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But with classes wrapping up, everything set, and the menu a matter of my execution, I still couldn’t quite find enough to do to shake the worries I was having.
And they were big worries.
They were so big, in fact, that I instructed the driver Maxim had insisted I keep no matter where I was going to tell my dad that he was an Uber driver — if my dad had the presence of mind to ask him.
I shouldn’t have bothered with that detail as we pulled up in front of the small house where I’d grown up. My dad didn’t even come out to help us with the groceries. He was absent minded — he had been like that for as long as I could remember. I couldn’t fault him his quirks. He had a lot on his mind, too — though it was usually about theories and articles and books he was reading.
“Just text me if you need anything else,” my driver told me, giving me a brief hug as I started to take out my supplies from the bags, setting them according to recipe and need for refrigeration. “I can pick up whatever it is.”
“Go home and enjoy yourself,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
I was lucky, I supposed, that the company that inspired me the most was near where I grew up — and that I’d gotten into the school I’d wanted, too. Because I really didn’t think I would’ve been able to move away from my dad for either my education or my career.
Our relationship wasn’t close by most people’s standards. We rarely spoke because both of us were so busy — and so different. But we worried about each other, and every time we did talk, it was like no time had passed. He was all I had in the world when it came to family. Even living in the dorm had been a challenge just because I hated him being in that house all by himself.
“You need to find something else to worry about besides your old man,” he would grouse at me, only half-joking. “Get a better hobby.”
Thanksgiving had always been a special celebration for us. It was an opportunity to catch up, and I could make sure he had a home-cooked meal at least once a year. I probably didn’t want to know how often he dined on takeout.
It didn’t matter to me that he was often gruff or sometimes flighty, forgetting to call for a month at a time, at our longest stretch. He was my dad, and I would always love him.
That was why it was particularly important to me that this celebration go off without a hitch.
“What time is it?” my dad demanded crankily as he came down the stairs, roused from whatever thought he’d been in, no doubt, by the rattling of paper bags. “Are you early?”
“I’m actually a little late,” I said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Sorry. Took me more time to gather my supplies than I thought. Wanted to make sure I had everything.”
“You look tired,” he said, eyeing me critically. “Are you getting enough sleep? You’re not pushing yourself too hard between this Volkov internship and the rest of your classes, are you?”
“I’m busy, but I’m fine,” I tried to assure him, dialing up the oven before I started on my first recipe. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me about what you’ve been doing?”
We didn’t keep in contact often. It just wasn’t the way our relationship worked, me and my dad. He thought small talk was boorish and preferred only speaking when there was something to be said. I spent my life guessing at what those important things were — he was less excited about my internship with Volkov Telecom and downright offended when I neglected to tell him about an award I’d won on a paper I’d written. As much of a puzzle as he was, I still appreciated him. When Becca had trouble understanding the dynamic between us, I told her to think of him as a mad scientist. The two of them were much closer after that.
“So, which strays are you bringing home this year?” my dad asked me, snipping the end off a cigar as he watched me sprinkle chopped pecans on the top of a sweet potato casserole I needed to get into the oven.
“Just a few,” I assured him.
“Me, obviously,” Becca said, sidling into the kitchen with her arms full of paper bags of supplies.
“You don’t count as a stray anymore,” my dad said, puffing clouds of smoke as he lit the cigar. “You’re more or less adopted. Another Miracle in the house.”
“Hey, what did I tell you?” I demanded, pointing at the back door even as I rushed forward to help Becca with her bags. “No smoking in the kitchen.”
“This is my house.”
“This is Thanksgiving,” I corrected him. “And on Thanksgiving, I want to smell the feast — not burning tobacco. Becca, I didn’t even hear you at the door. You should’ve texted ahead — or rang the bell.”
“She hasn’t practiced that common courtesy in four years,” my dad grumbled, getting to his feet and heading outside. “Just strolls in like she owns the place. That’s how I know she’s not a stray an
ymore.”
“Your dad’s such a softie,” Becca teased. “And here’s that extra thing you asked for.”
I grabbed the pregnancy test before she could fully slide it out of the bag and stuffed it beneath my sweater. “What are you thinking?” I hissed at her. “My dad could’ve seen.”
“Oh, come on. I waited until after he left to give it to you. And you could’ve waited until after this entire thing to take it and eliminate the risk of being caught.” Becca gave me a worried look. “Do you actually think you might be—”
“Don’t even say it out loud,” I hushed her before she could finish her thought. I shoved the casserole in the oven and set the timer. Was that what was going on inside of me? Was my body ticking down to some kind of deadline that I didn’t know about? My period was never entirely reliable, even if it had gotten more regular since I’d been taking birth control. But I was late, had a stomach that just wouldn’t settle into normalcy, and felt like I could cry or scream or lose myself in uncontrollable laughter at the drop of a hat. I didn’t trust my own emotions anymore, and I knew that was a problem.
