Mom wipes her hands on the dish towel, surveys the overflow of food. “Set the table, Sunshine?”
I fetch the linen napkins and the plates from the sideboard, one less setting than our usual holiday table.
Mom finished her traditional bittersweet centerpiece with its twisting vines and tiny orange berries and it sits in the middle of our table now. I’m surprised by how this preserved tradition comforts me. She brings over the turkey, nods toward the carving blade.
I pick up the knife. Mom passes me the giant carving fork. I stare down at my hands and a memory tiptoes inside of me. Dad’s hands holding these same utensils, wielding them in a way that orchestrated all our holiday meals. He was our family conductor. The person in charge. Can he be that again? I don’t know if that’s what he wants, if that’s what I want.
Mom pours me wine.
“Did you mean to do that?” I ask.
“The drinking age in Canada is eighteen.”
“We’re not in Canada. Hence, Thanksgiving.”
She shoots me a look. “I’m perfectly aware of what country we are in, but you are old enough to vote now so it only stands to reason that you are old enough to taste alcohol. I’d rather you try it with me than with your friends.”
“Mom.” I laugh.
“Could you at least humor me so I can make a proper toast?”
I raise my glass, the red wine painting the clear edges with its wave of liquid.
“To Zephyr and a lifetime of possibilities. To Boston College and all that it entails.”
“Here, here.” I silently toast a lifetime of possibilities with Alec.
Mom’s glass clinks mine and I fake a sip. I dislike even the smell of red wine.
We eat while the food is hot but there is enough to feed a family of six. The leftovers heap over the tops of our storage bowls as we pack the fridge with all the dishes we couldn’t possibly finish. I’m stretching Saran wrap over a container of yams that I know will get tossed in a few days. Mom unties her apron. “Not a bad feast, huh?”
I nod. It was great, except for how much I miss my father and our traditions. I feel like calling him tonight and am about to tell Mom so when she announces, “So I’ll just go and freshen up and we’ll leave for the Slicers?”
“What?” My head jolts from my task, the plastic wrap clinging into a puckered mess.
Mom removes her apron, folds it neatly even though I know she’ll throw it in the laundry bin. “Pie Night. I want to change before we go.”
Pie Night is an annual engagement for Gregg’s family and mine. Mrs. Slicer bakes, like, a dozen pies every year and spreads them out on their dining room table—the sweetest buffet imaginable. Only I hadn’t thought we’d be attending this year. “Um, are you sure you want to go?”
“Why not? We go every year.”
My palms start to warm. “Yeah, I know, but new traditions and all.”
She waves off my concern. “It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without Rachel’s pies. Besides, it’ll be good to catch up with her and Nathaniel, hear about the wedding plans.”
Mom must see my face blanch because she adds, “You don’t have to endure the details. You and Gregg can escape to the game room, like always.” And then Mom disappears down the hall, humming.
I stack the rest of the leftovers, trying to decide whether I should tell Mom I feel sick and can’t go. But by the time she returns to the kitchen, I realize I really want to go to the Slicer’s. I want to see if Lani’s there and if Gregg’s making new traditions of his own.
• • •
Awkward. A bird carries this feeling on its wings as it crashes over and over against the window panes of my brain. Like that bird, I am stuck. In Gregg’s basement. I stare out the French doors and see the pool where we swam almost every day this past summer, every summer since I can remember. When I hear Gregg’s heavy footfall on the stairs behind me, I turn and he stops short. He’s alone. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“It’s tradition.”
He throws a short, bitter laugh. “Like Alumni Weekend? You didn’t have a problem blowing that off.”
“Now you’re mad at me because I missed Alumni Weekend?”
He plops down on the couch and throws his feet onto the oversize coffee table. “I couldn’t give a shit about Alumni Weekend, Zeph, though your coach may feel differently.”
“It’s likely.” I move to the opposite side of the couch, sit on the arm. My feet press into the soft cushion. There’s something about the warmth of the basement, the familiarity of my surroundings. Hanging out like we used to suddenly becomes all I want to do in this moment. I want things to be easy between us. Like before. My phone vibrates in my pocket but I ignore it. “I—”