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I laugh.

Dad is currently in the living room watching football, probably asleep in his recliner with the volume turned up loud enough to hear from the driveway.

Somewhere upstairs, Darcy is undoubtedly sleeping in the middle of my childhood bed.

For the first time in weeks, everything feels familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

And yet, a part of me keeps checking the clock.

Four twenty-three.

If I leave in the next half hour, I can make it back to Chicago before nine. Assuming traffic cooperates.

Which, considering it's Thanksgiving, might be asking a lot.

Mom sets another container beside the others. “You're sure you don't want to take more turkey?”

“Mom, there's enough food here to feed the entire Phoenixes roster.”

“Then Bishop can invite some guys over.”

My stomach does something ridiculous at the mention of his name.

I reach for another plate. “He's probably got plans.”

“On his birthday?”

“Maybe.”

Mom stops wrapping leftovers. “Has he called today?”

I keep my eyes on the plate. “Who?”

“Hayes.”

“Oh. Um, yeah. He texted.”

That isn't entirely true. He's texted three times. Once this morning to wish me a happy Thanksgiving. Once to ask if Dad had started yelling at the television yet. And once about an hour ago.

Bishop: How's the food?

Me: Pretty sure I ate my body weight in mashed potatoes.

Bishop: Proud of you, Becks.

Me: What are you doing?

Bishop: Watching football. Might order something later.

I'd stared at that last message longer than necessary.

Because while I was sitting around the table with my parents, laughing at Dad's annual complaint about the Detroit Lions, Bishop was sitting alone in Chicago.

On Thanksgiving.

On his birthday.

I know he doesn't make a big deal about either one.