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I climb out of the car and tighten the belt of my peacoat. It’s especially cold today, winter’s chill erasing the lingering warmth of fall. I cast a cautious look at the house as I pull my suitcase out of the trunk, rolling it over the few leaves that have fallen on the driveway since the landscaper was here.
The kitchen is empty, but the lights are on. I unbutton my jacket, letting the warm air seep through the cold fabric. “Mom?” I call out, hesitantly. Something is cooking in the oven. I can smell the herbal aroma and hear the occasional sizzle.
My mom walks into the kitchen a few seconds later, smoothing the front of the buffalo print apron she’s wearing. “Welcome home, Natalie,” she says, giving me a small smile.
“Thanks. It smells good.”
“Good. It should be ready in a couple of minutes.”
“Okay.” I slide my coat off and hang it up on the row of hooks by the door. “Is Dad home?”
“Yes,” my dad answers, walking into the kitchen.
I watch in a state of shock as he walks over to the oven and uses a potholder to pull a roast chicken out. He opens a drawer and rifles through the contents. “Did you move the meat thermometer again, Lindsay?”
“I told you it goes with the serving utensils.”
“And I toldyouit makes more sense closer to the oven. It adds two minutes every time I have to look for it in the right place and then go farther away to find it in the wrong spot.”
My parents continue to bicker about the meat thermometer. I keep staring. Seeing them together is nothing new. Neither is seeing them argue. But something feels different about this. They’re arguing, but neither of them appears actually angry.
I go upstairs to stow my suitcase in my room. When I come back downstairs, my dad is carving up the chicken and my mom is spooning vegetables onto plates.
There’s no mention of the meat thermometer, and I don’t ask where it ended up. I just watch them. I’ve talked to my mom on the phone a few times since she left the recovery program and came back home. My dad has called even less frequently. Our calls have been short but free of conflict.
I had no idea what to expect, coming home for Thanksgiving break. But it wasn’t this—a dynamic that feels both natural and normal. My mom isn’t wearing a fake smile and my dad doesn’t look like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I’m not sure if it will last. It probably won’t—most things don’t. But I decide to take it for what it is, for as long as it does.
We sit down at the kitchen table, instead of in the formal dining room. My parents both ask questions about school. About my classes. My friends. Eventually, Liam comes up.
My parents have lived in Alleghany for two decades, moving here shortly after I was born. They know about the rivalry. But I guess one upside of the fact they both mostly checked out of my life in high school is that neither of them made much of the fact I’m dating a guy from Glenmont.
We’re even going to the Stevens’ for Thanksgiving dinner in a few days. The holiday itself is the only day Liam has off over break, thanks to football. I was nervous about inviting my parents, for reasons wholly unrelated to the rivalry. Mildly shocked they agreed to go when I passed along the invitation.
Tonight has relaxed my worries a little.
After dinner, I head to Chris’s. None of Brian’s dire predictions about me becoming a pariah came true. There have been plenty of comments made to my face, and I’m sure people have said a lot worse behind my back. But I’ve never been ostracized from a party or completely ignored. Most people are just more skittish around me. It’s like walking around with a contagious disease or having food on your face no one wants to tell you about. Except, in my case, I knowexactlywhy people are acting strangely around me.
I talk to Madeline, Tory, and Jess for a while, the three people acting totally normal around me, catching up with them in person for the first time since the end of summer. Tory is dating a new guy and Madeline just found out she got a public relations internship for next spring she really wanted.
I head to the bathroom after an hour or so, running into Chris in the hallway on the way back to the kitchen. I pause, letting him decide whether to talk to me. Unsurprisingly, the football guys have been the most disbelieving group when it comes to my relationship with Liam.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“How’ve you been?”
“Good,” I reply, honestly. “I’ve been really…good.”
He nods. “Good. So…you and Liam Stevens? That’s for real?”
“Yeah. For real.”
Chris hums an acknowledgement. “It looks serious.” He sips on his drink. “I saw that photo he posted.”
“It is serious.”
