The three of us eat in tense silence for several minutes until Mom clears her throat loudly. “So, I know it’s early, but your father and I would like to nail down some plans for Thanksgiving. Brian and Steph’s families have already agreed to have lunch at our house on Thanksgiving Day. Will you be joining us?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Good! I simply wanted to make sure. I’ll have Megan create a group chat or something where we can decide who is bringing what.”
I nod, scooping another spoonful of mashed potatoes.
“Will you be bringing anyone this year?”
I nearly scoff at her question. As much as it pains me to face my family alone, I can’t imagine ever burdening anyone with that kind of torture again. Last year, after I begged Celeste to tag along, she almost got into a screaming match with my bigoted cop brother-in-law. The year before, I invited Tyler, my boyfriend at the time, and, while he claimed to have a decent time, my family assumed we were destined to get married. My siblings still ask about him to this day. Max has a large family, so he’s never available during Thanksgiving. Even if he were, I refuse to expose him to my family’s special brand of ignorance.
Naturally, Nikki would never be welcome if they knew the true nature of our relationship, and given my parents’ disapproving comments about her appearance today, I have absolutely no intention of bringing her anywhere near them.
So, who does that leave? Oliver? No way, I couldn’t do that to him.
“Nope,” I finally answer. “It’ll just be me this year.”
My mother frowns. “Well, if you change your mind, let us know. Your Aunt Lisa and Uncle David’s family are also coming.”
I stifle a groan. Jesus Christ, that’s going to make it huge. “So does that include Austin and Taylor’s kids, too?”
Mom nods. “Sure does! I think I counted twenty-one people total, including you. If you bring someone, it’ll round it up to an even twenty-two!”
Or if I don’t come at all, you can round it down to an even nicer twenty,I think. Instead, I say, “Cool.”
“It’s probably the most people we’ve ever had in this house,” Dad adds.
Mom beams. “It’s going to be wonderful!”
My stomach churns with dread. Holidays with my immediate family have always been awkward enough, but adding my maternal aunt’s family to the mix doubles the discomfort. Momand Aunt Lisa have been close all their lives, and they married and had kids around the same time, ensuring we would all stay close as we grew up together. Unsurprisingly, Mom and Lisa’s kids also married and had kids around the same age, except, of course, for me. As always, I’m completely out of place, stuck between generations—too young for the adults’ table and too old for the kids’ table.
Thanksgiving is going to be miserable.
“Oh, and I know Megan will mention this, but we’d love for you to make that pumpkin pie you made for us last year again! Liam requested it specifically.”
That actually makes me smile. Liam’s a good kid. I think he’s eleven now? It’s a shame he’s stuck with my shitty brother as a father. “Aww,” I say. “Okay, I will.”
“You’ll just have to double the recipe,” Dad remarks. “Maybe even triple it.”
“Well, wait for Megan’s group chat before you go and buy the ingredients,” Mom says. “Your cousin Ashlynn loves to bake, too, so I don’t want to step on any toes.”
“Okay.” I have no plans to buy any recipe ingredients until I’m sure it isn’t possible to get out of going to Thanksgiving altogether, but I don’t mention that.
“You’re always welcome to bring Celeste again,” Mom adds after a few moments. “I’m sure Cody will have his hands full with the kids and won’t have time to get into–”
I shake my head. “That’s okay, Mom.”
She sighs. “I just…I know it can be a little awkward when you’re on your own. With the age differences and everything.”
I’m genuinely surprised she is even aware of my discomfort. “It’s fine. I’ve been making it work for nineteen years. What’s one more?”
“That’s my girl,” Dad says, giving me a wink.
With effort, I force a smile in return.
“Oh, that reminds me!” Mom exclaims. “Did we tell you who we saw at church a few weeks back?”
Mom spends the next several minutes rambling about local gossip, and I struggle to pay attention. We finish our meals, and Dad pays the check. Before we leave, I slip a few extra dollars onto the table, confident that my father’s tip is nowhere near sufficient. It’s a habit I developed years ago, after learning just how awful the older generation is about tipping, when Celeste started waiting tables the summer before senior year. Unsurprisingly, my dad was no exception.
