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I never celebrated Thanksgiving before.
Well, unless I count the times we had a holiday special in Sophie Knows It All. They brought real turkey to the set and catered food for the entire cast and crew. Every time it happened, I wished I could take everyone home and celebrate with them. Christmas wasn’t any different either.
I didn’t know what to expect, but I loved spending time with everyone. I was even happier when Tristan made it home. For a moment, I thought he was staying in Connecticut to avoid us. I’m grateful that Mason flew him home. He might be quiet, but he’s a wonderful person and a great brother-in-law.
He reminds me so much of Evan. It’s the way he takes charge and looks after everyone in the family. His father isn’t any different either. Arthur Bradley is also quiet, but from the stories I’ve heard about him, he’s always caring for the Deckers. He’s so sweet that he ate half of the Tofurkey and pretended to love it more than anything else on the table.
His wife though… I don’t think she likes me. After I’m done helping Matt and Coop pick up the table, I make my way to the living room where Mr. Bradley sits.
“Thank you.” I take a seat next to him. “You didn’t have to.”
He gives me a vague smile and continues enjoying his slice of pumpkin pie while sipping his coffee.
“They were good.” He looks me in the eyes as if studying them, obsessed by where he has seen them before.
Maybe he knows my mother. Not that I look like her. Actually, I don’t know who I look like. I’m so different from everyone. I wish I had met my grandparents.
I tap my chin, wondering if he has some answers. I mean, he’s been working for Christian since he was part of Dreadful Souls. My stomach is now tied in knots because I fear they might find out before I’m ready to tell them.
“How is Jessica?” He places his empty plate on the coffee table and smiles at me, as if waiting to hear from an old friend.
The entire room begins to spin, and it feels as though my blood drops all the way to my feet, which are now heavy. I can’t run away.
“I thought so. Never seen a set of eyes that color before her, and never saw any after,” he says, sipping his coffee, yet not heading to the next room announcing that I’m my parents’ daughter. “So, how is she?”
“I don’t know, sir. Mmm… My...” I can’t make up words.
“It’s okay,” he says with a calm voice.
“I just… my parents and I became estranged when I was seventeen,” I respond the best way I can before losing my composure. “We talk from time to time, but I’m not sure how she’s doing.”
He nods, scratches his head, and gives me another glance. “I didn’t know they had a daughter. I only knew about their boy, Evan.”
I shrug, lifting my hands, not wanting to continue this conversation, but knowing I have to find a way to ask for his discretion. At least until I can find the courage to tell them. Maybe they’ll take it the same way this man is, or maybe this man is finding out first and then blowing the whistle. Whistle? You’re losing it, Thea.
“I’m nine years younger than him.” I look at my arm where there’s a small butterfly with an E on the wing. “He died long ago. Mom lost it, she lost herself.”
My eyes find his steel, hard eyes. But they’re now soft, like a cloud during the night passing by to say hello to the stars. Nothing threatening.
“Nine years?” he repeats, and smiles at me.
I nod slowly, wondering why he’s asking that and why he seems pleased. “Being related to them isn’t easy. I don’t tell many about—”
“They’ll understand—the Deckers. But your secret is safe with me, Thea.” His promise gives me some time to come to terms with the dilemma. I nod slightly and give him a kiss on the cheek, spin around, and leave.
“Hey, kid,” he calls back. I look over my shoulder and he shows me his plate. “Another piece of pie should settle the big news, don’t you think?”
I nod, grabbing his dishes, and going to the kitchen. If the scary man didn’t make a big deal out of it, maybe I can talk to them.
After the holidays. Yes, it’s a plan. I’ll do it next year.
“What was that about?” Tristan approaches me as I leave the small library.
“He ate what I made, unlike other people I know,” I complain, trying to move my melancholic mood to another area of the house where no one can find it.
“Tofurkey isn’t even a real word, you know. I can’t eat cheese, but I did eat a slice of that pumpkin pie.” He pats his stomach a couple times, and I don’t correct him that tofu isn’t cheese. “I’m a meat and potato man. Easy to please.”
“Tofu isn’t cheese,” I toss up my hands, frustrated. “Men.”
