Still Us

by Lindsay Detwiler

  Grandma Claire practically leaps out of her seat, sending Trixie flying off her lap. Dad, Will, and Oliver groan. Maren begins quoting from the movie, and I just shake my head.

  I don’t know why we even pretend anymore. For the past ten years since Grandma Claire moved in with Mom and Dad, this has been the routine.

  Mom passes around glasses of champagne as the movie begins, and we all tuck in, getting ready for what apparently is going to be the Morrow Pre-Thanksgiving Movie pick—because I guess, when it comes down to it, we’re not ones for change.

  I snuggle against Oliver, who is a remarkably good sport about Grandma Claire’s lascivious comments about Richard Gere, and think that some things do change in life—but some things just clearly don’t.

  Like Grandma’s desire to trade places with Julia Roberts.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lila

  “Mom, I love you, but for Christ’s sake, could you please not use your hands to serve yourself mashed potatoes?” Dad shouts as Maren and Will argue over whose half of the wishbone is actually bigger.

  “Do not use that term at the Thanksgiving table,” Mom now yells at Dad, while Grandma continues scooping potatoes onto her plate—with her hand.

  Cookie is barking under the table, and Trixie is lapping up milk from a saucer at the dining room table. Grandma Claire had a meltdown when Mom suggested the elderly cat should not be given a seat at the table. Grandma is convinced it may be Trixie’s last Thanksgiving—as we all are—so she demanded the cat have a seat at the table.

  Oliver holds my hand, giving it a squeeze, as Mom and Dad continue to fight about religion and Will and Maren continue to argue about the damn wishbone. It’s chaos, sheer chaos, and I know any second Oliver’s going to get in his Mustang and hightail it to Maine, to a probably normal, quiet holiday.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For what?” Oliver asks, squeezing my hand again.

  “This,” I reply, gesturing to the chaos that is the family.

  In the middle of the table, the turkey, scorched to a crisp, sits waiting to be served. I’m suddenly feeling very vegan. There’s also a pie on the table that is clearly the kind you buy in the freezer section, as evidenced by its flimsy pan and the fact it still looks frosty.

  At least Mom tried, just like she does every year.

  When the fighting calms down to a mere murmur, I speak up. “Guys, can we please just eat?”

  Everyone turns to me, seemingly remembering that we have a new guest, Oliver. When Luke was around, he was used to all this. Now, though, Maren smooths out her shirt and Mom plasters on her company smile, remembering Oliver isn’t completely used to the Morrow family chaos.

  “Who wants mashed potatoes?” Grandma Claire asks, holding up a palmful. We all stare, not sure how to handle it.

  Then Oliver does the unthinkable. He shrugs and passes Grandma his plate. She proceeds to plop a glob on his plate with her hands. Maren starts laughing, and I shake my head, taking a huge gulp of wine, knowing I’ll need it.

  “Shouldn’t we like, say what we’re thankful for or something?” Maren asks, apparently trying to keep up the appearance that we’re somewhat normal for Oliver.

  I think that boat sank a long time ago.

  “I’m thankful for hot pizza men and that Lila found a new man.” Grandma Claire winks at me, and I feel my face redden. I guess it could’ve been worse.

  “Although,” Grandma Claire begins, and I know something awful is coming. “I do miss Luke. He had nice curls. They were so scrumptious.”

  I look across the table, blinking. This is a disaster.

  But thankfully, Maren turns the conversation as Oliver awkwardly takes a sip of wine.

  “Well, I think we have a lot to be thankful for. Our family is growing, and we’re all finding happiness. And we’ve got some big news to share. Lila?”

  Oh shit. The moving out part. Well, things are already messy, so…

  “I have a new apartment. I’m moving in the first of December.”

  Mom stares at me. “I didn’t know you two were moving in already. That was fast.” She smiles as if to say “gotcha.”

  “Oh no, we’re not… it’s just me,” I fumble.

  “Congratulations,” Oliver says, kissing me on the cheek. He leans in, “Although moving in isn’t something I’d be opposed to, just so you know.”

  My cheeks are definitely burning now.

  “Oh, good. Can I come with you, Lila? Your mom is such a stick-in-the-mud. Plus, it’ll be easier for us to get to the casino on Thursdays.”

  “What casino?” Mom asks.

  “Nothing, Mom. It’s all good,” I say, biting my lip.

  “Well, anyway, we’re happy for you, Lila. It’s going to be great,” Maren says, raising her glass of water in cheers.

  “I don’t know why you’re in a hurry to move out. It’s not like you have it so bad here,” Mom argues, her anger making itself known. I practically choke.

  “Anyway, that’s not the only announcement. Will and I have an announcement of our own.”

  I look up now, giving my sister a glance. I knew something was up. I knew it. I feel a grin forming, but I wait to hear the words.

  “We’re having a baby,” Will says. “We just found out.”

  “I’m pregnant!” Maren says, and I scream, leaping to my feet and racing around the table to give her a hug.

  “That was fast,” Mom says. “You’ve only been married….”

  “Mom, really? We were living together, for Christ’s sake. Do you think we were chaste that whole time?”

  “Do not use the Lord’s name in vain,” Mom argues as she, too, rises to give Maren a hug after scowling a bit.

  “A baby. A grandchild. This is great,” Dad says, heading over to shake Will’s hand. The table erupts into sheer chaos again, only Oliver and Grandma Claire in their seats.

  There’s discussion of due dates and baby showers and sheer joy. This is amazing news.

  “Wow, this guy here must be pretty fertile,” Grandma Claire says, nudging Will when he passes her. Of course, she knows how to make a moment awkward.

  “Well, now that the food is probably cold, I suppose we should eat. Looks like it’s going to be a big year of changes again for the Morrow family,” Mom says, and for once, I don’t hear a tinge of judgment or regret or anything but… love. Just love.

  We all raise our glasses in a final toast before we dig into the burnt turkey and fondled mashed potatoes.

  It’s not quite the perfect Thanksgiving dinner of the movies, but I don’t think anything in this family is.

  After we’ve eaten dinner and cleared the table, I’m on the front porch seeking a moment of quiet with Oliver, staring at the stars in the chilly autumn wind.

  “It was a great night,” Oliver says.

  I smile, looking at him, glancing back through the window at my family. They’re gathered around in the living room now, arguing over who should venture to the attic to get the tree and bring it down. I’m glad I’ve escaped that argument.

  “It was,” I agree. Oliver takes a step toward me, pulling me to him. His lips find mine, and we kiss under the stars. I feel the electricity between us, the mutual attraction.

  I’m glad he’s here, I really am.

  “I’m sorry for what my grandma said,” I say when he pulls back, hoping I don’t blow the moment but feeling like I need to acknowledge it.

  “It’s okay,” Oliver says, sounding like he means it. “I know he was a huge part of your life. I get that. But I also know he’s your past. And I know I’d like to continue being your future. I know this might have started as a rebound,” he says.

  I open my mouth to protest, but he shushes me. “It’s okay. I get it. But the thing is, Lila, I think we’ve grown into something more. I know we need to take it slow and see where this goes. But being here tonight with your family, with you, it just felt… right. You know?”

  “I do,” I say, smiling up
at him. He pulls me into a tight hug, and for the first time in a long time, I feel content. I feel safe in his arms.

  I look back through the window, where Will is trudging up the stairs, apparently nominated to go digging in the attic for the tree. Mom is yelling at Grandma about something with Trixie, and Cookie is nipping at Maren. Dad is holding his head in the recliner, probably asking God for a little sanity.

  They’re a crazy crew, an exhausting family unit. But they’re mine.

  And looking at them, standing here in Oliver’s arms, I’m glad.

  Standing here, I know now that this is what I want. I want the whole lot—the crazy family, the love that Maren and Will have, the excitement of a son or daughter coming my way. I want big family dinners and burnt turkeys at Thanksgiving and exciting news being shared.

  Standing here in Oliver’s arms looking in from a different vantage point, I realize that maybe it’s all been in reach all along.

  My family, the love, the connection—it’s been here this whole time. I thought I had to get a promise and a ring to have that feeling, to experience that love. Standing here tonight, though, watching Will and Maren smile over their unexpected miracle on his or her way, I realize you just can’t plan life.

  This is not the future I imagined for myself last year at this time.

  Last year, I stood here, in this spot, looking in as Luke held me, talking about pumpkin pies and the thrill of Christmas coming up. We stood here with no real plan for the future, with no certainty about where we were going or the next step.

  Last year, Maren stood here, not knowing what was coming up around the bend, that in one year, she’d be expecting her first baby with her new husband.

  Life is a constant, changing road—and as much as I want to plan for every second of it, I can’t. I can’t predict where it’s going to go, and I can’t expect to make time stipulations for what is going to happen next.

  Life’s about rolling with the changes and learning to find simple joy in every stage, in every unexpected turn, and in every moment.

  Standing here tonight, I’m the same Lila I was last year—but I’m also a little bit different. We’re all a little different.

  And it feels… okay. It all feels okay.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Luke

  “Bowser, get down!” Charley’s voice booms as I scamper through the screen door. Despite the chill in the air, the door is wide open so Charley can get from the kitchen to the grill.

  Carrying a plate of steaks, Charley doesn’t have time—or, thanks to his huge Santa belly he’s worked hard on for the past few months, energy—to get Bowser in time. The dog pisses all over my shoes.

  And I don’t even flinch. This feels just about right, these days.

  “Wow, you look worse than before,” Scarlet says, kissing me on the cheek. I mindlessly run a hand through the scruffy beard I’ve grown out.

  “Oh my, Luke, are you homeless? Because you look kind of homeless. Here, have a brownie,” Mom says, fluttering about, setting the table as if she’s using fine china. In reality, there are foam plates and sporks on the table. Not quite the Thanksgiving feast of the movies—but a typical Bowman Thanksgiving feast.

  With one change.

  Mom’s managed to keep a man around through the holidays.

  The man of the month theme in Mom’s life has apparently been changed up. Charley’s managed to stick around, and although it’s hard for me to admit it looking at the goofy but nice Santa Claus stand-in, I have to admit Mom looks happy.

  It could, of course, be the brownies.

  Thanksgiving’s never, as you can imagine, been a good holiday in the Bowman household. Once Dad left, we tossed aside the turkey and stuffing, Macy’s Day parade kind of Thanksgiving traditions. Typically, we just treated it as another day, ordering a pizza from one lonely shop still open or grabbing some McDonald’s.

  This year’s a little different. Mom’s decided to celebrate.

  Still no turkey, mind you—that would be way too traditional.

  Instead, Charley’s throwing steaks on the grill, despite the chilly air, and Scarlet and John brought over some pasta salad and rolls. Mom took care of dessert, which is good because a pot brownie sounds about perfect right now.

  Despite the homeless comment and the dog piss, I’m glad to be here this Thanksgiving. It’s been quite a few years since I’ve spent the day with my family—this was always Lila’s family’s holiday.

  But things change, and there’s no use dwelling on it. Although, in truth, it feels like that’s all I do.

  “Have you talked to Margot?” Scarlet asks, as if she can read my mind.

  “Just a few texts. Things ended… amicably, all things considered. She really is a good woman.”

  Scarlet gives me a squeeze. “Love you, big brother. Glad you’re here.”

  “And I’m glad you’re here too,” Mom says, putting her arms around me, too, in a mushy, group hug.

  “Okay, everyone needs to slow down on the brownies. Everyone is being way too sentimental,” I say, shaking my head.

  “They’re just brownies, for real,” Mom says as everyone pulls back.

  I raise an eyebrow suspiciously.

  “What? I’m serious. I’m just actually happy. Things are good. Well, mostly good.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask. I knew Mom was happy with Charley, but looking at her now, I see a glow I haven’t seen—well, forever.

  At this moment, Charley comes strolling in, putting an arm around my mother’s shoulders. “Should we tell them?”

  I eye Scarlet, not sure what the hell is happening. Mom practically busts out of her skin. She dashes across the tiny kitchen, opens up what has always been the junk drawer in our home, and pulls something out. She dashes back to us, flashing her left hand.

  “We’re getting married! For real!”

  I freeze, staring at the scene. Santa Claus is holding on to my mom, and they’re both grinning wildly. Scarlet coughs, and then dashes over to Mom.

  “Congratulations,” she says. “I’m happy for you guys.”

  I follow suit after a moment of being frozen, giving them both my congratulations.

  In truth, though, as we sit down to dinner, Mom and Charley talking about wedding dates and giving details of the proposal—which involved a nude sculpture of some sort, I tried to block it out—I’m lost in my thoughts.

  I can’t believe it. I can’t believe after everything, Mom’s biting the bullet again.

  “You okay, honey?” Mom asks when we’re clearing dishes.

  “I’m good. I’m just… surprised is all.”

  She squeezes me into her. “I know that my life, your father, it probably gave you such a jaded view of love. And to be honest, before Charley, I believed love was a nightmare. But sometimes people can change your mind if you let them, you know? Sometimes if you let yourself be vulnerable and open up, you realize commitment doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

  “But what if it doesn’t work out?” I ask, the question that’s been plaguing me for way too long.

  “But what if it does?” she counters before slipping out of the kitchen and into the living room, where Charley is setting up a game of Taboo for the family to play.

  “You coming, big brother?” Scarlet asks, slinking up beside me.

  “In a minute. I’m just going to step out for a while, clear my head.”

  “Luke?” Scarlet says as I head out the door, the damn dog following me. I stop and turn. “Have you called Lila?”

  “Of course not.” I lean on the shoddy railing on the porch, looking up at the night sky.

  “Maybe you should.” Her words are uncharacteristically soft and serious.

  “Scarlet, I—”

  “Luke, listen. I know you’re not over her, no matter what you say. And you know what else? I don’t think she’s over you either, if I know Lila. You two were good together. You can still work this out. Just think about it.”

  I shake
my head.

  “One more thing,” she says when my hand is on the door.

  I turn again, rolling my eyes. “What now?”

  “Shave the damn beard. You really do look scruffy, and not in a sexy way, okay? Sisterly advice.”

  I let the screen door slam behind me as I wander over to the wicker chair on the front porch, the air biting into my skin as I stare at the night sky, thinking about a whole lot of things.

  Mostly, thinking about the goodbye that sealed my view of love in the present day.

  ***

  I paused my game, closed the bag of popcorn so she wouldn’t complain it was stale, and dusted some crumbs off myself as the door below slammed shut. Even though it was staying lighter out longer now, it was pitch black, her hectic schedule keeping her out.

  Her feet stomped up the stairs to our trustworthy one-bedroom that had long since overfilled with mindless things, more shoes, and enough tension to make me think that first day when we moved in was just a dream.

  Keys slammed on the counter. Fridge opened for a water. The wordless, icy tension in the air.

  She was home.

  I stood, slinking out to the kitchen, feeling the tension in my chest.

  Where had things gone so damn wrong? When had they fallen apart?

  When did this crack in our relationship creep in, and how didn’t we notice?

  If I had to pinpoint it, perhaps it was Christmas, when the tears had flowed over the disappointment exploding out of her chest.

  Maybe, though, it had seeped in, day in and day out, as she worked toward her goals and I sat here, a roofer with a failing singing career and no idea what the hell I wanted out of life.

  Maybe it happened as I sat still, as usual, and she kept moving, dreaming, hoping. Maybe we were doomed from the start, two very different people. In the beginning, it had been charming. Maybe, though, in the long haul it wouldn’t work, it couldn’t work. We were too different.

  And maybe I was lying to myself, feeding myself this horseshit about fate and circumstances because I didn’t want to face the facts.

  I was doing this to us. This had started with that twelve-year-old boy who decided love and marriage fucked you over. It started with this twentysomething who was too much of a coward to let go of that fear—the fear of failure, of falling apart.