Page 274 of Mad Girl

That year, we didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving like we normally did. Libby spent her day carving turkeys and handing out meals to the homeless—John, too—so we didn’t eat until much later, and the whole tone of the evening, when we finally did sit down together, felt forced.

Awkward lulls in conversation.

The quiet chink of silverware against china.

My dad and the Harrises, barely able to look at each other, all three of them knocking back the wine.

Michael and Bree picked at their turkey and dressing while you tossed worried glances at our parents, not entirely understanding.

There was no dessert. No nightcap. No lingering or late-night discussions by the fire. The Harrises left immediately following dinner, the first time I could ever recall them rushing off like that.

Before Nic stomped upstairs to bed early, he told you to leave the dishes for Henriette to tackle in the morning, but you rolled up your sleeves, determined to tackle them yourself.

While you gently scrubbed the congealed food from our fine china, Michael and I sat at the kitchen island digging into an untouched pumpkin pie. Feeling reckless, I spooned a huge glob of homemade whipped cream onto the very center.

Michael pulled back his fork. “Seriously?”

“Oh my God,” I said, scraping the cream to one side. “There. Keep to your bland side.”

“It’s not bland,” he argued. “The cream drowns out the flavor.”

“The cream enhances the flavor,” I said.

You made a grunting sound. “Cream or no cream, it’s shit. There’s no actual pumpkin in the pie—you know that, right? It’s just some type of squash.”

I rolled my eyes. To Michael, I said, “I wouldn’t listen to him. He doesn’t even like Oreos.”

“Really?” Michael asked, his fork poised midair.

I snorted. “I offered him an Oreo once and he acted like I was trying to poison him.”

You snorted right back. “What you offered me were two burnt pieces of charcoal with a bit of stale cream slathered down the middle. Where I’m from, no one even eats them because they’re shit.”

Aghast, I said, “They’re literally one of the best cookies ever made.”

“You only say that because you’re American,” you said. “You’ve been programmed to accept that sort of rubbish.”

I couldn’t believe you, Casey. The nerve. “I’m American? You’re also American!”

Michael snatched his fork back. “What?”

You shot me a distressed look over the island.

“Um, Americanized…is what I meant,” I rushed to say. “He’s been Americanized over here…in America. Clearly, he eats and enjoys our food.”

“Barely,” you scoffed.

“Are you okay, man?” Michael asked.

“Just brilliant,” you replied, aggressively scrubbing a plate dry. “By the way, what’s going on with Nic and your parents?”

Michael and I glanced at each other. “They had a disagreement,” he said. “Nic’s been avoiding them lately, and they’re a mess over it.”

“What was the disagreement over?” you asked.

I stabbed a chunk of flaky pie crust. “Me. I walked in on them trying to talk him into sending me away again, but he didn’t want to.”

“I told you he wouldn’t,” Michael said.