fits against me perfectly, like a mug in its corresponding saucer. I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing in her grapefruit shampoo. We’re barely situated when she starts to fidget.
“Hey,” Ellie whispers, just loud enough for me to hear, but quiet enough to be drowned out by the football announcer and the rustle of Aunt Carol flipping through ads. “Can we talk?”
Finally, the discussion we must’ve both been waiting for. I was hoping she’d be the one to bring up the kiss, but this wasn’t the venue I was expecting. I look from Otto to Aunt Carol, who both seem oblivious to our whispers. “Here? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, just real quick.”
It’s not exactly private, but it’s better than going another minute without discussing what happened in the garage. I count five seconds of an inhale before agreeing with a nod. “Okay,” I say. “What’s up?” As if I don’t already know.
“Would you mind taking it a little easier on the Chicago talk?”
I don’t just flinch; my full body spasms. “What?”
“The Wrigleyville and Boystown stuff,” Ellie specifies. “Can we steer things back toward New York to set up the grad school conversation during dessert?” In the silence of me trying to form a response, she scoots out of my arms and turns so we’re face-to-face. “Does that make sense?”
“Yeah…yeah, that makes sense.” I force down what feels like a fist-size lump in my throat. “I just…is that…all? Or is there anything else you want to talk about?”
