Page 53 of Never Your Valentine

“For a year.” He’s gone inward, completely shutting down.

I put the trophy back in its cloud of dust, sorry I picked it up. “It’s nice to see who you were.”

“It’s just kid stuff,” he says.

Tammy calls down that it’s time to eat, and we make our way upstairs.

Dinner happens all around me. That’s the only way I can describe it. Dishes are passed, stories overlap, everyone talks at once and is somehow still heard. I try to keep track of it all as Tammy adds braised venison to my plate, and Scott passes me the green beans, and Felix makes a complicated gesture with his spoon that everyone else seems to understand, groaning like it’s the worst joke they ever heard.

They talk about the food, and the Red Wings, and each other. I can see them falling back into childhood roles. Grant, the oldest, acting as director of the chaos. June the middle-child peacemaker. Felix between them, clowning it up just to be heard. Blake taking it all in, learning supreme social skills from having so many examples.

I grip my napkin in my lap, letting myself imagine that I grew up like this, in a loud family that operated as a unit. Nana and I loved spending time together, but it involved drawing together side-by-side while listening to Motown music, not trash talking, inside jokes, and conversations like nesting dolls of history.

“How are you holding up?” June asks across the cluttered table. “I know we can be a lot.”

“We’re the exact right amount,” Felix counters.

“I’m great,” I say.

“Steady,” Grant says. “Because you’re about to lose your shirt. Literally.”

“Ready to play some ee-cray?” Felix asks.

“Some what?”

“Ignore him,” Grant says. “We don’t joke about euchre.”

Everyone seems to hear the same signal as they stand and clear their plates. The leftovers are packed away and the dishes dumped in the sink. June grabs my hand and drags me to one of the two card tables that Felix and Blake have set up near the TV. Before I can even sit, skinny euchre decks are stacked on the tables, while behind me, Tammy and Scott are whispering about bets.

Everyone seems to be taking this way too seriously and I realize that dinner, as overwhelming as it felt, will be nothing compared to euchre.

Blake tries to take the chair opposite me. June shoves him out of the way. “Annabelle is my partner.” She gives him a big-sister glare that says she isn’t arguing about it. “She needs me.”

“Whatever,” Blake says. “I guess I’m with Dad.”

“Mom?” Felix asks.

“Sure, honey.”

That leaves Grant and Dylan. They fist-bump and call each other “bro.” They take the other two seats at our table.

“Watch out,” Grant says. “Because I don’t play nice.” He nods at the t-shirt. He’s got a personal reason to crush me in this game and he’s clearly looking forward to it.

“I love this family,” Dylan tells me. “I really do. But if one of them says, ‘it’s just euchre,’ it’s already too late.”

“Too late for what?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“And if they say, ‘we’ll allow it this time,’ pack your bags.”

“Stop it,” June shushes him. “You’re scaring her.”

“I’m just saying, in this family, euchre comes with house rules, footnotes, a tribunal, and penalties that carry over to Thanksgiving.”

Grant nods as if Dylan isn’t exaggerating at all. “Still want to play?”

“Deal the cards.”

Grant deals us each five cards. June has already passed on the first trump before I’ve even arranged my suits. We go around the table, trump is hearts, and Grant shows both red jacks at once. This is way faster than my computer program and I’m struggling to keep up.