“Yeah.”
She smiles again. Better.
“Right.”
Beside me, my mother takes her seat and looks at Aspen’s horrible smile. She lifts her water and takes a sip. She doesn’t say a word.
I look at Aspen, who’s ignoring me, and then I look at my mom. She knows something’s off. She’s known since Aspen disappeared for over an hour.
I lose the play.
That’s fine.
Chapter 20
Aspen
My mother carries the brisket in. Plates pass. Wine pours. We start with appetizers. I drink my wine while the words of my fake boyfriend echo in my mind.
Smile.
I am smiling.
“You’re much more like your mother than I thought,” Aunt Lisa says, raising eyebrows toward Stanley across from us.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say back.
Across the table, Stanley is doing better than he has any right to. He has Margaret laughing into her napkin. He has Robert nodding along at something. Twice in three minutes, he’s saidyes, sirto Uncle Pete in a way that left Uncle Pete visibly pleased with himself.
I keep my eyes on Aunt Lisa.
“He’s a lot like your father,” she says, expanding her hands from her head.
She’s always disliked my father’s athleticism because it comes with a sense of arrogance. Aunt Lisa has always been humble.She’s not like my mom, who is showy and happy to dance about it in public. And she’s not wrong about Stanley’s confidence. The man is named after the freaking trophy for crying out loud. He was meant for greatness, and he knows it.
I sip my wine and keep my eyes locked on Aunt Lisa’s. I know she wants to say more because there’s always more.
She leans in and says, “I just hope you don’t turn into your mother.”
My eyes flick down the table to where my mom is sitting. She’s talking and eating.
“Did she tell you to say that?” I ask, swirling my wine. “Is that why I’m sitting next to you for Thanksgiving?”
That sounds much more like my mom than Lisa.
She stares into my eyes. “I requested to sit next to my favorite person.”
“What did my mom say about him?” I ask, sipping my wine. “Tell me all the things, Aunt.”
She whispers, “She told me on the phone that he reminds her of your father at that age.”
I look at Stanley then. Is that possible? I wouldn’t know. I only know the version of my father after the success, not the one reaching for it.
Just then, my father taps his glass with the edge of his knife while Aunt and I stare at each other. The table goes quiet in three seconds. I turn my head to look at him, ignoring the eyes that are on me.
My father stands. I set my wine glass down very carefully, because something in the way he’s standing is telling me to brace myself.
“I’m not going to make a thing of this,” he says. “I just want to say it out loud one time.”
