She keeps her eyes on the floor when she speaks again. “Some years, when I was a kid, my mom would go all out. We’d have decorations, music, five different types of stuffing. She’d cry during the Macy’s parade and make me wear one of those dumb paper pilgrim hats. It was… actually kind of magical.”
I don’t move. I barely breathe, Delilah hardly ever talks about her family life, or growing up, or anything personal. I’m afraid if I spook her she’ll close up again.
“And then the next year,” she continues, voice going thinner, “I’d be heating up leftover Chinese alone at 7 PM. No note, no call. Nothing.”
I swallow.
“It was the whiplash, I think,” she says, almost like she’s talking to herself now. “Never knowing what version of the day I’d get. What version of her. So I just stopped planning anything. No expectations. That way, I don’t get disappointed.”
My chest aches. I hate how familiar it sounds—the not knowing, the holding everything together, the being a kid and a parent all at once.
“Delilah—” I start, but she cuts in.
“I’m not saying this to get pity,” she says quickly. “I’m fine. I just… it’s easier, you know? Not setting myself up for some big Hallmark thing that doesn’t happen.”
I nod, slow. “Yeah. I get that.”
She glances at me, surprised.
I let the silence sit for a second. Then I say, “My dad used to miss Thanksgiving every year when I was a kid. Said he had research trips or faculty dinners, but it was always just… himchoosingto be somewhere else. I’d make boxed mac and cheese and Tara would draw hand turkeys.”
Delilah smiles faintly. “Tara would.”
“She drew one of me once. Called it a ‘Troy-turkey.’ Said Iwas the best big brother and deserved my own species. She even drew out what the fossil of it would look like.”
She lets out a soft laugh, and damn, that sound does something to me.
“Mom was usually busy with research when we were growing up too, so it would be me and Tar. Then when he magically rejoined our lives, it was like we were all supposed to act like he never left. Like we were this happy, shiny family. I usually play along for Mom and Tara. I try. But this year…”
I pause.
“I asked him not to come.”
Delilah looks at me, eyes narrowing just slightly.
“He said okay,” I continue. “Didn’t argue. I told him I needed space, and he gave it. It’s still awkward as hell with my parents, like they’re cosplaying a functioning couple, but at least, this year, there won’t be any pretending over turkey.”
Her eyes are softer now.
“I make an effort for them. I do. But I could use a little backup,” I say, bumping her knee gently with mine. “So yeah, I get the whole not-wanting-to-make-it-a-thing thing.”
She nods again, but her eyes are shinier now.
I take a breath.
“But I still think you deserve a good one. Like,really good. With bad wine and too many mashed potatoes and my mom asking you a million questions because she’s obsessed with people who are smarter than her.”
Delilah lets out a breathy little laugh before she goes still again.
“You’re really dangerous when you’re like this, you know that?” she says quietly.
“Like what?”
“Sweet.”
I lean in, voice low. “Only for you, Greer.”
She looks at me like she’s searching for the catch. Like part of her wants to believe it, and the other part is waiting to be proven right.
