“Maybe we should try it sometime, Mom,” Ellie says.
Kara frowns. “I don’t know about all that.”
“Why not? It’s not like we have big family Thanksgivings now that Grandma and Grandpa are gone. You always have the week off from teaching, and Aunt Carol…” Ellie nods toward her aunt. “I mean, you could always have a manager watch the store for Black Friday and Small Business Saturday, right?”
“I just don’t know,” Kara repeats. “Maybe if you’re lucky, Murphy’s family will invite you next year.”
There it is again, that uneasy high-tide feeling in my stomach. Excitement churning with disappointment as I’m presented with a beautiful idea set in a fictional world. I want to believe there’s a version of this where it all turns out. If our plan works, I’ll be transferring to U of I next semester, and Ellie and I could discuss actually dating, assuming she even wants that. Which she specifically said she didn’t. Of course, that was before she kissed me. Even then, she graduates this spring, and then she’s off to New York. What then? She won’t do long distance, so I guess we’d have to call it quits after just a few months. Is that really the best-case scenario? A few months of dating, knowing the whole time it won’t last? Worst-case scenario being she doesn’t think of me that way at all? I sink a little deeper into the couch. Crushing on Ellie Meyers is more complicated than an unlabeled stack of remotes.
“Got it!” Ellie says, pumping one hand in victory while theother navigates through the DVR, hitting play on this morning’s parade.
Right away, a peppy musical theater melody trumpets from the TV, and Otto sits up a little straighter in his recliner as one of the Broadway performances starts. “Man, don’t you think they’re freezing their asses off in those tiny fucking costumes?” he says.
“Otto!” Kara snaps. “Language!”
“Sorry. Don’t you think they’re freezing their butts off in those tiny fucking costumes.”
Ellie and I bubble over in laughter, a heap of giggles and grins on the couch. For a moment, I let myself forget our complicated reality for the sake of the simple stuff: how her dimple winks at me when she smiles and her laugh sounds like the swell of a cymbal against my low, bass-drum chuckle. It’s good like this, just me and her, until Kara claps her hands, startling us to attention. “All right,” she says, “I think we can watch while we eat dessert.”
“Let’s do dessert!” Otto slaps his palms against the worn leather arms of his recliner, like he’s announcing a brand new idea, entirely his own.
Carol puts both hands on her belly and jiggles it twice. “I think I have room for pie.”
“And puppy chow,” Ellie adds.
“Yes,” Carol says, “and puppy chow.”
Ellie pauses the parade midperformance, and we filter into the kitchen, where all signs of our Thanksgiving dinner have been completely boxed up and washed away. The pumpkin pie has been moved from the credenza to a spot of honor in the middle of the counter, and the puppy chow has been rehomed fromthe pink Tupperware to an ornate cranberry-colored glass bowl with a big silver serving spoon, far fancier than it deserves.
“I hope that’s all right,” Kara says, nodding toward the bowl. “I just thought I’d dress it up a bit.”
“It’s perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”
Carol glides the silver serving knife along the spongy center of the pumpkin pie, laying tiny, precursory grooves where she plans to cut it. “Do those sizes look right? You can always have two.”
We pass around a stack of miniature dessert plates, each one lined with tiny cornucopias. “These are cute,” I say, tracing the porcelain details with my pinkie. I’ll be damned, they have a full separate set of dessert plates just for Thanksgiving.
“They belonged to Ellie’s grandma,” Kara says when she sees me admiring them, and I grip my plate a little tighter.
“All right,” Carol says. “Who wants pie?”
“Muddy buddies for Thanksgiving,” Otto murmurs, scooping more than a spoonful of powdered sugar globs onto his plate. I can’t quite tell if it’s disapproval or just genuine surprise in his voice.
“It was just a last-minute thing,” I say.
“I like it.” Otto arches a bushy brow toward his wife. “Whaddya think, Kara? New tradition?”
My belly button draws back into my spine. “I didn’t mean to mess with your existing traditions, I just wanted to—”
“New tradition,” Kara says, not cutting me off so much as gently easing me out of my anxiety spiral. “I think it’s the perfect addition to Carol’s pumpkin pie.”
“My only contribution,” Carol announces proudly as sheslides the largest slice off the server and onto my plate. “That and peeling potatoes.”
With full plates, we opt to hold off on the parade and return to our same spots at the kitchen table. The tiny corner I’m wedged into feels a little tighter one full Thanksgiving dinner later, but the lack of space is balanced by the much emptier spread on the table. I can prop my elbows up instead of gluing my arms to my sides just to fit.
“Thank you again, Murphy and Carol, for the desserts.” Kara gives each of us a polite smile before pinching a clump of puppy chow off her plate and popping it between her lips.
“How is it?” Ellie asks, and I can hear the undercurrent of nerves in her voice. She’s probably expecting aneeds more peanut butterto validate her ridiculously precise behavior. I’m a tiny bit nervous myself. It was a rush job, and I didn’t even sample the final product, but how bad can it be with only good stuff in it?
