2. People Get Restless

CHAPTER 2

PEOPLE GET RESTLESS

WESTON

My phone rings when I’m on the way into my econ class. This class bores me, so I stop outside the lecture hall and answer my brother’s call. “What’s shakin’, Stevie?”

“You’re coming home for Thanksgiving, right?”

Uh-oh . Cue the awkward silence. “Nah, I’m sorry. My practice schedule is awfully tight.”

“Bullshit!” he says immediately. “You’re a lying liar who lies!”

“Aw, come on now. It doesn’t make sense for me to rent a car and drive across the state for a meal, Stevie. I’m a busy guy, and it will be a?—“

“Shit show,” he grumbles. “That’s why you should feel obligated to come home and suffer with me. It’s not like we live in Texas, asshole. Get a Zipcar. Drive a hundred miles. A hockey game is longer than your drive home.”

“I can’t, man. I have a date.” This is strictly true, seeing as I have at least three offers already this morning.

“A date,” he says, his voice betraying flat disbelief. “On Thanksgiving.”

“Yup.”

“That’s what you said last year, too.”

“It was true last year as well.” He doesn’t need to know that I’ve hired myself out. In truth, I feel bad that Stevie has to suffer through Thanksgiving at one of our parents’ homes. He’s a year behind me at Dartmouth, which is just a few miles away from our mom’s house in Norwich and a few more miles from our dad’s place in Fairlee. He can’t blame the hockey schedule, either, because he hasn’t played since high school.

He’s trapped. But that is not my fault. “You’ll have Lauren’s company though, right?” Our sister lives in town with her fiancé.

Stevie makes a disgusted sound. “You know what she’s like right now. All she can talk about is the wedding. Flowers and colors and the rest of that bullshit.”

We both shudder. As the owner of a dick, weddings were never interesting to me. But since our parents’ spectacular divorce a couple of years ago, just the idea of marriage makes me feel a little squicky.

At some point in the near future, I’m going to have to put on a tux and watch my sister marry her boyfriend of three years. I’m going to have to clap and smile and try not to suffocate in my bow tie, while I watch my sister make the biggest mistake of her life.

Nothing against her guy, either. He seems nice enough for now. That’s the problem, though. Once the glow wears off, people get restless. And then they do stupid, crazy things to each other. And they make their kids watch.

Fun times.

“Look.” I level with my brother. “I’m not coming home for Thanksgiving. You don’t have to either, you know. You don’t owe it to them.”

“Dad, though. He’ll be all alone.”

“That’s true,” I murmur. And I feel for the guy. “But our father is an adult, you know? The destruction of his marriage is about to celebrate its third anniversary. He can either stew about it, or he can find a way to move on.”

“Good luck telling him that.”

“Oh I’ve tried.” I was gentle, of course. I’m not a monster. The problem is that my father prefers rage to action. He’ll spend the whole holiday muttering about “that bitch,” which is how he refers to our mother .

Or, if Stevie went to Mom’s house instead, Dad would be mad at him for days. You really can’t win with him anymore.

He doesn’t see how much this upsets us either. Sure, we were all pretty astonished when Mom left Dad. It was brutal. But she’s still our Mom, and she still loves us. Three years later, and our father still expects us to take sides. It’s fucking exhausting.

I shove a hand into my pocket and absently rub the smooth piece of obsidian stone that’s resting there. Our assistant coach is really into crystals. He said obsidian would help me get rid of “emotional blockage” and give me strength, clarity, and compassion.

But what if I’m not the one who needs it? How much obsidian can I sneak into my father’s house without him noticing?

My parents’ divorce is why I no longer go home for Thanksgiving. And also why I will never ever fall in love. It turns you into a bitter freak when it ends.

“Dude, you have to come home for Christmas,” my brother says. “If you tell me you have a date, I’m going to drive up there and haul you back here myself.”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s no way I can pretend to be busy on Christmas Day. “I’ll come home. We’ll stay with Dad, yeah?”

“Yeah. And bring some nice clothes.”

“Why?” I demand. “For church?” My parents still insist on attending the same church. Neither one of them is willing to be the one who leaves. As far as I can tell, they sit on opposite sides of the room shooting daggers at each other while the priest stands up front preaching about love and forgiveness.

“Worse,” Stevie grumbles. “Mom is throwing an engagement party for Lauren on the day before Christmas Eve.”

“Oh shit,” I whisper. Then I let out a groan.

“Yeah.” My brother sighs. We both know what that means—Mom and Dad at the same party for the first time in three years. With alcohol, too. It could be bad bad bad . “You’ll be there, right? If you try to blow this off, I’ll tell Dad it was you who scratched his Mercedes by having sex up against it.”

“ Rude ,” I grunt. “You know that was a freak accident.” I’d set my date up on the hood and we’d had a fine time. Who could have guessed that her short little skirt had metal grommets on the back? What kind of fashion designer thought that was a good idea ?

“Still your fault, though.” He snickers. “Don’t make me do it. If I have to go to this thing, then so do you.”

“Yeah, okay,” I grumble. It’s not my sister’s fault that our family has become just like a daytime TV show. If she’s crazy enough to get engaged, I’ll make sure there’s someone at her party who isn’t going to make a scene.

Even if it hurts me. And I expect it to hurt plenty.

“Who’s this date with, anyway?” my brother asks.

“Hmm?”

“Your date. On Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, uh, a new girl.” I haven’t chosen one yet, of course.

“They’re all new girls with you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He snorts. “Yeah. But we’re not all hockey stars. The talent pool works harder for you than it does for us mere mortals, bro.”

“It’s good work if you can get it.” Just because I’m never marrying a woman doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy them.

“Later, Weston.”

“Later, punk.”

I slip into the back of the lecture hall and nab an empty seat. I’m just settling in to the lecture when my phone buzzes with a text. I don’t look right away, because I assume it’s Stevie busting on me again. He probably thinks he can guilt me into coming home for Thanksgiving.

But as the professor drones on about monetary policy, I decide to check. I don’t want to be a dick, but it’s a big lecture hall and I’ve perfected the art of texting while pretending to pay attention.

The number is unfamiliar. It must be another inquiry for Thanksgiving. I’ve gotten three already this morning.

Hi there , the new one begins. My name is Abbi. I saw your sign at the Biscuit, and I wonder if I could take you up on your Boyfriend Rental offer. I’m a junior here at Moo U, and my family’s place is just fifteen miles away in Shelburne.

Hmm. Two of the other inquiries are from girls who live further afield. So I already like Abbi. I’m just about to respond when an additional message appears.

She adds: You should also know that my step-stepmother is the sort of cook who goes to a lot of trouble. There will be a dozen homemade dishes on the table. Like butternut squash soup with shredded bacon and croutons on top. Roasted turkey, of course. But also steamed Chinese dumplings filled with turkey and scallions. Plus an army of side dishes, and three kinds of pie. She’s a superstar cook.

Well, damn. My mouth is watering already. And before I think better of it, I ask a follow-up question. Is there a dipping sauce with the dumplings? Wait, was that a rude opener? Let me try again. Hi Abbi! I’m Weston. I really like Thanksgiving, and your dumplings intrigue me .

Abbi: Your curiosity is justified. You can’t go home with just anyone for Thanksgiving, right? What if the mashed potatoes were out of a box?

Weston: Bite your tongue! Only a monster would make boxed mashed on Thanksgiving.

Abbi: I’m just pointing out that you have to be careful going home with strangers. And, for the record, last year there were two different dipping sauces for the dumplings. There was soy ginger and also cranberry .

That does sound promising. I think Abbi’s Thanksgiving spread sounds like a winner. I decide to just accept it on the spot, and let the other women down gently.

Weston: Okay Abbi, you’re on. Please text the details when you’re ready. I’m happy to meet you anywhere on campus. I don’t have a car though .

Abbi: I can drive . And I really appreciate this. Holidays can be tense .

Weston: True Story . Send me the deets and I’ll see you on Thursday .

When Thanksgiving Day arrives, I am careful to arrive—showered and shaven—at Abbi’s front door right on time. I might even be a minute or two early. I’m wearing a crisp Dad-pleasing shirt and my best Mom-pleasing tie, because I make it a point to always know my audience.

I get teased for it, too. The guys at the hockey house call me Mr. Smooth.

“You’re referring to my skating, right?” I’d said the first time I heard it.

“Nah, man. Everything about you is smooth. The hair. The whole polite-guy thing. The ladies really go for it. I bet even your ass is smooth, but I don’t need any proof, thanks.” That had gotten a lot of laughs.

So sue me. Life is easier when you take control of every situation. If my skills with hair products and parents earn me the occasional ribbing, I’m perfectly okay with that.

Abbi’s address turns out to be an old Victorian mansion that’s been chopped up into smaller apartments. In the wallpapered vestibule, I push the buzzer for apartment 2, and a female voice calls, “Just a second!” on the other side of the door.

I wonder what Abbi is like. It doesn’t matter very much, of course. I haven’t agreed to marry her. It’s just one day of my life. And people fascinate me, so even if Abbi’s family is irritating as fuck, I probably won’t take it personally.

But I have a good feeling about Abbi herself. She’s local, which is interesting. Vermonters are pretty cool. They have a rugged mentality, and they rarely complain. And they’re usually hockey fans. What’s not to like about that?

The door opens, and I immediately lose my train of thought. I’m blinking at a pretty blond woman with shoulder-length hair. My first reaction is all hell yes and thank you, Jesus .

Then I realize this is not just any woman. It’s the hot waitress from The Biscuit in the Basket. The one who remembers every order without writing it down. The one who always seems to know when we need something more, or when it’s time to drop the check.

The one with the kissable ivory neck and gray eyes that always make me a little stupid. I’ve never asked her out, because it’s rude to hit on a girl who’s just trying to get through her shift at work. But man, I’d like to.

“Hi,” she says, frowning at me. “Wow. You’re wearing a tie. ”

“Too much?” I ask, my hand flying to the knot of silk at my throat. “I could lose the tie.” And, heck, why stop there? If she asked me to lose my trousers, I’d do it. Anything for you, honey .

“No, you look very respectful. Thank you for doing this.”

I blink slowly. I can’t believe my luck. She’s my date? “You work at The Biscuit in the Basket,” I say stupidly. “But your name tag says Gail .”

She smiles. “That’s right. The lazy manager put the wrong name on it, and then wouldn’t redo it for me. But I’m glad you can recognize me without the uniform.”

“Well, sure. You look nice. Your hair is different. Fluffier. Wait. Is fluffy a good thing?” I babble.

She laughs suddenly. “Fluffy is fine. At work they make us wear those visor caps. Like we’re all golf caddies.”

I smile back at her and get a little lost for another moment. And her laugh is terrific. A little husky. I dig it.

“So, uh, are you ready to go?”

That’s when I realize I’m blocking her way out of her own door. “Yup, sorry,” I stammer, leaping to the side like a frisky goat.

Oh, man. Nobody would call me Mr. Smooth right now, that’s for damn sure. I’m glad my teammates aren’t here to witness this. I’d never live it down.

Abbi locks her door. “Where are you from, Weston? Is it too far to go home for Thanksgiving?”

“I’m from the eastern edge of Vermont. But I don’t have a car, and we have practice tomorrow anyway. Hey—does your family drink? I brought a bottle of wine.” I hold it up, along with a bouquet of flowers, too.

“That’s lovely of you,” she says. “I have a bottle in my car too. I find that where alcohol and my so-called family are concerned, more is more. Although I’m driving tonight, so I can’t drink.”

“Your so-called family?”

“Well, it’s complicated without being terribly interesting. But we’re going to my stepfather’s house. I mean, he used to be my stepfather and now he’s married to someone else.”

“Your step-stepmother,” I say, recalling her text message.

“Right.” She leads me off the porch and down the walkway. “ My car is just around the back. It won’t take us long to get there. You’ll be eating turkey dumplings in no time.”

“Sounds good. My body is, like, fifty percent wings and fries at this point. I’m sure you know that. I’m at your restaurant all the time.”

“Table number seventeen,” she says cheerfully. “The hockey table. Do you know that we prep a different portion of wings depending on whether you guys win or lose?”

“No, really? Why?”

“Because you eat more and get drunker on the nights you lose than on the nights you win.”

“Huh. That’s very scientific of you.”

She unlocks an elderly Honda Civic and opens the driver’s side door. “Last chance to back out.”

I wouldn’t dream of it. I have to remember how to be Mr. Smooth, though, and flirt properly with Abbi. Who knows? After a great meal, we could make this a night to remember. “I’m at your service,” I say, hoping it sounds a little sexy and not creepy. “Let’s get our turkey on.”

Huh. Mr. Smooth seems to be on vacation today.

I give myself a fifty-fifty shot at success. But I’ve faced worse odds. Game on.