I try on worldly and mature for my mom to see if it works on her too.
“We’re just hanging out.” I sip my coffee as casually as possible, but it’s hot and I burn my tongue. I cover it up with a pained squeal while I choke—you know, like all worldly and mature women do. “It’s just a casual thing.” I finish when my tongue stops throbbing.
She shakes her head slightly in disbelief.
“This isn’t going to work.”
I feel indignant and rush to defend myself.
“This is 2015, Mother, and I’m twenty-six years old! I know it’s not a choice you would make, but if you try and lay some Catholic guilt on me, I’m going to scream. It doesn’t make sense to you, but it’s my life and it’s working just fine.”
Some of my hair has escaped the bun in an attempt to defend me as well. She reaches out to tuck a piece back behind my ear, completely ignoring my tirade. The sad look on her face tears my heart out. She reaches for my hand and grabs it tightly.
“You don’t understand. What you’re doing wouldn’t be my choice, but I recognize that you’re allowed to make your own. I mean that it’s not going to work because you’re not capable of this kind of relationship—”
“You don’t know what I’m—”
“Yes, I do. You’ve got more heart than anyone I know. If you’ve been interested in him for so long, it means he’s got a piece of yours whether he wants it or not. It’s not going to work, because you won’t be capable of casually”—she clears her throat—“hanging out. If that’s all he’s interested in, you’re going to be hurt by this eventually. You don’t know how to love halfway.”
Her hazel eyes are filled with worry, but they stare me down with a bit of demand.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” Tosh announces with far too much enthusiasm. He’s already dressed for the day, and I wonder how long he’s been hiding in the hallway listening to our conversation. Based on the look on his face, I’m assuming he’s heard enough and totally agrees with my mother. He’s going to rescue me all the same. It’s a sibling code of honor.
“I thought we’d take them to breakfast, since we’re going to be cooking most of the day. What do you think, Koko?”
I think I want to hug him for creating a distraction. I think I want to curl up in a ball and cry over my mother’s obvious disapproval. I think my gut is churning with all the emotions I’ve experienced in the last couple of days. I think breakfast is a much better option than doing any of those things. When I answer it’s with just as much false enthusiasm as Tosh used.
“How about doughnuts?”
When we roll up to the Ashtons’ home later that afternoon, the holiday is already in full swing. I say roll because among the four of us, we polished off enough of my mom’s food to warrant some embarrassment on our parts. The idea of consuming anything else should make me want to heave, but I can always find room for one of Max’s desserts. I’m looking forward to it almost as much as I’m looking forward to seeing how Vivian’s florist has designed the party.
I’ve never been to Thanksgiving at their house before, but I know from Landon that Viv always throws a huge dinner party complete with chefs and servers and centerpieces the size of a one-year-old child. For once it’s fun to be the one invited to something like this instead of the one producing it for a client.
When we ring the bell, it’s Charlie who opens the door in slacks and a blue sweater that matches his eyes. He greets my parents with the enthusiasm usually reserved for long-lost cousins. It’s always interesting to watch someone meet your family for the first time, to wonder what they’ll think now that they can fit more pieces of your puzzle together. I wonder what he sees, looking at my parents now. My mother is chic, but in the understated way of Audrey Hepburn. My dad isn’t as tall as our host, but he has his own impeccable sense of style, and the salt and pepper in his hair makes him look distinguished. He shakes Charlie’s hand and offers up a beautifully wrapped bottle.
“Miko tells me you’re a wine connoisseur. Since we’re not too far from Napa, we took the liberty of picking out something exceptional for you.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Charlie says, though it doesn’t sound very convincing. He starts to untie the twine, eyes alight with possibilities of small boutique wineries or a vintage Meritage blend. “Though it’s certainly appreciated. I love finding out what other people . . .”
His voice trails off as the paper falls away to reveal the bottle of Charles Shaw we picked up especially for this day. Anyone who’s ever shopped at Trader Joe’s knows that bottle costs exactly $1.99.
“We splurged and got the 2016,” Mom says cheekily.
Charlie starts laughing. Not chuckles, but deep, real laughter of surprise over the bottle of Two-Buck Chuck. He smiles and looks at me.
“Well, now I know where she gets it.”
Everyone laughs, and after a few more jokes about the wine, we head in the direction of the party. We don’t make it more than a handful of feet before my dad stops walking completely. The entryway is muted in tones of white and beige; the only color at all comes from the large painting on the wall that’s lit from at least three different directions by lights installed for just that purpose. Dad stands in the center of the room and stares at the Pollock with the rapture of a pilgrim returning to the Holy Land. I exchange a grin with Tosh. I purposely didn’t tell my art-professor father about Charlie’s art collection, because I thought it’d be way more fun to see him experience it with surprise. I was right.
Charlie admires it along with him. “I fell in love with his work the first time I saw the Guggenheim collection. I chased after this piece for fifteen years before I was able to snag it at auction.”
“It’s fantastic,” Dad says with reverence.
“They have at least one of his there at Stanford, right?”
“Yes. Lucifer is part of the Anderson Collection, but this is—I’ve never seen Number 3 in person before.” As if remembering himself, he turns to Tosh and me. “Do you know why he numbered his paintings rather than name them?”
My dad is incapable of sharing information straight out. He always frames it in the form of a question. Miko, can you tell me why those flowers are blooming, but the others are not? Kitoshi, do you know what Lichtenstein based his prints on? Koko, what can you tell me about the Bolsheviks’ rise to power? It used to drive me insane as a child, but now I understand him in a way I didn’t then. A lifetime of him drilling me for math tests and high SAT scores means that I know he can’t step out of his role as an educator any more than I can stop redesigning every room in my head the minute I walk into it. He believes you’re much more likely to retain information if you have to work it out in your head before you grasp it, so asking a question like this is just how he operates.
“I’m not sure,” I answer with a shrug.
“Because he didn’t want the viewer to have any preconceived notions about the work,” my mother murmurs, following the drips and splatters of paint with her eyes. “A title might tell you how to feel about it. A number forces you to draw your own conclusion—decide on your own what it’s supposed to be.”
My father beams at her.
“Teacher’s pet,” I squeeze out through a round of fake coughing.
Charlie gestures down the hall. “Come on, Miko. Let’s get you a drink. I’d hate to think you might choke to death when I’ve got a perfectly good bottle of two-dollar wine right here.”
As I follow Charlie down the hall past more priceless paintings and family pictures, my nervousness grows with every step I take. I saw Liam eight hours ago, and I should not feel this excited about seeing him again when we just hung out. But today is special. Today is a holiday. Today he’ll meet my parents. Today he’ll see me in this adorable red velvet vintage dress from the sixties, with its white Peter Pan collar and its short skirt. Today’s outfit says pre
tty, flirty, romantic. I saved this recent flea market find for months just so he could see me wear it for the first time.
The house is packed with people, but it’s easy enough to make out my group of friends lounging on various surfaces of the sectional in the far corner of the large room. After grabbing a glass of very expensive wine from Charlie, I take a moment to lust after all of Max’s desserts. The little signs tell me she made bananas foster banana pudding, her famous chocolate coconut cream pie, and something that looks like homemade Oreos. Nobody has started in on them yet, so I whisper a vow to return soon and head over to my friends. Max and Taylor are sitting on the floor with Casidee around a coffee table. Malin is lying on the sofa like a fatted calf. I make my way over to them and laugh in surprise when I see what they’re doing.
“A puzzle?” I ask in shock.
Max is adorable in skinny jeans and a cozy-looking bronze-colored sweater that brings out the gold in her eyes when she rolls them at me. “Apparently the Taylor family does one every Thanksgiving. I am trying to be supportive.”
“You’ve been trying to put that corner together for half an hour and failing miserably.” Taylor kisses her cheek without removing his hands from the pieces he’s working on. “Good thing you’re cute.”
I plop down on the end of the sofa next to Malin’s head. “And what’s wrong with you, Briar Rose?”
“I went out with friends last night.” Her bloodshot eyes peel open slowly to look at me. “Mistakes were made.”
I scan the room again, but there’s still no sign of the blond Viking god.
“Ahh, you poor lamb. Can I get you something?” I take a sip of the excellent pinot noir. “Maybe some tuna casserole or three-day-old baby food or gefilte fish that’s been left out in the afternoon sun?”
Malin covers her hand with her mouth and uses the other one to sock me. “You are so rude!”
I put my wine on the table next to me before the little harridan forces me to spill it all over Vivian’s designer sofa. Malin’s blonde hair is spread out all over the sofa cushion, so I gather part of it in my hands to work on a French braid.
“It serves you right,” I say, twisting the hair into place. “Getting drunk is so childish.”
Casidee looks up from her section of the puzzle. “You were drunk twice last month!”
“Exactly.” I pull the hair tie off my wrist and secure the end of the long blonde braid. “Do you really want me as your role model?”
“Too late,” Tosh says, sitting down on the other side of the sofa. “When I’m finally grown up, you’re exactly who I’m going to emulate. Right down to the colorful nail polish.”
Malin moves slowly into a sitting position. The thirty percent of her hair that’s braided flops awkwardly in her face, but she’s apparently too sick to care.
“Nail polish can look really sexy on a man,” she tells Tosh.
I assume she’s just trying to make conversation, but it comes out as a groan. He winces along with the rest of us at how miserable she sounds.
I glance around the room again but still don’t see who I’m looking for.
“Why don’t you have your brother make you one of his hangover concoctions?” I ask. “As I recall it worked really well for you after last year’s wine-pong tourney.”
Malin falls back against the sofa with a world-weary sigh.
“I can’t. He isn’t here.”
Disappointment crashes through me.
“Oh?” is all I can manage.
Max doesn’t look up from her puzzle pieces. “He decided to go spend the day with his mom at the last minute.”
I try to sound casual. “I thought he switched back and forth? I thought this year he was supposed to be here?”
My hands feel clammy, and my stomach flips over.
How many weeks did I hold on to this stupid dress in anticipation of this day? Or worse, how long did I spend convincing my family to come here for Thanksgiving? At the time I said it would be fun to try a new locale, but the truth was I’d wanted to know what it was like to spend a holiday around him, even if it was only for dessert. My heart shrivels up in desolation.
She shrugs absentmindedly. “I guess he changed his mind.”
“Oh,” I push out of my mouth for the second time.
Tosh is looking at me with barely concealed . . . not pity, exactly, but something really close. When I attempt to look away from him, Max is staring at me curiously. I really have to get better at not showing every single emotion on my face! I smile brightly and jump up from the sofa, not really sure of my destination, just sure that I need to move before the jig is well and truly up.
“You going to get Mom and Dad?” Tosh prompts me. “So everyone can finally meet them?”
Gods bless him for giving me a destination!
“Yes! It’s about time we make this meet and greet official. Casidee!” I snap my fingers in her direction. “You brought my robe and all the ingredients for ritual sacrifice?” My voice sounds a little strained, not at all the proper delivery for one of my better jokes, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“The chicken is in a pen out back,” she tells me, deadpan. “Once you’ve bathed in the goat’s milk, we can begin.”
Everyone laughs at her comment, and under normal circumstances I would have too. Instead I use it as an opportunity to escape to the bathroom.
I step inside the powder room and look at myself in the mirror. I spent way too much time choosing my look today, and now it just feels ridiculous. Would he really go to this much effort to avoid me? He might not always give me the answer I’m hoping for, but he’s always been honest with me until now. Changing plans last minute seems childish and for some reason dishonest. And now I’m questioning his intentions again and second-guessing myself.
I hate that I keep swinging back and forth through emotions so quickly. This morning I was thrilled, and now I feel sick to my stomach. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do in this scenario. Call him on it? Pretend indifference? What I really want to do is chew him out, just like that Amazon I saw on New Year’s did.
I turn the faucet on and wash my hands just to have something to do. When the cold water hits my skin, another thought occurs to me. I keep running New Year’s around in my head, and with each passing second my conviction grows. I dry my hands, pull my phone out of my sweater pocket, and then bring up our latest text exchange. What if he is avoiding me and I’m going to make a fool of myself? What if he’s not and he needs a friend? I stare at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back looks flushed with emotion and totally unsure of herself. I guess it comes down to what’s more important. Would I rather try to keep up some pretense of detachment on behalf of my pride, or would I rather check on my friend?
When put like that, the answer is obvious. When it comes to the people I care about, pride could not be lower on my list of priorities.
I press the button to call his phone.
It rings several times, and when it eventually goes to voice mail, I hesitate before forcing myself to say what I called to say.
“Hey, I just wanted to check on you and make sure everything was OK.” I push my hair out of my face. “Sorry if this message makes me sound like a stalker. I promise not to put your bunny in a pot or anything. Um, call if you need something, OK?”
As I make my way back down the hallway, my phone’s empty screen mocks me. Zero new texts and no new emails. What if he doesn’t write me back? What if he—
The phone buzzes in my hand, and I have to tap out my password three times before I get it right.
Hardly the most stalker-like voice mail I’ve ever received.
I smile with relief at his playful message, then realize he didn’t actually address the reason I called in the first place.
Is everything OK?
The typing icon pops up, but it takes h
im several minutes to respond. The short length of his text makes me wonder if he debated the answer or just wrote and rewrote his response several times.
She’s having a bad day.
My heart breaks for him. How sad that he’s the only one around to pick up the pieces. How sad that he’s spending yet another holiday like this.
How can I help? Do you need anything?
I stare at the screen, willing him to answer for so long that I finally start to wonder if maybe that wasn’t the right thing to ask. Liam doesn’t ask for help, and he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who needs anything or anyone. My suspicions are confirmed when I get his terse reply.
Have a nice Thanksgiving.
I have to force myself to put the phone back into my pocket without responding. Even a stalker like me knows better than to keep pushing him when he’s obviously not interested in discussing it further. With another worried sigh I head back to find my parents.
Chapter NINE
I’m sure I’ve done stupider things.
I went bungee jumping once at a county fair strapped into a dirty harness and trusted my safety to a carney still coming off last night’s bender. Last year I convinced Landon that we should start our own company, though at the time I had very little belief that we could actually succeed and no money at all in my savings account. I only knew that my friend needed something to go right for her, so I walked away from the security of a big salary and let my blind faith and her enthusiasm propel us forward. And just last month when that same friend said we should try aerial yoga, I went along—certain parts of my abs are still sore from that mistake. The point is I’ve done stupid things. None of those feel stupider than carrying this box up Liam’s front walk and ringing the bell.
When I got home tonight and my parents were finally in bed, I knew I had to do something. I hated just sitting at home not knowing what was going on with him. I hated the fact that nobody was taking care of him, in particular his mother, who’d been assigned the role but was unable to fulfill it. I can’t imagine how saddening that must be, particularly on a holiday when most moms—my own included—were busy fussing over everyone.
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