Quickly, I shake my head. “See, after Mom died, Dad was my whole world, but he still didn’t know how to nurture the same way Mom had. And then I met Elliot and it was like . . .” I search for the right words. “I had someone my age who really understood me and saw me for exactly who I was. He was like a best girlfriend and a first boyfriend all rolled into one.”
Sean’s expression softens. “I’m glad, babe.”
“We had a fight one night, and . . .” I realize now that I’m going to shut this down prematurely. I’m not sure I can finish the story. “I needed some time to think, and ‘some time’ turned into eleven years.”
Sean’s eyes widen a little. “Oh?”
“We ran into each other a few days ago.”
“I see. And it’s the first time you’ve spoken since.”
I swallow thickly. “Right.”
“So there’s some baggage to unpack,” he says, smiling a little.
I nod, repeating, “Right.”
“And has this relationship been hanging over you all this time?”
I don’t want to lie to him. “Yes.”
Other than the deaths of my parents, nothing looms larger in my life than Elliot.
“Do you still love him?”
I blink away. “I don’t know.”
Sean uses a gentle finger to turn my face to his. “I don’t mind if you love him, Mace. Even if you think you might always love him. But if it makes you wonder what you’re doing here, with me, then we need to talk about it.”
“It doesn’t, really. It’s just been emotional to see him.”
“I get that,” he says quietly. “It brings up old stuff. I’m sure if I saw Ashley again, I’d struggle with all of that. Anger, and hurt, and yeah—the love that I still have for her. I never got to fall out of love. I just had to move on when she walked out.”
It’s a perfect description. I never got to fall out of love. I just had to move on.
He kisses me, once. “We’re not eighteen, babe. We’re not coming into this without a few chinks in our armor. I don’t expect you to have room in your heart for me only.”
I’m so grateful to him right now I nearly want to cry.
“Well, work on the friendship. Do what you need to do,” he says, his weight returning above me, his body pushing against mine, hard and ready. “But right now, come back to me.”
I wrap my arms around him, and press my face to his neck, but as he moves over me, and then into me, I have a brief flash of bare honesty. It’s good—the sex has always been good—but it isn’t right.
It doesn’t set off alarm bells in my head, sure, but it doesn’t send goose bumps across my skin, either. It doesn’t make my chest ache so deliciously I’m nearly breathless. I don’t feel urgent, or desperate, or too hot in my own skin because I’m so hungry for him. And in a tight gasp that Sean reads as pleasure, I worry that Elliot is right and I’m wrong and—like always—he’s taking care of both of our hearts while I flop around, trying to figure it all out.
I feel my thoughts circling something, the same thing over and over: how Elliot went home after seeing me and broke up with Rachel.
He only had to see me to know, whereas I can barely trust a single feeling I have.
then
wednesday, november 26
fourteen years ago
Dad pushed the cart down the aisle, coming to a stop in front of a freezer case full of enormous turkeys.
We stared down at them together. Although Dad and I carried on many traditions since Mom died, we’d never done Thanksgiving alone.
Then again, we never really did it with her, either. With two twenty-first-century, first-generation immigrants as parents, Thanksgiving wasn’t really a holiday any of us had cared much about. But we had the cabin now, and nearly a week off with nothing else to do but capably chop firewood and read in front of the flames. It felt wasteful, in a totally illogical way, to not at least attempt the holiday meal.
But standing here, faced with the prospect of making such an enormous production for two, cooking felt decidedly more wasteful.
“These are thirteen pounds,” Dad said, “at minimum.” With an expression of mild distaste, he hefted a bird out of the case and inspected it.
“Don’t they just have the . . .” I waved my hand toward the butcher, to the breasts displayed there.
Dad stared at me, not getting it. “The what?”
“You know, just smaller parts?”
He guffawed. “The breasts?”
I groaned, walking past him to find a bone-in turkey breast we could roast in less than half a day.
Coming up behind me, Dad said, “These are a more appropriate size.” Leaning in, he added with a repressed laugh, “Decent-sized breasts.”
Mortified, I shoved him away and moved to the produce section to get potatoes. Standing there, with baby Alex in a sling, was Elliot’s mom, Miss Dina.
She had a cart full of food, a phone to her ear as she chatted with someone, the sleeping baby against her chest, and she inspected yellow onions as if she had all the time in the world. She’d given birth three months ago and was here, preparing to cook a huge meal for her troop of ravenous boys.
I stared at her, feeling the twisting combination of admiration and defeat. Miss Dina made things look so easy; Dad and I could barely figure out how to make a holiday meal for two.
She did a tiny double take when she saw me, and for maybe the first time in my life I imagined myself through someone else’s eyes: my swim team track pants, the baggy Yale sweatshirt Dad got for Mom years ago, flip-flops. And I stood, staring at the breadth of the produce, motherless and clearly overwhelmed.
Miss Dina ended her call and pushed her cart over to me.
She looked at my face, then let her eyes move all the way down to my toes and back up. “You and your dad are planning to cook tomorrow?”
I gave her what I hoped was a humorously confident grin. “We’re going to try.”
She winced, looking past me and pretending to fret. “Macy,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “I have more food than I know what to do with, and with little Alex here . . . it would help me out a lot if you and your dad would come over. If you could help me peel potatoes and make the rolls, you’d be a lifesaver.”
Not in a million years would I have said no.
It smelled like baking pie crust, melted butter, and turkey all day—even in our house. The wind carried the smells of cooking into our window, and my stomach gnawed at itself.
Miss Dina had told us to come over at three, and I couldn’t even count on Elliot to entertain me until then because, no doubt, he’d been put to work.
I heard the lawn mower going, the vacuum running inside. And, of course, I heard the roar of football on the living room television, filtering from their house to ours. By the time we made our way over with wine and flowers at two minutes before three o’clock, I was nearly insane with anticipation.
Dad made a good living, and our house in Berkeley had every material possession we could possibly need or want. But what we could never buy was chaos and bustle. We lacked noise, and strife, and the joy of overstuffed plates because everyone insisted that their favorite dish be made.