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Twenty-Eight
I GUESS Iexpected Thanksgiving to be the five of us. Just like old times.
But it turned out to be the whole darned county.
I arrived to find the yard glowing with string lights, haphazardly zigging and zagging from tree to tree, and a long table running the length of the garden, covered in different colored gingham tablecloths.
Neighbors, and relatives, and, actually—to my surprise—the whole Glenn Schultz Executive Protection team were milling around the yard. Hank was chatting with Amadi. Kelly was admiring Connie’s pashmina. Doc and Glenn were checking out something on Glenn’s phone. Guess they’d all really bonded.
“Looks like we’ve relaxed a bit since sending the Corgi Lady to Florida,” I said to Doghouse.
“Threat level white, baby!” Doghouse said, lifting his hand for a high five.
There were thirty people there, at least.
Doc wore a bow tie with little turkeys on it. Connie, looking hearty and well-recovered, was rocking a popped collar and a linen tunic. And Jack just wore jeans and a simple red flannel shirt.
He looked so good, I almost forgot to breathe.
I’d worn a girlfriend sundress, for nostalgia. But with a sweater, tights, a pom-pom scarf… and my red cowboy boots.
The Stapletons did Thanksgiving potluck style. Because, as Connie put it, cooking an entire Thanksgiving meal was “backbreaking and ridiculous,” everybody brought a couple of favorite dishes and set them out in the kitchen to share. Folks served themselves, then wandered outside to find a seat. Candles lined the table, along with cut flowers in antique glass Ball jars and bottles of homemade schnapps made with Fredericksburg peach syrup and Doc’s own homemade moonshine.
I wasn’t a big drinker—my mom had definitely drained the glamour out of that—but every now and then I had a sip or two. Today felt like a good day for it. How often do you get to sit in a country garden drinking moonshine?
As I approached the table, there was an open seat next to Jack. Should I sit there? I felt a tickle of shy hesitation behind my ribs, but I made myself start walking toward him. He was talking to someone down the table, his profile lit up by the candles, and my eyes slurped in the sight of him. I kept him in my sights as I moved closer, but then, just as I was rounding the corner, the seat got taken.
Reallytaken.
By Kennedy Monroe.
At the sight of her, I spun around to face away from them. She was here? Had Jack invited her? Were they together after all? Wait—were they engaged? From a reality-TV proposal of hers? Why on earth was I even here?
I took a deep breath to steady myself.
She was better looking in real life. Her hair was shinier. Her lips were plumper. Her boobs were… boobier. She radiated sexy-farmgirl perfection in jean short-shorts and a gingham blouse tied just below her cleavage. She looked like a poster of herself—and, needless to say, also wildly out of place among all these lumpy, misshapen normal people.
She was like a living Barbie doll. And as badly as I wanted that to be an insult… it just wasn’t.
He must’ve said yes, right? Why else would she be here?
And who could blame him?
Faced with all that extreme, textbook, irreproachable beauty, no one could possibly say no.
At the sting in my chest, I had my answer.
Why was I here? For the same reason Doghouse and Glenn and Amadi were here. The same reason all the other ordinary people were here. I thought of Connie slapping Jack on the shoulder that time and saying, Be a gentleman!
I looked around.
It was Thanksgiving. I was here just like all the other people that Jack Stapleton did not have a thing for were here. To give thanks.
I fought the urge to set my plate down in the grass, walk straight to my car, and drive back to the city going a hundred.
But that would be worse, of course.
Feeling humiliated was one thing. Admitting to feeling humiliated was another.
