I squeeze her hand but don’t push, even as we turn onto her mother’s street, and she inhales like she’s about to skate out to face off for the Cup.
We pull up to the large mint-green Victorian duplex. The aluminum siding is puckered and faded. One side is already strung with Christmas lights. The other has a collection of Halloween inflatables in a heap in the yard.
“Remember when I brought you birthday pancakes in bed this morning?” she whispers, her fingers tightening around mine as we walk up to thehouse.
I spin her around and gently grip her chin. “Haven’t forgotten all day.”
“Good. Keep doing that.” She kisses me, and when we break apart, she says, “Don’t hate me. Please.”
“Nope, impossible. Remember? Already told you, I’m keeping you.”
My attempt to lighten the mood falls flat.
Izzy knocks, but there’s no answer. She peeks over her shoulder at me before opening the door. The TV blares a football game no one is watching. People talk over each other in another room, voices sharp and overlapping, like everyone’s shouting into different voids.
“We’re here,” she announces.
Before I can say anything, a toddler in Bluey footie pajamas barrels around the corner.
“JAAAAAACK!”
Luca launches himself at me. I barely have time to crouch before he crashes into my chest. I scoop him up, and he smacks a drool-damp hand against my cheek like he owns me. He practically does, almost as much as his aunt owns me.
Izzy brushes her hand through his blond hair, scrunching her nose. “Straight for Jack, huh?”
Luca pats my face again, delighted with himself. I grin. “Missed you too, buddy.”
Izzy blushes, and the way she looks at him in my arms—soft, unguarded—does something to me I couldn't name if I tried. “I get it. I like him too.” She strips off her coat and scarf, then grabs mine as well, and tosses them over the back of a recliner. “I guess everyone…”
Her mom barely glances over her shoulder when we walk into the kitchen. “Oh, you made it. Good.” Jessica wipes her hands on a dish towel, gives me a two-second once-over, then turns straight to Izzy. “Can you help with the green beans?And tell Peyton to get off her phone. Jack, nice to see you again.”
Izzy’s shoulders drop.
“Like we don’t know who fucking Jack Murphy is.” A tall man walks in from the hallway, a beer in his hand. “Nice to meet you, man. Phil.”
He holds out his hand to shake mine. He has beady blue eyes and a thinning patch of blond hair on top of his head, the sides shaved close. He’s wearing a Patriots sweatshirt and paint-smeared jeans.
“Get out of the kitchen, Phil. For fuck’s sake.”
Izzy cups her hands over Luca’s ears, glaring at her mother and Phil. “Peyton and I have both asked you to watch your language around him.”
Jessica scrunches her face, flicking her hands. “He’s gonna hear it eventually. Phil, I swear to fu—God.” She makes a point to stare at me before meeting Izzy’s glare. “There? Happy?”
“Leave the girls to it, Jack. Let’s watch the game.”
I don’t want to leave Izzy, especially as her smile falls and she moves toward the stove before I can even put Luca down. It happens that quickly. I lose her in a slip of a minute. Suddenly, she’s clearing space on the counter, taking out dishes, and preparing the rest of Thanksgiving while everyone seems content to bitch and moan. She’s a one-woman rescue squad, and no one seems to notice she’s doing the work of five people.
Izzy asks Peyton and Jessica to set the table, but as far as I can tell, they don’t budge until Jessica mutters something about needing a smoke and disappears. Peyton, with wide-set gray eyes, freckles along her cheeks, and pale pink lips, doesn’t look up from her phone. Phil yells for me to join him again. But I’m left feeling useless as Luca tugs on the leg of my jeans.
“He’s tired,” Peyton shouts from her spot on the couch out in the living room. “Come here, baby.”
Finally, Riley races down the stairs and flashes me a smile. “Hey,” she says coolly. She tosses me her new driver’s license before dashing into the kitchen. “I’ll help you set the table, Iz.”
Izzy spins at Riley’s voice, catching her hand on the oven rack, and curses under her breath as she removes the turkey from the oven. I scoop up Luca, take him out to the living room, then grab Izzy and run her hand under cold water from the kitchen faucet. When she glances up at me, I swear she’s about to cry.
“We can leave right now,” I whisper.
“It’s fine.” She yanks her hand away, wiping it on the towel.
