Forget About It

by Jessie Harper

  I don’t have to look at Graham to know the expression on his face. Normally, I’d make a joke or roll my eyes. I’d protect myself better. I’d do my best to put an end to this thing that’s happening as he stares at me and I stare back.

  But tonight, I don’t. Tonight I let Graham be nice to me. And I let myself enjoy it.

  21

  Cassie

  Thanksgiving isn’t one of my favorite holidays. Not that I’m against gratitude or anything, but having a holiday that involves copious amounts of food and a focus on eating until you’re stuffed makes the fat girl in me uncomfortable. I’ve got portion control all handled now, but that won’t stop my mother from giving me a look when she sees how much I’ve put on my plate. Luckily, this year she can’t say anything out loud without looking like an ass. We’re at Fran and Steve’s house and my mother would never risk acting like a bitch in front of Fran. She’ll save it for the car ride back to her condo where she can berate me for twenty solid minutes before I drop her off. And while I will most certainly be grateful to be rid of her for a while, that sweet relief is a long way away.

  Currently, Val’s positioned on Fran’s couch, yammering away about some issue at the hair salon. She’s always trying to make things sound dramatic and important in front of Julia’s parents. They make her nervous and she’ll overcompensate with a few too many glasses of wine in order to “loosen up.” Fran and Steve have seen this all before and so their invitation to family Thanksgiving was a surprise for sure. I tried to decline as nicely as I could, pretending to have a shift at work that I couldn’t get out of, but Val was insistent that we would make it to dinner. Normally I try to work at the hospital in order to avoid even the possibility of Thanksgiving with my mother. Val doesn’t cook, so there’s never any hard feelings about me picking up holiday shifts. Growing up, Thanksgiving was more of a hassle for her than a celebration. We’ve fallen into the blissful routine of doing nothing at all as a family and I’m not about to complain. But Val was sure as hell going to make it to Fran’s house for turkey and she wasn’t going to let me use work as an excuse to keep her from it. I wasn’t going to ruin things for her, something she spent an hour telling me all about.

  I have spent years ruining her life, apparently.

  To make matters worse, I had forgotten how much of a football holiday Thanksgiving is and how close Julia’s family has become with Graham’s. When my mother and I wobble through the front door—Val had done a little pre-party drinking—the first thing I see is the face of the mother of the man I’m currently secretly sleeping with. I have to work hard to keep my jaw off the floor as I watch Fran and Jackie work in tandem like a well-oiled Thanksgiving machine. They celebrate the holiday together every year and it’s easy to see how seamlessly a Julia/Graham connection would have fit in. But instead Julia’s here with Zach and his ring’s on her finger. Zach’s parents are here as well. His sisters help to set the table and entertain Julia’s children. It’s obvious now why Val and I were extended an invitation—we’re the buffer. Without us it’s a three-ring circus of Graham, Julia, and Zach’s families. I help myself to a glass of wine as soon as I can make my way to the kitchen and fill it all the way to the rim.

  The only thing keeping me from slitting my wrists at this dinner is the certainty that Graham isn’t here. Having to watch him witness Julia and Zach discuss for the millionth time how the wedding details are coming together and hear about how excited they are to finally make things official would be painful for us all. I’ve already seen his mother wince a few times when the lovebirds have gotten a little too affectionate. They are fairly disgusting. They’re not shy about reminding us all that they’re madly in love. Get a room. There’s a bit of hand patting from Fran. Apparently Graham’s mystery girlfriend hasn’t been discussed with Jackie. Or with me either. I squash that thought down just like I’ve been doing since Julia told me about her. Lucky for Graham he’s got a solid work excuse that’s keeping him far, far away.

  I couldn’t actually tell you where Graham is, but Julia’s father seems to have all the details. Graham’s managed to snag a gig working one of the million college games on television today. It’s a big network opportunity and Julia’s father is as proud as if Graham was his own son which, in a way he almost is. Steve keeps checking the television, making sure we’re on the right channel, shushing Noah and Charlie when they talk over the announcers.

  “Okay, everybody, quit talking now!” Steve bellows as he works to get the volume just right on the big screen TV in the living room. “They’re going to start. If you keep talking, we’ll miss the beginning!”

  “Are we going to watch the whole game?” I’m met with annoyed glares from half the room. “I mean, Graham’s probably going to be on like five minutes total.”

  “He’ll be talking off and on,” Steve assures me. “We’ll want to see it all. And this should be a good game anyway. Just sit there and let your dinner digest.”

  “Can’t we at least have pie or something?” I’m going to need something to do with my hands.

  “No!” Both Charlie and Noah shout it in unison. Julia’s kids have gotten awfully vocal.

  “We have to wait for Graham to tell us,” Charlie clarifies.

  “Graham isn’t even here,” I remind him. “That’s why we have to watch this stupid game.”

  “He might not be able to do that this year, bud,” Steve tells him and ruffles his hair. “We have to wait and see.”

  “But he might be able to, right? He will if he can. It’s tradition.” Charlie seems convinced. The fact that Graham’s miles and miles away in some TV studio apparently does nothing to convince him that we shouldn’t wait on pie.

  “If he can, he will. He doesn’t ever let you guys down.” Steve gives the boys a nod and that seems to settle it for them. I’m still in the dark.

  “We have to wait on dessert?”

  “Yes!” the boys yell at me again and I’m forced to amuse myself with my empty wine glass.

  When Graham’s face finally appears on the screen the whole room erupts into cheers. There he is, in living color, wearing the tie I can never tell anyone I helped pick out. I chose the blue one he has on because it brings out his eyes. I know nothing about television, but had a vague idea that he should pop a bit. I secretly pat myself on the back for my fabulous choice as his face fills the frame, eyes exceptionally prominent.

  Steve shushes us all again, moving close to the TV to be able to hear better. Graham and two other guys in suits sit discussing the game that’s about to start. Graham towers over the other two, even sitting down. “Are those other guys football players?” I ask and get the shush again. Graham’s face appears again, this time close up, and it’s like he’s been projected onto the living room wall.

  “He’s, like, three hundred pounds of teeth!” I think I whisper it to myself, but obviously not because Steve swivels, mouth flying open.

  “He’s not three hundred pounds! He’s probably closer to two ninety.” Graham’s mother nods in agreement.

  “I didn’t mean it literally,” I grumble and make a note to keep quiet from now on.

  That isn’t too difficult as the game gets started and the coverage moves from the studio to the action on the field. It’s college football, but Graham has some connection to the teams, or the conference, or something. They keep switching to someone on the sideline and it’s hard for me to tell who’s talking when the camera pans to the two teams running back and forth. Julia’s family intermittently cheers and groans like they have some vested interest in the outcome of this game. Zach’s parents are surprisingly interested as well and his sisters bounce around on the couch like they’re at a Beyoncé concert. My mother keeps to herself, nursing a glass of wine and rolling her eyes.

  By half time I am thoroughly confused. Luckily, half time is another chance for Graham and his buddies to wax poetic about the game so far. At least, that’s what I think they’re doing. It all sounds like blah, blah, blah to me, e
ven though Steve keeps commenting about how great Graham’s doing. He’s making “great points” and “really adding to the conversation.” I’m just interested in watching Graham’s face and the way he fills out the suit he’s wearing. My chest swells a little with pride. Even if I have to keep it to myself it feels good to know that Graham wants me. I imagine every other woman in America watching this game is enjoying looking at the man I can take home any night I like. I couldn’t tell you two things about football, but I can attest to the fact that Graham looks handsome. A fact my mother makes plain to the entire room when she looks over at Julia and opens her big mouth.

  “I still can’t believe you kicked that out of bed,” she announces before getting up to refill her wine glass. “That is one fine man.”

  The entire room is shocked into silence. I close my eyes and pray to whomever might be listening for lightning to strike the house. Not a huge bolt. Just a little one would work. Another unanswered prayer, apparently, as the noise from the television drones on and everyone works to get their chins off the floor.

  I try to redirect with a question for Steve in the hopes that everyone will forget Val’s unfortunate but not entirely unpredictable outburst. “So… what’s the deal with all the moving around?”

  Steve looks at me like I have two heads. “The moving around?” he asks. “Like the running?”

  “No, like all the guys going on the field and coming off and then going back on again. That.” I have no idea what I’m asking but it has everyone looking at me instead of waiting for my mother to come back from the kitchen and dazzle us with her deep thoughts.

  “It depends on what’s happening in the game. You know this. There’s offense and defense and special teams…” Steve stops when he sees the confused look on my face. “You don’t actually know this?”

  I shrug and Steve’s brow furrows.

  “How can you not know this when you and Graham… Does he not…” Steve flounders while everyone else watches.

  “When Graham and I what?” Stupid question but too late to take it back now. I watch an internal war wage itself all over Steve’s face only to have him turn back to the television.

  “It’s probably better that way,” he says more to himself than to me. “Better not to have to talk about football.”

  I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, but asking for clarification seems like a dumb move. The split second of panic I feel starts to dissipate as soon as the game resumes and all eyes shift back to the TV. There are more guys running into each other and the constant flipping from the sideline to the field and back again.

  Steve comes over and positions himself on the couch next to me. I’ve spent hours and hours here in this house with Julia’s parents but his close proximity right now makes me suspicious. There’s plenty of space next to Julia’s mother or near his grandkids so why is Steve sitting next to me watching me pretend to watch the game?

  “You really don’t know anything about football, do you?” he asks and doesn’t seem surprised when I shake my head. “Do you know anything about the scoring? The teams? Do you even know what position he used to play?” I shake my head again and Steve takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Alright, let’s have a little lesson here.” And he proceeds to baby step me through the stupidity that is football.

  By the end of the third quarter I wouldn’t say I’m in any way an expert, but I’m beginning to see why people might like to watch the game. The kids on the field are athletic and every now and then something exciting happens. Usually I have no idea which team is on offense and which one is on defense, but at least now I know those two things exist. That’s progress, I guess. Steve’s even given me the Cliff Notes version of Graham’s career which is supposedly pretty impressive to people who know football. I try to act like I understand all the awards and stats that come out of his mouth. And now I know that Graham used to be something called a defensive end. I can already see that Google and I are about to become good friends.

  “Why am I getting this crash course in all things football?” I finally get the courage up to ask.

  Steve plays it off like it’s nothing. “Everyone should know a little about football,” he tells me but has trouble meeting my eyes.

  “Uh huh. That’s it?” I know there’s more to this than him wanting me to understand the game. This conversation has been too Graham-focused for me not to suspect he knows something. I can’t believe Graham would have told Julia’s dad about us but all signs are pointing in that direction.

  “I just thought you might like knowing what you’re watching. That’s all.”

  I’m about to just come right out and ask what he knows when the action on the television distracts us. One of the players is down on the field, his leg bent at an odd angle. All of the air gets sucked out of the room as we watch the camera pan from the kid’s face, to his leg, and back to his face again. He’s writhing around as the team doctors surround him and the other players on both teams kneel down.

  “That looks pretty bad,” I whisper. No one bothers to respond. We can all see that the injury is serious. When the coverage moves back to the studio Graham’s face is ashen. They’re carting the hurt player off the field, putting him in this golf cart thing and driving him back to the locker rooms as Graham’s colleagues ask him questions about his own injury. Not knowing enough about what’s happened to discuss the specifics of this college player’s possible recovery, they’re filling the time making Graham talk about his. He manages to keep talking, but doesn’t seem happy to be the one sharing.

  “Was Graham’s injury like that?” I gesture to the television, hoping Steve will reassure me that whatever happened to Graham was absolutely nothing like that. Instead I’m treated to a painful grimace.

  “Do yourself a favor. Don’t Google it.”

  When the game finally ends and we get the last few minutes of Graham in the studio, I’m ready for this whole evening to be over. I can feel the pinch between my shoulder blades from balancing all the crazy in this room. Steve’s still by my side, hanging on Graham’s every word. He really does want him to do well. I should be happy—Graham’s killing it by all accounts and he’s got a room full of people here who love him and want him to succeed—but I’m ready to go back to having him all to myself. I want our little bubble back.

  They’re signing off from the studio and we listen to the other suits wish their families a happy Thanksgiving. They’re happy to have spent this time with us, but apologize for being away from their wives and kids, parents and grandparents on this family holiday. Graham’s going last and both Charlie and Noah are nearly peeing their pants with excitement.

  “Say it, say it!” they both chant, little fists clenched.

  I watch as Graham’s face fills the screen again. “Since I’m always away for Thanksgiving, I’ve got this down pat. Happy turkey day to my family: my mom, Jackie; to Steve and Fran and Julia; and to my boys Noah and Charlie… now you can have pie.” The other announcers laugh and Graham gives the camera a wink.

  Charlie and Noah hoot and holler and run to the kitchen with Fran, Jackie, and Julia trailing behind them. Steve slumps into the couch next to me, obviously relieved that Graham’s big debut is over. I scan the other faces in the room and see some of the same shock I’m feeling.

  He called them his family, called Julia’s kids his boys.

  Zach’s sisters whisper on the couch, their heads bent together, and I can only imagine what they’re saying. We’re like intruders here, joining a family that was already more than complete without us.

  “Like I said,” my mother stage whispers to me from across the room. “Never going to let that one go.” Then she settles herself down, smug and satisfied, into her chair.

  22

  Graham

  One definite advantage to having Cassie agree to move forward even just a little bit with this attempt at a relationship is the increased access to her naked body. At least, that’s supposed to be one adv
antage. Today I’ve spent all afternoon trying to coax her into the shower with me after our workout. The giant walk-in shower I have in my master bathroom should be enough to entice her to slide out of her sweaty workout gear. I try to convince her of the benefits of multiple jets and the steam function, but Cassie just sort of growls at me. She’s been pissed off ever since I came home from my Thanksgiving TV audition. I have no idea why. Julia’s father told me that dinner had gone well. Cassie’s mom was only mildly inappropriate, and watching me on television wasn’t too horrible. He even taught Cassie some football stuff so she’d be able to better follow what was going on. Still, she’s been ice cold to me the past few days. Not counting the angry sex. When Cassie gets mad she likes to fuck it out of her system. It’s hard to complain about that.

  I half expect the house to be empty when I open the door to the shower stall to reach for my towel. Instead Cassie’s there, leaning against the tiled wall.

  “What’s that?” she asks me and I swear she’s looking at my cock. I start to get hopeful that she’s changed her mind about letting me help her get all the dirt off. Too late I realize her gaze has shifted a little to the left.

  “That’s a penis, Cassie. Want to come over here and get a better look?” I try to play it off like I don’t know what she’s really looking at, like I have no idea why her eyes are narrowing and her lip’s curling up into a snarl. She’s seen me naked before but she’s managed to miss the one thing that usually sends most of the women I date packing in the end.

  “I’m not looking at that, genius.” Cassie moves forward, her face getting dangerously close to my crotch. “I’m looking at this.” She points an accusing finger at my hip before I can get my towel wrapped safely around my waist.