I’m making it up as I go and hoping maybe everyone willdrinkenough to forget he exists.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I hope he gets here soon.”
“Same,” I mumble.
“Well, let’s get started on drinks without him, and we can hold off on fooduntilhe arrives.”
At least if we’re alldrinkingon empty stomachs, my plan has a higher likelihood of succeeding.“Great. What do you have?”
In general, I don’tdrinkmuch. The impact alcohol has on my dance performance is toobig. Especially once we enter Nutcracker season. I typically set adateto stopdrinkinguntilNew Year’s, and that day is today. What a coincidence that the last day I’mdrinkingand thedateof mybigfamily get-together happen to be the same.
“All the usuals. I’ve got a nice holiday cocktail if you want it, since you won’t drink it on Thanksgiving.”I hear the disappointment in her voice. Not that she wants me to get drunk, but she prides herself on making these punches. Some people are proud of their cookies or casseroles; my mom is proud of her cocktails. She’s right that I won’t have one later. With Thanksgiving being the opening weekend for The Nutcracker, things are far too hectic. I’m either preparing, performing, or sleeping.
“I’ll take one of those.”Who knows what she puts in her concoctions, but they’re always delicious. When a crystal punch cup appears in my hand, full of a rubydrink, I’m instantly relieved. Do I know how I’m going to get out of the boyfriend thing? Nope. But for the next five minutes, this sweet and tangydelightis going to melt away my stress.
My mother lives for entertaining. If there’s a chance tohave a party for something—Thanksgiving, Easter, Flag Day—it’ll be at her house. And no, I didn’t get any alcohol as a child. She madesurethere was an equally exciting punch for kids or anyone not drinking. It was pure sugar, which was, of course, why we liked it.
“So, what were you up to today?”my father asks when I step into the sitting room. That’s what my mom insists we call it. I’m reasonably certain it’s similar to a living room, but she insists it’s fancier.
“Class andrehearsals, the usual.”My poor parents have heard more about ballet than they probably ever dreamed they would. The phase they thought would pass quickly is still going strong, almost twenty years later.
“What show are you rehearsing for?”
It’s sometimes hard to remember that the last two months of the year don’t revolve around TheNutcrackerfor everyone.“Getting intoNutcrackerrehearsals. We open over Thanksgiving.”
“You’ll get us tickets, right?”
I nod.“Of course.”It’s not that they haven’t come to my shows. They’ve been to dozens of them over the years, usually flying wherever I am to see something. This will be the first time they’ve seen me in TheNutcrackeras a professional. For some reason, it feels like a milestone. As a child, The Nutcracker was my first time on stage, in the role of one of the party children in the first scene. Small, but it paved the way for the rest of my career. And on the same stage where I’ll be performing this year. It’s a full circle moment, and I’m so thankful they’ll be there to see it.
“Why are you so jittery tonight?”I follow my father’s gaze toward my knee, which is jackhammering against the sofa. I slap my hand over it, hoping it stops the fidgeting.
“You know… holidays?” I offer.
“Or because your special someone is meeting the family?”
Yeah, I’m royally fucked.“I’m gonna grab another drink.”
AIDAN
“Hi, Edith.”I greet the woman at the front door. I’ve known her most of my life, having been friends with her son when we were growing up.
“Oh my God.Aidan!”Well, that’s more enthusiasm than I was expecting. She loves my mom’s cookies, but they aren’tthatgood.
Okay, they might be. I’m spoiled by being able to get them anytime I want.
“Covey refused to give away his secret, so I knew it was going to be good, but this is even better than I could’ve hoped for.”
Okay, I’m confused. Not exactly a new thing for me. I tend toward pretending I know what’s going on until I figure it out. That tactic has carried me through life pretty well at this point.
“We’re so excited.”
“Oh, yeah. Me, too.”That must be the correct answer, because she beams back at me.
“Well, don’t stand around out there. We’ve been expecting you. Come in.”
It’s not like I have something to do, unless a date with my couch andNetflixcounts as plans. I swore to every deity my mom could think of that I’d deliver all these before I wenthome. This is the lastbatchon my list, and then I’m free.
I duck into the familiarhome. It’s thesameplaceI used to visit for years to hang out withCovey. There have been a fewupdates, but it looks essentially thesame. All the furniture is oversized, but cozy. If it’s a flat surface, Edith has covered it in some craft. Afghan. Doiley. Crochet cover. Doesn’t matter. Theplacewas always a rotating version of whatever the flavor of the month was for her. It’s strangely reassuring how little it’s changed.
