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Thanksgiving
It’s weird being single during the holidays.
I broke up with Cameron not quite a year ago. Sadly, the only thing I miss about him is having a date at family gatherings. He was courteous, polite, helped in the kitchen and loved all our little traditions.
Too bad he sucked as a partner and was horrible in bed.
God, I’m a bitch.
No, I’m not.
I’m crass, but it’s all true. We didn’t work. Cameron wasn’t in love with me, he wanted to be near my pops. Every tech nerd in Seattle loses their shit over him, I was merely his liaison.
To be fair, my mind was always elsewhere.
Vegas.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart.” My mom, Grace, brushes a piece of lint off my charcoal sweater dress, which I’ve paired with knee-high black boots.
She’s always stylish perfection. Tonight, she wears a rust silk shirt paired with black wool slacks. Not a speck of food on her, though she and my sister Jen have been cooking all day. “Everything looks fantastic, Mom. My stomach is growling.”
The Thanksgiving table at my parents’ house is, as always, a masterpiece of modern opulence. A reflection of my mom’s superior interior design skills. The centerpiece is a stunning arrangement of vibrant chrysanthemums, delicate dahlias, and exotic orchids artfully arranged in a sleek, geometric vase. It’s flanked by slender, elegant candles in minimalist holders, which cast a warm, inviting glow.
As we gather around the dining table, I find myself unexpectedly gulping back tears. It’s been such a transitional year; I really needed this day off with my family. The tantalizing aroma of my mom’s cooking is comfort personified—a blend of familiar scents that always signifies love and togetherness.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Gracie.” My pops joins us and admires the golden-brown turkey surrounded by dishes of creamy mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh-baked rolls and my favorite—the traditional Deveraux sage stuffing recipe passed down from my grandma.
Mom pours him a glass of wine. “I’m happy to do it, it’s my favorite time of year.”
“How in the heck do you fold these, Jason?” Becca holds up the gold linen napkin, which has been twisted into some sort of sleek, geometric shape. “Every year, it’s something new.”
Dad laughs. “Trade secret, my dear. I’m not about to lose one of my holiday jobs.”
“You’re such a geek, Dad.” I lean over and kiss his cheek. For a man as influential as Jeff Bezos, he’s about as down-to-earth as it gets.
Unlike Jeff Bezos, who dumped his first love for an actress, he loves my mom with all his heart. Their marriage is one I aspire to.
I look over at Becca and Jen, who’ve been happily coupled for years. Though they’re not with us today, my sister Jaylynn married her high school sweetheart years ago. Jace and Alex, who’ve had a rough year, decided to recuperate in Italy with their daughter for a few weeks.
Suffice it to say, as the only single person in our clan, I’m lonely, even though I’m amongst people who love me.
“Jordan, will you please pass the cranberry sauce?” Mom wiggles her fingers at me from across the table.
“Sure.” I hand her the bowl, mustering a smile.
My mind drifts to Peter. I wonder what he’s doing today. Probably spending time with his own family. I shake my thoughts of him away, annoyed by the unresolved feelings, which seem to consume my every thought.
I’m smarter than this.
Dad carves the turkey with practiced ease, distributing slices onto each plate. “So, sweetheart, how’s the shop doing? Any interesting clients lately?”
“It’s good. Me and everyone else are booked months in advance.” I force a smile. “I’ve had some interesting projects, yeah.”
My sister Jennifer, or “Jen,” as she prefers to be called, is my most staunch supporter. “Tattooing is such an intimate art form. Your work gets better every year.”
I nod. “Thank you. I appreciate you saying that. Every tattoo has its own story. One of the best parts of the job is getting to know the clients and learning the reasons behind the art. Although, most people want mermaids…”
“Your mermaids are stunning. They made you famous, but it’s always nice to keep your creative juices going.” Dad kisses my temple. “I saw the latest feature in Inked. I’m proud of you for being modest, but I’m also going to toot your horn.” He looks around the table. “Our Jordan is the third highest-paid tattoo artist in the entire world. Her waitlist is well over a year.”
