Chapter 55

Poppy

" Kent, stop! I swear if you pop one more balloon…" Harper's voice snaps from down the hall; her threat is left dangling menacingly in the air. " I need this to be perfect."

" Chill, Siren. You ' ve got enough balloons to start your own circus. If one goes missing, it ' s not the end of the world."

" You already massacred three, getting them into the car, and then executed two more with the car door." Harper seethes.

I glance at Julian, who is unsuccessfully trying to adjust the electric heater settings to prevent our meal from turning into a culinary disaster. " Why is Harper bringing balloons?"

Harper bursts through the door before Julian can formulate an excuse, a parade of balloons bobbing wildly behind her. My gaze drops to spot elegant men's dress shoes peeking out from the chaotic cluster—Kent, obviously engulfed in a balloon forest.

Harper, arms wide with bags hanging off each, proclaims, " Happy Thanksgiving!" like she ' s hosting a game show. Overly dramatic might be her middle name.

I offer a smile, my expression drooping so obviously that it momentarily throws her off her game show host persona.

It was a fake smile. I am happy she's here; I just...it's hard to convince my cheeks to grin again.

She blinks away the brief hurt, rallying with, " I brought the dessert."

" I ' m here too," Kent announces as he battles the sea of balloons, sounding like he's waging war on a plastic invasion. " Releasing these beasts now," he declares, setting the balloons free. They ascend toward my not-so-high ceiling, ribbons fluttering down like misplaced rain, creating a bizarre indoor festival.

Henry swats at a ribbon that dares to caress his face, " What the heck is this?"

" They ' re called balloons, Henry," Harper grunts as if explaining rocket science to a toddler.

" Yeah," he retorts, " Did you have to buy out the entire store?"

" That ' s what I said," Kent chimes in, his voice muffled by the latex jungle.

Harper dumps the bags she ' s lugging down with exaggerated care, " Because I wanted to. When a woman wants something, she gets it, you idiots. We ' re supposed to be celebrating and being happy."

" Keep it up, and you ' ll get no pie from me." Harper hisses. She then begins to open a bag with a tenderness that contradicts her earlier fierceness, her hands delicately searching inside like she ' s extracting a baby from its cradle. " Oh crap, it ' s starting to melt," she exclaims, pulling out a bowl with an odd concoction wobbling inside. "Kent, can you put it in the mini-fridge? Fast. Hurry!"

" What the hell is that? Soup?" Henry asks, peering skeptically at the bowl as Kent rushes it to the fridge.

" It ' s whipped cream, you moron," Harper snaps, her hands planting firmly on her hips.

" Why ' s it in a bowl?" Julian asks, genuinely puzzled.

" Because I made it," Harper declares.

" I helped. Actually, I ' m taking credit for the cream, Siren. I was the one who got carpal tunnel from whisking it for hours." Kent states.

" It wasn ' t hours," Harper corrects with a sidelong glance at me, her smirk playful. " He's such a drama queen," she teases. " Really, it was just a few minutes of vigorous labor. What use are you if you can ' t whip some cream?" She glares at Kent.

Kent wraps his arms around her from behind, his tone teasing, " I can whip cream just fine."

" Jesus," Henry blurts out, his tolerance evaporating. " Shut the hell up."

Poor Henry. This is a mild introduction to surviving a conversation dominated by Harper and Kent ' s relentless banter.

" Where ' d you buy the pies from? Was it from the bakery I told you?" Henry asks, inching closer.

Harper rolls her eyes.

Her and Henry? Well, I don ' t think they will ever have a calm conversation. Watching them interact is like watching a novice try to hammer a nail into a wall. You keep missing, hitting your thumb, and getting the nail all bent and crooked.

" I made it!" Harper beams, pointing at the pie as if spotlighting it on stage.

We all inspect the pie.

What color is that? Its color is a questionable shade of orange, but it looks a little pale and sickly. And the crust? Well, it ' s going to need to be dunked in that cream soup to soften up the burnt bits.

Harper, unfazed or perhaps in denial, proudly proclaims, " Call up Betty Crocker because I schooled that chick. Easy-Bake Oven? Please, I used the real deal."

My eyebrows arch, " Is it still operational?"

" Yes!" She claps, practically bouncing with glee as she breaks from Kent ' s embrace to hug me. " I can bake!"

She crushes me in a bear hug. " I know you're over pumpkin flavors. Let the heavens rejoice," she teases as she pulls back, her eyes scanning mine for a reaction, her face a mix of hope and mischief. " So I made sweet potato. I wanted to do something totally different, like key lime, but Kent said I should stick with the Thanksgiving theme." She admits, her eyes watching, hoping for a reaction. She looks like a child on stage, searching the crowd to see her parents. Only her parents didn ' t show up because my smile didn ' t grow out of my darkness.

I ' m sorry. I want to smile and laugh—I do—but it ' s not always honest.

We all fill our plates and sit down at the table, surrounded by balloons and awkward air, creating so much static energy that I'm worried the balloons might pop.

I ' m tucked between Julian and Henry, Harper and Kent across from me. I should feel so at ease. Everyone I love is here. My monster is dead.

The problem is I feel thrilled Andrew is dead. That ' s wrong, right? Or is it wrong to think that is wrong?

The shadows in my heart whisper that it ' s not, and for once, I might just listen.

I untuck my hair from behind my ears, feeling the slight throbbing of a tension headache.

" We ' re going to cremate them," I deadpan as I plop a bite of semi-warm turkey into my mouth. I look up, and everyone has a 'WTF face.'

Was that wrong to say as we break bread?

" Mom, Dad, and Peter. We ' re moving them. Well, cremating them," I clarify for Harper and Kent.

Harper ' s complexion goes a strange shade of pale. " You ' re moving, Peter?"

I nod and stab at my turkey with my fork; the plastic tip bends slightly. " We can ' t leave them there. Henry said the headstones were clean, but I didn ' t believe him. Stone is porous, and Andrew ' s blood would have seeped in. Henry and I talked, and I think we should cremate them. We can set them free." I thrust my fork into the sweet potato mash and then take another bite.

Everyone is silent, and the room is suddenly heavy with the echo of my words.

I ' m trying. Hard. They wanted me to talk! This is just what comes out.

I plunge my fork into the gravy-soaked dressing, " I don ' t know what else to talk about. It ' s not like Betty Sue from down the hall had an exciting week of gossip to fill me in on," I mutter.

" Can—" Harper begins but pauses, the words catching in her throat. She looks scared, unsure. So unlike herself. " Can I have some of Peter?"

" Sure," I shrug, trying to sound casual, though a part of me tightens. My voice is too chipper like I ' m auditioning for a role in a '50s sitcom. My new name would be 'Poppy-Go-Lucky.'

" Why?" Henry asks, his brows furrowing.

" Because I want some of his ashes," Harper snaps back, her voice a sharp crack in the strained atmosphere.

Kent scoots his chair back an inch, his eyes narrowing at Henry as if he ' s contemplating the space needed to dive across the table and throttle him for upsetting Harper.

Harper ' s eyes flick to Julian. He nods subtly at her, a silent gesture of support.

" I ' d just like some for myself. To spread somewhere," Harper whispers, her voice barely carrying across the table.

I feel like there ' s an undercurrent here, and I have no idea where it ' s flowing. Is Harper lying to me, or am I reading too much into everything?

Julian clears his throat, and from under the table, his hand slowly rests on my bouncing knee. Just his palm at first, waiting to see if I ' ll pull away. When I don ' t, he lets his fingers down, a small comfort. " You mentioned Dr. Peterson wanted you to go around and share what we ' re grateful for. Why don ' t we do that?" he suggests.

" You want to start, or should I?" I say, reaching out and grabbing my wine glass. I take a large sip. What the heck is that? I jerk the glass away and examine it.

" It ' s grape juice. Doc said it ' s best not to mix your meds with alcohol," Henry explains almost apologetically.

" Hmm," I set the glass down gently. " Well, I ' m thankful for all of you, but I know that ' s obvious. I ' m thankful I ' m alive, even though it ' s hard. I don ' t know if it ' s as hard as when Mom, Dad, or Peter died. It ' s just hard in a different way." I begin to scrape the marshmallows off the sweet potato mash; I prefer to eat them first. " I ' m thankful Andrew didn ' t shoot my face off. I doubt you ' d all love me then," I joke dryly at Julian.

No smile.

" I ' d loved you regardless," he says, his hand warming my leg.

" Did you tell that to the doc?" Kent chuckles lightly. " I ' d love to see her reaction."

I appreciate his attempt to lighten the mood.

" I did tell her. She didn ' t laugh. I ' m not sure if it ' s the Botox or just an iron-clad poker face," I reply.

" I ' ll tell you what I ' mnotthankful for," I reach out, bypassing my wine glass for Julian ' s, " this grape juice. One sip won ' t hurt."

I gulp down a sip, and then Julian smiles.

" Why are you drinking this crap too?" I cringe as I set it down.

" If you can ' t partake, then neither will I," Julian lifts the glass, his lips touching where mine just were, " We ' re all having grape juice tonight."

" Not me!" Kent declares with the glee of a child on Christmas morning. " Sorry, Pops, I love you, but I had to spike my drink. There ' s no way I ' m going back to diapers and juice."

Harper rolls her eyes as she elbows him gently.

I do something the good doctor wouldn ' t recommend. As we go around the table, confessing what we ' re thankful for, I tune out.

I should listen.

I can ' t.

I don ' t want to cry, and if I listen to them, find a million and one ways to tell me how much they care, how they love me, how thankful they are that we could all be here together—well, that ' s a guaranteed tearjerker. There aren ' t enough Kleenex boxes in the world to soak up my grief and pain. So I sit there and nod as I shove some tasteless food into my mouth.