Page 31 of The Apparent Trap

“I don’t know,” my dad says with a chuckle, “sometimes Ezzie picks some pretty random movies.”

I lightly swat at him. “Hey!”

“Case in point—I think today you’d settled on a musical marathon, starting with Newsies,” he points out.

“Okay,” I reply, sitting up straighter. “Newsies is not random. Yes, it was a flop when it was released, but now it’s a cult classic! It’s about New York! And for Thanksgiving it’s all about sharing and underdogs . . . Come on, it’s really a perfect choice.”

“I agree that eighties and nineties movies tend to really be the most satisfying to rewatch,” Lee says.

“I didn’t—” I start, but he just talks right over me.

“Like, before CGI, everything had to be done practically. They had real sets and so much more detail. Newsies is such a great example of that.”

“Well, yeah but—”

“You know, the first movie I saw in theaters was the last Indiana Jones,” Lee says, then looks over at my dad. Oh god, is this his tactic? Find a love of shared old movies to showcase that they’re both old? Come on.

But apparently my dad is just elated to eat the bait. “I saw all three in the movie theater,” he says. “The first one, I was in middle school, and it blew my mind. Like, right from the start with that rolling boulder? Amazing.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Carmen says. I catch the glimmer of triumph in Lee’s gaze. “My mom never let me go to the movies,” she continues, “so I missed those.” She looks over at my dad. “We should watch it.”

Lee’s expression dims. I wonder if hearing anything about Carmen’s mom or childhood reminds him of everything he chose to miss.

But it’s amazing how quickly he switches back into his normal mode. For a while, I think he’s dropped his entire ageist plan. He notices the time and starts serving dinner. And if I’d thought the food seemed exciting just from staring at it, having it all in front of us is a whole other ball game. This meal is truly a feast. A golden, crisp turkey. Cranberry sauce with figs and pistachios. Biscuits fluffier than any man from California should know how to make.

But the most surprising is when he sets the mashed potatoes down on the table. “And these are mashed potatoes with a little bacon, arugula, and tomatoes.”

“So like . . . BLT mashed potatoes?” I ask.

“No,” he says quickly. “Not necessarily that, they’re not anything particularly special.” The modesty looks weird on him.

But he’s wrong—they’re the best mashed potatoes I’ve ever eaten. I, however, say nothing since I don’t want to admit that to him.

The meal is convivial enough. Carmen seems more relaxed here than she is at the office, even if she’s still kind of a mystery to me, not exactly sharing a lot of personal stories. But we chat about everyone’s work and the news and the holidays generally, so it all moves easily enough.

After a dessert of perfectly spiced apple pie, we all go to sit down in the living room, the night still fairly early.

“I thought it would be fun to bring out a little game,” Lee says, and the practice of his tone perks my ears. Oh goodness, what’s his plan now? He hasn’t exactly been hitting this out of the park. All he’s accomplished so far tonight is giving my dad and Carmen a venue to act like a normal couple and have their family seemingly cosign it. Not exactly a masterful stroke of breakup genius.

I’m surprised when he pulls out a Trivial Pursuit box.

“Should we play?” Lee asks.

My dad has never met a game he didn’t love, so obviously his eyes light up. “Oooh, I love Trivial Pursuit,” he says.

“Me too,” Carmen chimes in. I look over at Lee to see if this defeats his objective, but he doesn’t seem perturbed. “I’m so into any trivia games.”

“Awesome,” Lee replies.

He puts the box on the coffee table and moves the magazines that were in the center to the side table next to Carmen. On the top is Time magazine (okay, truly, who is the old man here? If he’s going to keep investing in obsolete journalism, he could at least try something relevant like a food magazine. But clearly as someone who works in the also-shrinking broadcast journalism industry, I probably shouldn’t throw stones).

But my eyes catch on the magazine’s cover article. It’s titled “The Resurgence of Sugar Baby Culture.”

Come on. Could he be any less subtle? I raise my eyebrows in Lee’s direction. But all I get in return is that tiny wisp of a smirk and a little shrug as he lays out the board.

I make sure to sit on a chair away from Lee. I don’t need to see his tattoos up close.

We all pick a little pie token, and the game gets started. It begins innocuously enough. The questions are as varied and random as I remember them to be.