“Not really.” I don’t usually do much for the holiday. I typically go over to Mom’s house. We’ve never been big on celebrating it, but Bobby and his kids have all these traditions they grew up with. They usually make all this food, and they put football on the TV, and sometimes they leave to go run for some reason.
“Maybe we could come visit then,” my dad says. “I’ve never experienced an American Thanksgiving before.”
“Me either,” Maggie says.
I blink. “You want to come for Thanksgiving?”
“Or any time,” Maggie says quickly. “If the holiday would be too stressful, we can come another time. Whatever’s convenient for you.”
My father pulls at his collar, his gaze averted, looking down at the table.
Just a couple weeks ago I’d have interpreted his movements as a sign of disinterest. I’d have thought Maggie was the one pushing all of this, but I realize now that he’s nervous. He’s nervous I’m going to say no.
“I’d love that,” I say, and my father’s head pops back up. “Thanksgiving would be great.” I pause. “I live in a one-bedroom apartment, so I wouldn’t be able to be a great host, but—”
“We’ll rent a place,” my dad says. “And you don’t have to do anything. I’ll cook.”
“And I’ll help,” Maggie says. “We’ve never cooked for Thanksgiving before—”
“Me either,” I say. “But we’ll figure it out. We can just make whatever we want, really.” I smile at my dad. “Actually, I’d love to have your biryani again.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah?” He nods. “I can make that.”
He looks so eager, so excited. It makes my throat tighten with emotion.
“Perfect,” I say. “I can’t wait.”
They pull up their calendars, trying to figure out which day will work best for them to fly out, and Jacob returns to the table, balancing three drinks in his arms. “I couldn’t get them all,” he says. “There’s one left at the bar.”
I scooch my chair back. “I’ve got it,” I say.
I use the opportunity to duck into the bathroom, to wipe the sweat off my upper lip. It’s almost time, and I’m jittery. Anxious.
I pull out my phone, rereading the note I wrote for myself, then head back out, grabbing my drink off the bar and returning to the table.
They’re all already sipping from their beers. Jacob’s laughing at something one of them has said, but when I return to the table he sobers up, his smile disappearing.
My throat constricts.
“I wondered,” I say, “if it’d be all right if I gave a toast?” I look at Jacob quickly, my heart beating fast. “I know Jacob did one last time, but I’d like to do this one, if that’s okay.”
My dad smiles wide, nodding.
I turn back to the notes app. “Sorry, I’ll be reading it out. I haven’t memorized it or anything, but it’s…it’s a poem.” I laugh, a bit self-conscious. “I know I’m not the poetry expert here, but I thought I’d try, and…”
The words die in my mouth as I catch Jacob’s expression, his jaw slack, his full lips parted.
My face heats, and I take a deep breath, trying to force my nerves to settle. “Anyway,” I say. “I wrote this for you.”
And then I start. It’s bad, I know that from the very first line, but I keep going, pushing past the fear and embarrassment and anxiety I feel.
Two souls parted, by distance or circumstance or time
Find each other in this moment, forever intertwined
Their love is the result of choosing each other
A bond formed through hardship and joy and grief
