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I get up and help Mikki cut the cake; she gives me a pat on the back. “You’re such a fuckin’ sweetheart. I’ll have to tell Mark to withhold his judgment. He’s not exactly sympathetic toward rockstars.”
“He’s a tax attorney. He thinks I’m throwing my life away,” Lyndsey explains as she sneaks up behind me.
“Oh, fuck. Should I like, what should I do?”
“Well, do you own a sports coat?”
“Yes.”
“Wear it.”
“Is that what people wear to Thanksgiving? It’s barely a thing in the UK.”
“It’s what Mark’s going to wear, and he’s going to come into this expecting you to put a lampshade on your head. I’m warning you now because I like you,” Mikki says gravely.
“It’ll be fine. He’ll meet you, realize what a great guy you are, and then we can listen to Cheryl rant about how pie is the devil’s dessert. What could go wrong?”
Chapter 13
Lyndsey
Pasadena, CA
One Month Later. Thanksgiving Day.
The last month of tour was a blur.
Now Priya and I are hauling Vince up to the front steps of Allison’s house, and he’s glancing around like he might make a run for it.
It’s a bright, sunny day. Priya’s wearing a bespoke silk blouse and high-waisted trousers. Knowing that my Dad would be there, I decided to put on a knee-length red dress. I feel like a secretary.
Vince looks like he’s running for office. He keeps loosening his purple tie like it’s strangling him. His curls rest on his shoulders. He’s wearing a paisley silk shirt, black pants, and dress shoes. I never thought I’d see the day when he’d wear anything but combat boots.
Priya’s clutching a ceramic dish full of vegetarian stuffing. I’ve got a tin full of cranberry pie resting on my hip. Is it a direct ‘fuck you’ to Cheryl? Maybe.
And Vince, poor Vince, is white as a ghost pacing along the doorstep of Allison’s mom’s tiny cottage.
“It’s Thanksgiving, not a group execution, Vincent!” Priya hisses, yanking him back by his tie.
“You don’t know that!” Vince snaps back.
“It’ll be fine,” I say for the millionth time, although I’m starting to doubt myself.
I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell. Allison’s mom, Abbie, answers seconds later.
“Lyndsey, my little superstar! Come here,” she exclaims before wrapping me in a bear hug.
“Hey, Abbie, it’s good to see you,” I say. I hand her the pie, “This is for you. I found the recipe online because I know you hate pumpkin pie. It’s cranberry.”
“Oh, that sounds delicious! You’ve always been so thoughtful! And who are your friends?” Abbie prompts, though she knows full well who everyone is.
“I’m Priya! It’s lovely to meet you. Thank you so much for opening up your home to us wayward Brits,” Priya gushes, effortlessly charming. “I made vegetarian stuffing. I hope that’s okay.”
“Oh, my God! I’m vegetarian! This is a dream come true. I, fuck, I’ve been a fan of your music for the better part of thirty years!”
“That’s so lovely to hear. Thank you,” Priya says graciously.
“Nah, thank you! I told everyone at school that I was having you over for Thanksgiving, and they didn’t believe me. I had to show everyone Lyndsey’s text as proof!”
