“Absolutely not,” Claire says firmly. “You're our guest.”
“She won't even let me help,” Troy stage-whispers. “And I'm family.”
“That's because you nearly burned down the kitchen lastChristmas,” Tara chimes in from where she's arranging flowers in a vase—my flowers, I realize with a small jolt of pleasure.
“That was a simple mistake,” Troy protests. “And it was the oven's fault.”
“Theovendidn't put aluminum foil in the microwave,” Tara counters.
Alfie chuckles and I can't help but laugh at the outraged expression on Troy's face. “The king of fajitas can't operate a microwave?”
“Betrayed by my own girlfriend,” he mutters, but he's smiling.
The word catches me off guard. Girlfriend. We haven't exactly defined what this is between us, but hearing him say it so casually makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
Before I can overthink it, the oven timer beeps and Claire hustles to check on it. Troy takes the moment to lean in, his voice low.
“Mom's arthritis has been worse lately,” he says, eyes tracking his mother's movements. “She won't admit it, but I can tell by how she holds her wrists.”
The quiet concern in his voice, the way his eyes follow her—it's nothing like the Troy most people see. This isn't the campus charmer or the party king. This is just a son who worries about his mom.
I've barely processed this when Troy nudges me toward the couch where a football game is playing quietly on the TV.
“Sit. Relax. Want something to drink? Mom made her famous cranberry punch, but I can vouch that it's basically jet fuel.”
“I'll try it,” I say, earning an approving nod from Tara, who's settled on the loveseat with Alfie.
“Brave,” she says. “Last year it made my roommate confess her undying love for her chemistry TA.”
“It's not that strong,” Troy argues, heading toward what I assume is the kitchen.
Alfie's eyes crinkle with amusement. “I heard that you tried to serenade the neighbor's cat after three glasses.”
“Tara! Must you tell Alfie all my embarrassing stories?” Troy groans as he pauses at the door.
She snickers and blows him a kiss.
I laugh again, easier this time, and realize I'm actually enjoying myself. The house feels lived-in, comfortable in a way my childhood homes never were. And Troy's family is warm, teasing, connected. It's like watching a foreign film without subtitles—recognizable as family, but in a language I don't quite speak.
Troy returns with two glasses of deep red liquid, while Alfie has already started helping Claire bring out the appetizers.
“Don't listen to them. It's delicious,” Troy says, handing me a glass.
I take a sip and immediately cough. “Holy—that's strong.”
“Told you,” Tara says smugly.
Troy sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch. “You'll get used to it.”
Over the next hour, the house fills with wonderful smells and easy conversation. Troy's hand occasionally finds mine, casual, reassuring. I learn that Tara is studying environmental science, that Claire teaches high school English, and that Troy's dad isn't mentioned at all.
When we finally sit down to dinner, I'm stunned by the spread—turkey, stuffing, three different vegetable sides, homemade cranberry sauce, and rolls that Troy immediately reaches for, earning a light slap on the hand from his mother.
“Grace first,” she says.
I tense slightly, unsure what to do. Religion wasn't part ofmy upbringing beyond my mother's occasional “thank God” when something went right, which wasn't often.
But instead of bowed heads and formal prayer, Claire simply raises her glass.
