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She points at her kid. “What more can I say?”
Nora goes next. “I’m thankful for my dad.” She pauses. “And for my mom, who I know loves me even if she couldn’t be here with me today.”
My heart cracks, and I squeeze the tablecloth, trying to hold back all the resentment I still have toward Nora’s mother for abandoning her. My kid can’t see how I really feel about my ex.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I grab Nora’s hand over the table and say, “Thank you, Nora Bora. Is it my turn?”
“Yeah,” the kids shout.
“Well, I’m thankful for…”
What am I thankful for?
Before I can form a proper thought, Nora says, “I know what Daddy is thankful for.”
“What’s that?” my mom asks.
With an impudent grin, Nora announces, “Daddy is thankful for his new girlfriend.”
Uh-oh.
“You have a girlfriend?” Mom asks, eyes brimming with hope.
“No. Not exactly. It’s all very new.”
“It’s not new,” Nora corrects. “They used to date in high school.”
“You’re back with Marissa Mayer?” Katy asks, eyes boggling.
“No, we’re not back together,” I say.
But as if Katy hadn’t heard me, she continues, “Is that why Teresa Mayer has been asking me all those questions about you? A background check?”
Now, that’s interesting. “When was that?”
Katy scrunches her face. “A couple of months ago. End of September, I think. Were you already seeing each other?”
“No.” But good to know that for all her professed indifference and proclaimed hatred, Marissa still had her sister dig into me. Probably how she wasn’t surprised I had a daughter.
“Well, are you dating again or not?” Mom asks.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“Complicated how, son?” my dad asks, taking a sip of prosecco.
I’m beginning to sweat in my chair. “I can’t explain it now to respect Marissa’s wishes, but I promise you will know soon enough.” With a fish-eating smile, I add, “Shall we eat?”
I thank everyone’s famished state for getting out of having to explain the current status of my relationship with Marissa.
We’re about halfway into the second turkey serving when the front door bangs open, and a booming voice bellows, “Where are you? You scoundrel.”
For a moment, I wonder if it’s a new neighborhood tradition to invade people’s homes with improvised Shakespearian renditions. At least until Marissa’s dad marches into the room and, finger pointed, face purple, accuses, “You got my baby pregnant and now are refusing to take responsibility. How dare you?”
Over my family’s exclamations of surprise, I raise my hand, saying, “That’s not—”
“Don’t deny it.” Marissa’s mom has caught up with her husband and is now standing behind him, looking equally accusatory. “I saw my daughter walk out of this house at one in the morning on Halloween. You had a night of fun, and then what? Changed your mind again as you did in high school?”
“Dad,” Nora asks. “Did you and Marissa do the special cuddles that make babies?”
