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Analise sat at the Thanksgiving table with Shorty, Melia, and Ulla, around a spread of traditional American turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and German standards like bratwurst, plachinda, and kuchen for dessert.

The night before, she and Ulla helped prepare. Although, there was less prepping and more harping from Ulla for Melia to, “Take a break, look at all that fluid in your ankles,” and “Shorty, are you taking your heart pills?” And finally, “Isa, stop looking at that stupid phone!”

Taylor had returned from his college tours at two in the morning. The flight was delayed three hours from San Francisco, and neither could escape their family dinners today. But he hadn’t called her yet. Not even a text. Even when they had the chance to talk while he was away, his voice was terse. He barely sent any messages. His “I love you’s” felt distant.

She scrubbed a cranberry sauce stain on Melia’s white doily tablecloth and said, “I broke up with Dave.”

Melia took a minute bite of her mashed potatoes. “Dave?”

Ulla bit a chunk of her bratwurst and planted an unsympathetic stare on her, as if working to see through Analise’s brimming eyes and straight to the truth. “Shame.”

“It was never serious.” Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She reached inside and silenced it. “Can I take the Porsche for a drive, to get some ice cream?”

Ulla said with a mouthful of food, “There’s nothing open on Thanksgiving.”

Melia replied, “She’ll have to drive to the gas station, probably the one on Portland and 60th.”

Shorty pointed his fork behind him. “Key’s in the hutch. Take your time.”

“Danke!” Analise professed gratefully in German, avoiding Ulla’s scrutiny, and methodically slowed her excitement. She tossed on her coat, grabbed her purse and the key, and left out the back door to the garage in the alleyway. It was a balmy fifty degrees, and the light snow from that week had melted. The roads would be wide open.

Her pulse thrummed along with the 6-cylinder engine of the 1964 Neunelfer Porsche. She’d driven it many times with Shorty. At first, she’d been terribly anxious. What if I crash it? “Impossible,” he’d said.

Once out of the neighborhood, she pulled over and checked her message from Taylor: I need to see you.

Analise: B ready n 10.

Taylor: Ur serious.

Analise: Yes Surprise xoxo

Taylor: OK

When she arrived at his house, he was waiting on the steps with his soccer zip-up hoodie. His dress shirt peeked out from the collar and sleeve cuffs. He jogged to the passenger door and climbed in. “My dad would kill for this car,” he said and rested, weary-faced, into the seat. She was expecting a kiss, a hug—something.

“More reason to hurry up.” She drove away, barely trusting her voice. “How did you escape?”

He closed his eyes. “Told my parents I was leaving.”

“They didn’t argue?”

Taylor snorted a one-beat laugh, fluttering open his bloodshot eyes. “They were shocked I even agreed to sit around the table with them. They don’t care what I do the rest of the day.”

“You look exhausted,” she whispered.

He said nothing, just sighed.

Analise shut off the car behind a copse of trees in a nearby park. She looked at him; his eyes were fully open, but staring ahead, as if lost in thought.

She couldn’t help it. The sob finally broke. “I stopped lying to my mom about Dave.”

Taylor jerked his head to her. “Did you tell her about me?”

“No,” she cried, sniffling, “but it’s not like your parents know.”

“It’s not like my parents care!” It seemed he was about to cry, too.

“Fine, get it over with already. Break it off. You’re going to Stanford⁠—”