Page 37 of Comfort Read

“Of course it’s really him,” Kit snaps, needled. “What were you expecting?”

Justin shrugs. “Imposter? Or maybe a sibling? Bet some of the less famous Baldwins have pretended to be Alec or Billy to score dates; I thought maybe it was something like that.”

“First of all, he’s famously an only child. Secondly, I’ve been photographed and filmed with him multiple times. There have been, like, headlines about it.” Kit doesn’t know why he’s bothering to argue. Justin has never once taken him seriously since the day he was born—it’s one of the reasons Kit’s always been closer with Maggie, who at least sometimes does. “We’ve been all over the celebrity gossip sites for weeks.”

Neatly illustrating another reason they don’t talk that much, Justin pulls a face and says, “Christ, Critter, I don’t read that garbage. Just thinking about it is lowering my IQ. You should consider reading something more substantive. Books don’t bite, you know.”

“I literally own a bookstore,” Kit grinds through gritted teeth, “so I’m aware of that, but thanks so much for the tip.” When Justin sighs heavily, as though Kit has missed his point, Kit hurries outside before he can say something bound to make things tense. He knows from long experience that it won’t go over well if he snaps, “Shut up shut up you’re so annoying shut up,” or, “Books might not bite, but call me Critter one more time and I will.” He does mutter under his breath about academic snobbery and ivory towers as he steps out into the crisp November air, but thankfully, nobody hears him.

Sage is already standing next to the passenger side door when Kit reaches him. He smiles brightly over the pie box he’s carrying in one hand as he offers his mother his other arm, helping her lever herself up and out of the low-riding car. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Kit reminds himself firmly there’s no reason to be breathless at the sight of this man standing in front of the brick prairie-style house Kit grew up in. The dying clematis, clinging on for dear life to the trellis whose white paint has been peeling off since Kit’s childhood, should not make Sage hotter by proxy. The mustard-yellow shutters, inexpertly painted by Kit and Justin some fifteen years ago, should not set off the blue of Sage’s eyes. Most of all, the fact that these things are true anyway should not matter, because Kit’s supposed to be used to Sage’s presence by now.

He still flushes when Sage steps away from his now-standing mother, leans in, and presses a brief kiss to Kit’s cheek. That’s partially an involuntary reaction to Sage’s presence, and partially sheer, sweet relief: Kit had been afraid that things would still be icy between them. Then again, ice might have been better than the immediate mortification Kit feels when he sees, through the window, his sister smirking at him, obviously amused by his blushing. The only saving grace to this moment is that Sage, when he pulls back, is flushed, too, his expression suggesting he hadn’t intended to do that.

In an attempt to overcome his confused pleasure at this greeting, Kit turns to Seline. “Thanks so much for coming. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Please, the pleasure’s mine. Thank you for inviting me. It’s been a long time since I had the chance to attend a proper family Thanksgiving.” Seline’s voice is the same as it was at the height of her film career: rich and unusually deep, and threaded with the traces of a Southern accent she never quite managed to shake. Kit’s startled to realize he can hear some of Sage’s now-familiar cadences in it, though he supposes that shouldn’t come as a surprise.

What does come as a surprise is how Seline looks. Her voice is about the only thing unchanged since her glory days. Of course she’s aged, as it’s been more than thirty years since she was a star of stage and screen, but it’s not the graceful, surgically enhanced aging most of Hollywood tends to favor. There are heavy lines on her face, making her appear older than she is, and her once-iconic blond hair is now a chestnut brown which Kit assumes, based on Sage’s dark locks, is her natural color. She’s still beautiful, but it’s no longer the arresting, startling beauty that had led her to be splashed across magazine covers for the better part of the 1980s. Kit wouldn’t have glanced twice at her if he passed her in the grocery store, let alone recognized her as Seline Ballard.

As he watches Sage glance nervously around his parents’ quiet suburban street, obviously looking for lurking paparazzi, Kit has to wonder if not being recognized is the point.

“SELINE!” This exclamation—nearly a war cry—bursts out of Kit’s mother the instant the three of them step into the house. Seconds later Cheryl’s barreling over to them, nearly knocking down Kit’s niece, Riley, in her haste to cross the room. Kit stifles a laugh when Riley’s face twists in annoyance and makes her look briefly like a carbon copy of Maggie, even as Cheryl takes, and begins pumping, Seline’s hand. “Oh, I’m so excited you’re here! I’m such a huge fan of your work. I’ve seen everything you’ve ever done; as far as I’m concerned you’re one of our greatest living actors, and I’m not just saying that to flatter you. Ask my coworkers! They’ll all tell you!” Then, seeming to notice he’s here for the first time, she spares half a glance at Sage as she adds, “Oh, and nice to meet you, too, of course.”

Kit stifles a groan, mortified, although Seline looks pleased and Sage looks like he’s seconds from bursting into hysterical laughter. But before he can say anything, his father steps up behind Cheryl, gently pries her still-pumping hand from Seline’s, and says, “Hi there. We’re so happy to have you both. I’m Tom, and this is my wife, Cheryl. You’ll have to excuse her enthusiasm; she is a big fan.”

“No need to apologize.” Seline smiles, and ducks her head very slightly. “It’s nice of you to say—most days I’m sure no one even remembers me.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd,” Cheryl cries, and puts an arm around Seline’s shoulders, leading her off to the kitchen. “Of course people remember you! A generational talent like yours is timeless—I’m sure people will know your name in another hundred years. Let’s get you a glass of wine, and you can tell me all about…”

The sound of her voice fades out of earshot as Kit runs a hand over his burning face. “Sorry,” he mutters to Sage. “I tried to warn you she’d be like this.”

“And I told you not to worry about it,” Sage reminds him, grinning, as Tom takes the pie from his hand. “Seriously, it’s good for her. Mom doesn’t get out that much these days, and it means more to her than you realize to know people still enjoy her movies.”

“Well, Cheryl certainly does,” Tom says cheerfully. He takes Sage’s offered hand and shakes it, the action much briefer and more appropriate than Cheryl’s attempt with Seline. “And I’m a big fan of your work, as it happens. Those Red Vector movies—my God! I didn’t think anyone could do those books justice, but you really bring Flint Campbell to life.”

Kit bites down on a wince. Just last week he heard Sage call those films insipid, poorly written, and directed by a bastard who couldn’t identify a cohesive emotional throughline if it smacked him in the face.

But Sage smiles, a big, seemingly genuine one, and says, “Oh, thanks a lot, Mr. Forrest⁠—”

“It’s Tom, it’s Tom,” Tom says, waving a hand. “We don’t stand on ceremony around here. Come on in—I’m sure Kit’s itching to introduce you to everyone.”

What Kit is in fact itching to do is go back in time and tackle himself to the ground before texting Sage the invite, but it doesn’t seem polite to mention it. So instead, he takes Sage around the room, introducing him to Justin and his wife, Nancy, their sons, Robert and Wallace, and an assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Maggie and Mitch Sage already knows, but Kit collars their daughter, Riley, and her brother, Hunter, and makes them stay still long enough to say hello. This is a mistake; after about thirty seconds of listening to Sage talk, Riley’s eyes widen, and she gasps, “Oh my God. Are you—are you Humplestiltskin?”

When Sage, not entirely able to contain a grimace, confirms that he is, Riley shrieks and starts gathering up her young cousins. Within three minutes they’re following Sage around the room like a line of ducklings, one of them occasionally beginning an ear-splitting chant of “HUMPLESTILTSKIN! HUMPLESTILTSKIN!” before being aggressively shushed by a parent.

“Sorry,” Kit mutters in an undertone, cursing both his mother for insisting on his inviting Sage, and himself for not finding a better solution. Faking his own death, perhaps, or moving to a remote village in Siberia. “I swear they’re not usually—well, no, they are usually like this, but they’re generally a lot better at seeming normal, at least to strangers. Do you want a drink?”

“Don’t apologize,” Sage says, shaking his head and laughing on it slightly. “It’s nowhere near the worst I’ve ever seen, and honestly, it’s kind of sweet.” As another “HUMPLESTILTSKIN” chant is started and just as quickly stopped, however, his face falls, and he admits, “Having said that, though: Yeah, I think a drink’s probably my best move.”

Kit fixes them both a cocktail. It’s a Spiced Apple Fizz, a family Thanksgiving tradition invented sometime in the eighties by Kit’s uncle Rick, who threatens every year to publish it in the food magazine he runs and never follows through. Sage seems to genuinely enjoy it, which is gratifying. They both stand there sipping for a few moments, watching in confusion and mild horror as the children, seemingly spontaneously and without any need for speech, invent and begin playing something Kit can only loosely describe as a game. It involves dashing around the whole first floor of the house, marking a lap by passing Sage and bellowing, “I SPIT ON YOU AND I SPIT ON YOUR HAT,” which Sage explains, on a sigh, was Humplestiltskin’s most iconic line.

“Sounds like a fun day in the sound booth.” Rick, the inventor of the Spiced Apple Fizz, sidles up next to them with one of his own. He’s Cheryl’s brother and it shows: They have more or less the same face, differing only in the contours of their jawlines and what’s hidden by Rick’s perennial moustache. His hair is darker than Cheryl’s, or it was before he started going grey. These days he’s more salt than pepper, which Kit suspects is because they all gave him so much crap when, a decade ago, he attempted to dye it.

Sage makes a face into his drink. Lowering his voice, he says, “Not really, but it wasn’t the line’s fault. That movie’s for kids, but the psychosexual drama that played out between the director and the lead animator was… very adult.”

Rick laughs, clapping Sage on the back. “Ha! I bet.” He introduces himself and then, a knowing look in his eye, gestures out at the crowded room. “If you’re feeling a little overwhelmed, don’t worry; the bulk of them will be heading out soon. Our family’s gotten too big to be contained by one Thanksgiving, but Cheryl’s been hosting for years, and God help anyone who crosses her. So now most of this lot come by for appetizers and then peel off to do dinner with their in-laws or whoever. By the time we sit down to eat, it’ll just be Cher’s kids, their kids, and the folks flying solo like me.” He ruffles Kit’s hair, a habit Kit has hated since he was a child, and cheerfully adds, “Way to let the side down, by the way. I thought we agreed last year to serve as the Lonely Bachelor contingent.”