“I can smell the deliciousness from here,” Holden says cheerfully. “You must have been cooking all day, Caroline. Easy mac is pretty much as far as my culinary talents stretch, but I’m happy to lend a hand wherever I can.”
It’s almost as bad as his beautiful journey into the human mind comment. After my father and I had eaten our share, she used to foist those burned cookies on unsuspecting grad students, so I’m entirely certain that Holden knows the limits of my mother’s culinary talents all too well. But despite her astute powers of observation, my mother’s never figured out that she is, in fact, the world’s worst cook.
“I think we may just have to keep you around,” she says, beaming at Holden. “Shoo, Stella. Out of our way.”
Luke’s scowl is palpable. Good. He needs some competition for my mother’s affection.
Even though I want to revel in his annoyance, I still refuse to look at him. While it’s going to be extraordinarily difficult to make it through dinner with both eyes shut, I’ll have to manage somehow. Gauging my eyeballs out might work. Gauging his out would definitely work. As an added bonus, I would never have to feel the heat of that stare. Never have to feel his eyes on me again.
Then again, I would never feel his eyes on me again.
My face colors in shame, and to cover it up, I place a quick kiss on Holden’s cheek. “Save some of that jello salad for me,” I whisper.
I half-expect him to tell me to grow up and stop playing games, but he runs a lazy hand over my hair and lands a direct hit with his knowing, amber eyes. “That I can definitely do.”
Well, this is going to be a disaster. I could try to smooth things over, but that would involve being in the same room as Luke, Holden, and my mother, and I’d rather eat all of the crappy jello salad in the world. So, like a coward, I run away to my father, who will somehow figure out a way to make it all okay.
That’s exactly what he does. He sweeps me into the world’s best hug and I hold in until I’m in serious danger of leaving permanent impressions on his skin.
Eventually, he draws me back for a full inspection. I catch the trace of a frown, and I know all too well what he’s going to say before he does.
“That dress isn’t appropriate for Thanksgiving dinner, Stella.”
“It’s a turtleneck dress, Dad. I don’t look like a hussy, which is what you were going to say next, and besides that, Mom bought it for me.”
He huffs. He puffs. Miraculously, the house doesn’t blow down.
“I don’t like it.”
I kiss his cheek. “I know.”
He starts to say something, but then his face brightens and he pulls out a box from his desk. “This just came in. You’ll never believe the features. It has the fastest processing in the world, and the camera is sharper than a DSLR. You can share pictures and video in less than a second, and it has automatic eye recognition, so you don’t even need a passcode.”
It’s our old game. My father’s original vision for life was pretty simple—he wanted a career as a small-town sheriff, a pretty-but-not-beautiful wife, two and a half kids, the white picket fence, and a shiny new Honda in the driveway. It was a stroke of bad luck and good fortune that the love of his life turned out to be my beautiful-but-not-pretty mother. All of his small town dreams were quickly replaced by boardrooms and stock offerings and the other nonsensical responsibilities of managing a large corporation.
Still, I don’t think he has real regrets. My parents are truly disgusting in their love for each other. Vomit-inducing.
He hasn’t quite given up on the sheriff dream, though. He maintains an illegally obtained collection of surveillance equipment. When I was in high school, I came down one night to get a snack from the kitchen and I found him in our library, wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat and thumbing through old case files. His fantasy of becoming a detective, combined with his tendency to be over-protective to the point of stalkerdom, has always spelled trouble for me.
There’s a 100% chance that he’s bugged the phone. It’s not like I’m planning on starting a career as a phone sex operator or anything, but the thought of my dad listening to my conversations is definitely a little creepy.
I shake my head and grin. “My phone is perfectly fine.”
“It’s an outdated piece of trash.”
“Because it doesn’t have a location tracker that you installed yourself?”
I hit the mark with that one. He takes a step back and narrows his eyes.
“I would never...”
“You could, you would, and what’s more, you did. You see that little slit in the packaging?” I point out a tiny, resealed crack in the cellophane. “That’s where you sliced it open, peeled back the wrapping, and placed a tracking device.”
We stare each other down. He breaks first. “If you would just agree to a couple of bodyguards, I wouldn’t have to resort to underhanded maneuvers.”
It’s another old battle, but I’m not inclined to lose this one. I put up with his guard dogs, albeit reluctantly, for a year, until one of them caught me having a beer at a party and tattled. I’m not going down that road again.
The intercom buzzes.
Saved by the bell.
“Stella. Thomas. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I still haven’t told him about Holden, and he’s going to be mad. Raving. Insane. I give him one last kiss on the cheek before laying it on him. Maybe if I agreed to one, part-time bodyguard...
“By the way, Dad, I brought a friend with me for Thanksgiving. As it turns out, he’s one of Mom’s old students from Berkeley. Can you believe it? It’s really such a coincidence.”
He looks surprised but strangely pleased. “One of your mother’s former students is at Greenview now? Eve? Alexandra? I don’t think she liked either of them much.”
“No...”
Uh oh.
M
y father’s expression is stony as he watches Holden lift a forkful of lumpy potatoes to his mouth. He hasn’t said a word for almost fifteen minutes, and I can’t tell whose neck he wants to break first, mine or Holden’s.
Luke’s been silent the entire time, a fact for which I’m profoundly grateful. Plus, it really may be possible to make it through dinner without looking in his direction, since Holden’s being helpful and blocking my view of him.
My mother is oblivious as she chatters away about her latest experiment. She’s doing something with the priming effect that my tiny little brain has trouble grasping. Even if I could follow her steady stream of psych speak, I couldn’t feign enthusiasm. I’m too distracted.
So, I’m relegated to feeding my crusty turkey to Sassy, our cat. More accurately, I’m tossing tiny pieces of brownish meat onto the floor in the hopes that she’ll mistake them for food. So far, I’ve been unsuccessful—her palate is too discriminating.
It’s officially the worst Thanksgiving dinner ever.
Holden turns to me. “Stella, can you please pass the gravy? It really is delicious, Caroline. You’ve done such intriguing things with the spices. I detect some notes of cayenne, I think.”
My father and Luke let out identical snorts, and my mother responds by shooting both of them an icy stare. “I’m so glad that you’re enjoying it. As you can see, my family has a hard time with appreciation.” She pauses. “But you would know that, wouldn’t you? Stella can be rather difficult at times.”
“She called me a douchebag the first time I met her,” he says brightly.
My mother stifles her smile. I kick Holden in the shin. My father grips his knife more tightly.
Luke hasn’t spoken in my presence since asking about the inadequacies comment, and when he finally decides to say something, his voice is crisp. “Just when would that have been,
Doctor
Evans?”
My fork clangs against the table.
“She came to me after our first class and asked for a schedule change.” Holden smiles at my father. “She’s the brightest student I’ve ever had.”
“Your student,” Luke repeats. “Did you hear that, Tom?”
My mother swiftly, and wisely, steps in. “Holden’s something of a boy genius. How old were you when you started grad school? Twenty?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Nineteen.”
“So, the two of you are about the same age,” she says, her eyes dancing as she looks at Luke. “Strange that you aren’t on more familiar terms.”
“Actually, Luke and I watch football together every Sunday. We also go for beers on Fridays after work. It’s nice to let out some of that steam. The undergrads drive me crazy. Except for Stella, of course.”
Holden’s incessant cheerfulness does nothing to soften the look in my father’s face. If anything, his butter knife is looking less like a harmless eating utensil and more like a deadly weapon.
This has gone entirely too far. Luke is clearly immune to all human feeling, so it was silly of me to think that I could ever make him jealous. Plus, if I don’t stop it now, there will be a pair of satellites trained on Holden for the rest of his life.
“Dad, Holden happens to be a very good friend of mine. He is not my boyfriend, and there’s no need for you to worry about that happening at any point in the future. So, I would appreciate it if you would stop treating him like an insane murderer.”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize my mistake. I didn’t think. I should have thought.
Three pairs of eyes slide towards the chair where Jack should be sitting. Only Holden remains focused on the jello salad, but under the table, his hand slides over mine, which tells me that he’s picked up on the tension.
Jack should be here. He should be shoving my disgusting turkey leftovers into his mouth and teasing me about my stupid turtleneck dress. He should be throwing a football around with Luke in the backyard.
And I should be watching both of them wistfully from the window. I should not be going out of my mind wondering whether Luke felt anything like fireworks when he ripped my dress from my body three months ago.
I forget my resolution to look away, and our eyes meet over Jack’s chair. The colors and sounds clash together in an explosion that should, by all rights, blow the house down.
For a moment, the void between us disappears, and I can see beyond all of his carefully built defenses and beyond my experience.
It’s almost enough for me to forget that it’s still never going to work.
He caresses me with his eyes. The aching tenderness in his expression is everything I ever could have wanted. He’s the Luke I know he can be, the one who is kind and curious and too sensitive and too in need of love, the one thing he thinks he’s never had.
Holden drops my hand without warning. I would have to be crazy not to want his golden perfection. To throw away the chance at a lifetime of basking in the light instead of the darkness. But that’s exactly what I am—crazy.
I’m even crazier to think that maybe, just maybe, I saw a flash of the same kind of crazy in Luke’s eyes. He snaps himself shut and glares at me. I’m certifiable. Really.
“I am not sitting here while you spout your lies any longer,” he says, venom punctuating each of his words. He glances at my mother, pounds a fist into the chair, and throws his napkin on the table. “Excuse me, Caroline, Tom. It was a lovely dinner.”
He makes the word lovely sound like a venereal disease.
“Luke,” my mother says. “Please, just...”
He cuts her off. “I have better things to do than to listen to this bullshit.” With each syllable, the tremor grows louder. I can feel the explosion coming. Any second.
No one says a word when he stomps off. There’s a crash from the hallway, and I’m fairly certain my mother’s Dresden vase hasn’t survived.
“Stella,” my mother asks softly. “Would you please go remind Luke that it is Thanksgiving, and that we haven’t had dessert? Also, see if there’s anything you can do to make him more comfortable. He looked a little miffed. You know how I feel about my guests’ comfort.”
Luke was not a little miffed; he was on the verge of a volcanic eruption. Besides that, she doesn’t give a damn about her guests’ comfort and dessert is going to be disgusting anyway.
However, I’m too worried to be angry at her and I’m too frantic to sit still, so I stand up on shaky legs. My father shakes his head and my mother looks faintly amused, although she’s trying desperately to cover it up. Only Holden remains unruffled. As always. I shouldn’t be surprised.
“What’s for dessert?” he asks. “I’m sure it’s delicious.”
“Pecan pie,” my mother responds. “Grab it from the kitchen on your way back inside, Stella. Try not to take too long. There’s football that I’m sure the boys want to watch.”
If I wasn’t on the verge of a volcanic explosion myself, I would laugh. No “boys” are going to be watching football.
Before I leave the room, I remember Holden. I can’t leave him alone with my parents. I turn back towards the table, but his soft voice stops me before I make it all the way around.
“It really is fine, Stella. I’d like to get in another helping of jello salad before dessert. It might be awhile before I manage to get cuisine this good again.”
While there’s a slight tension tugging at the corners of his lips, he chases it away with a shrug that removes the last traces of my guilt. I know exactly what it means.
“You’re in love with him. There’s absolutely nothing I can do about that.”
If only I had been wiser about whose hands to put my heart into.
I try to speak, but he cuts me off with another look, turning back to my mother and saying, “As I eat this absolutely delicious jello salad, please tell me more about the trial, Caroline. Who’s funding the research?”
With that, I excuse myself and get down to the business of trying to comfort Luke. My first thought is that maybe he’s already left, but I realize quickly that he wouldn’t completely desert my family in the middle of Thanksgiving. He knows how much this means to my mother. Of course, he’d be chivalrous about that, if nothing else. Jackass.
I know where he is, but I dawdle anyway. I’m afraid of what I’ll find.
As I open the doors to the back patio, I know immediately that I was wrong to be afraid—I should have been terrified. He’s stalking back and forth across the cement, his fists clenching and unclenching. It does not bode well for civilized conversation or not-so-civilized non-conversation.