THE FEAST SPREAD ACROSSthe table before us is nothing short of spectacular. Whiskey-glazed carrots. Skillet cornbread. Macaroni and cheese. Sweet potato pie piled high with marshmallow meringue. And of course, the deep-fried turkey.
I take a huge bite of crispy dark meat, eyes fluttering shut as I savor it.
“Oh my god… this is incredible. I’m never eating oven-roasted turkey again.” Trish’s face lights up, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, and I remember Jake’s words about how much his mother enjoys feeding others.
“There’s nothing like comfort food,” she says warmly. “And I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. I’m sure it’s a nice change of pace to not have to be the one cooking.” She’s right. Truth be told, I was a little worried that’s exactly what I’d end up doing today. I’ve heard horror stories from classmates about showing up to holiday dinners and being expected, as “the chef of the family,” to prepare the entire meal. It really is a pleasure to be taken care of for once.
Mr. Taylor clears his throat behind the napkin he’s dabbing over his mouth.
“Alexa, Trish tells me that you’re a chef,” he ventures.
“Yes, sir. I’m currently working at a restaurant in Manhattan.”
“And how’s that?”
“Exhausting,” I say with a laugh. “The hours are pretty brutal.”
Trish offers a sympathetic smile. “I bet. But do you enjoy it?”
I twist my lips, contemplating the best way to answer. “It’skind of monotonous,” I admit. “What I really enjoy is coming up with my own recipes. But you have to start somewhere. I’m planning to work my way up the ladder and become an executive chef someday. Then I can open my own restaurant and cook the sort of food I want to.”
Trish winks at me from across the table, and I feel a surge of pleasure. Even though she isn’t my mother, the maternal pride she exudes feels like a warm hug.
Mr. Taylor purses his lips in approval as he tucks into his sweet potatoes. “Very smart to have a steady, well-planned career path like that.”
Jake stiffens beside me, and I can feel a palpable shift in the atmosphere. I’m not quite sure what’s going on, but I attempt to change the subject. Unfortunately, it turns out to be the wrong subject.
“So, Mr. Taylor—you’re an architect? Did you build this house?”
Jake’s father straightens in his seat, chest puffing. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. This one and most of the others on this street. I’m the CEO of Taylor & Son, the top architecture firm in Marietta for the past twenty-five years. I inherited the business from my own father. Of course, in my case, the ‘son’ part has never actually come to fruition.”
“Jeffrey.” There’s a warning tone in Trish’s voice, but her husband ignores her as he presses on.
“Did Jacob ever tell you that he graduated top of his class from the B.Arch program at LSU? He would have been such an asset to the company. But instead, he fooled around in New York for a few years, and hasn’t been home much since. He’s never quite let go of this music hobby of his.”
Jake’s voice is strained. “My first single held the number-one spot on the Billboard Hot One Hundred chart for eight consecutive weeks. I think it’s safe to say my music career is more than just a ‘hobby.’”
“Yes, it’s all very exciting. For now. Until your fifteen minutesof fame are over, and you’re left with no job and no prospects. Fame doesn’t last forever, Jacob. You need a long-term plan.”
Jake’s jaw tightens, and I feel my heart deflate in a way I know I’m not entitled to. I’ve never been in this position; my parents always threw their full support behind everything I set out to do, convinced I’d succeed at anything I put my mind to. If anything, I’ve suffered from the opposite affliction. Sometimes I felt exhausted from trying to live up to their expectations of my projected greatness.
“Well, I don’t think my fifteen minutes are ending anytime soon,” he says tersely. “And as a matter of fact, my team and I do have a plan. I’ve also been in the studio almost every day in New York, working on my second album. It will be finished by the end of next month.”
As I contemplate the implication of his statement, a wave of panic washes over me. I had nearly forgotten that the only reason Jake has spent the past two months in New York was to lay down his album. And that can only mean one thing.
“Wait,” I hear myself ask before anyone else can respond. “Does that mean you’re leaving again?”
Jake’s attention flies back to my face. His mouth drops open, hanging there for a moment as he searches for the right words.
“Well… yeah. But, I mean, it’s not like I’ll be gone forever. I’ll still be around New York fairly often, doing press and stuff.”
I stare down at my plate, dragging my fork across my food without picking anything up. My appetite has vanished. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
Jake’s father lifts his glass of sweet tea with a triumphant smirk. “I guess that’s just the cost of your bohemian lifestyle, eh, Jacob?”
Jake’s shoulders sag, and I immediately feel a surge of guilt for bringing this up in front of his family.
“Well, I think it’s just amazing. I’m so proud of my boy,” Trish says, beaming at Jake from across the table.
