The holiday must have put my sister on my mother’s mind because the next words out of her mouth are, “I can’t believe Juliet wouldn’t even consider coming home for Thanksgiving.”
I hand my mom the bottle of wine I’d grabbed from the store this morning, and sigh. “Juliet doesn’t usually come to Thanksgiving.”
Mom sniffs. “I know that, but you’d think she’d come visit us atsome point. Or at least let us come visit her!”
I have a feeling this will be a sore topic with our mother long after Juliet finally invites us to visit, but it’s especially bad now. I can’t say I blame her. She hasn’t met her first grandchild, and Terra’s about to hit her third birthday. I also know how hard it was for Mom when she missed out on all of Juliet’s pregnancy. I have a feeling our parents wanted to be more involved in our adult lives than Juliet is allowing.
The worst of it is the not-knowing. Not knowing if something we did caused the rift between Juliet and us. If she was mad at us. Or if she just wanted to go out on her own. But if the latter were the case, why hadn’t she given us any sort of explanation? She didn’t even want our parents to know what town she was in. She swore me to secrecy before she told me, figuring our parents would show up unannounced if they knew exactly where to find her. She was probably right.
“Well,” I say with a grin, hoping to lighten the mood. “Your favorite child is here now, so what else could you ask for?”
She returns my smile with a small appreciative one of her own before beckoning me to follow her into the kitchen. I trail after her, noticing that she keeps fiddling with her apron. Her dark brown hair, streaked with grey, is pulled back from her face, and she wears no makeup. A small, helpless pang echoes in my chest as I notice how frazzled she is. The holidays used to be her favorite time of year. She’s always loved hosting and being surrounded by family and friends. Ever since Juliet left without a word, my parents had stopped inviting friends over, and the holidays were now just the three of us.
“Hey, Dad!” I wave at him as we pass.
He grunts in acknowledgment as he continues watching some sort of Broadway performance from the parade on thescreen. My mother shakes her head, but a happy smile plays across her lips.
They have always had what I imagine is the perfect marriage. They fight, sure, but they always resolve their issues and never yell at each other in front of Juliet or me. They cook together and dance in the kitchen when no music is playing. They watch each other’s favorite shows even when they don’t care about them themselves.
I had always grown up thinking that if a relationship didn’t make me as happy as my parents appeared to be, then it wasn’t true love.
Now I wasn’t sure what true love really was. Can you settle for contentment and still have a happy marriage? Do you need to be as disgustingly happy as my parents?
An image of Summer laughing as we played pool flits across my mind. There’s something about being with Summer that does make me feel happy. She’s like the sun breaking through the clouds after a long storm.
But Summer left before I’d even woken up. She obviously thought the other night was a mistake—rightly so, as it shouldn’t have happened. The rational part of me knows that, but the irrational part doesn’t regret a single moment of that night. If I’m completely honest with myself, I want to have more nights like that with her. Longer nights. Weekends together. I want to be able to take her out on a date. Show her that I can, in fact, be a gentleman. I can treat her right. Definitely better than I’ve been treating her.
Guilt pools in my stomach. I’ve been awful toward her. Pulling her in and then promptly pushing her away. The mixed signals alone were probably enough to make her head spin. I can only imagine the emotions she’s been experiencing over the past few weeks.
Or maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe she hasn’t caught feelings as I have. Maybe she finds me physically attractive, but that’s as far as it goes. Maybe all of this is one-sided, and she’s just having fun, enjoying the attention.
The guilt turns to acid in my stomach, and I feel sick.
A selfish part of me hopes that none of that is true. I want her to feel the undeniable connection that I feel. I don’t want this to be one-sided.
But she left before we could talk about what happened. She never even responded to my text. She’s ignoring me. I can’t blame her, though. Maybe she feels like I’m playing with her.
I’ll at the very least make sure she knows that I didn’t invite her to my apartment with the intention of sleeping with her. I’ll tell her I don’t regret what happened, but I understand if she doesn’t want to interact with me any more than she has to. I’ll respect her decision and keep my distance even though I hate the idea of never being able to talk with her outside an academic setting again.
Maybe it’s something we can revisit once she graduates?
Now I’m spiraling.
“Need any help, Mom?” I ask, pulling myself out of the woe-is-me bullshit.
“Oh, no, that’s all right, dear,” she chirps. “Go watch TV with your father.”
I give her a quick peck on the cheek, and her smile brightens; all signs of our earlier conversation regarding my sister are gone. “Thanks for cooking,” I add before making my way into the living room to spend some time with my dad.
Since everyone shouldstill be with their families, I decide it won’t hurt to enjoy my favorite bar while it’s empty. I can call Elijah to see if he’s available. I wouldn’t put it past him to be out in the city on Thanksgiving. He doesn’t have much of a family and therefore rarely celebrates any holidays.
Or I can finish grading the midterms.
I drive to the bar, fully convinced that one beer can’t hurt.
Dave greets me as I enter and grabs a glass for my beer before I’ve fully reached the bar.
“What are you doing here on Thanksgiving?” I ask with a warm smile.
