3. Are We Really Doing This?

CHAPTER 3

ARE WE REALLY DOING THIS?

ABBI

“So, set the scene for me,” Weston says as I drive toward Shelburne. “How much of an acting job do you need? I can be the new love of your life. Or I could be just one in a string of casual boyfriends. Or even just a friend from far away that you brought home to dinner out of pity. However you want to play this is fine with me. I just need to know ahead of time.”

“Right, okay.” I have to think fast, because I hadn’t actually planned this through. I honestly assumed he wouldn’t show up. “Nobody keeps very good tabs on me,” I say slowly. “So if I say that we’ve been dating about a month, it wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. And that seems plausible without being a big deal, either.”

“A month it is!” he says easily.

This isn’t nearly as awkward as it could be, thanks to Weston. He’s good company, which I already know since I’ve listened to a thousand hours of hockey smack talk. He has a fun outlook on life.

“Names, please,” he demands. “Who am I meeting?”

“Dr. Dalton Ritter is my stepfather. You can call him Dalton. The new Mrs. Ritter is Lila.”

“Lila and Dalton Ritter, MD,” he repeats. “I’m premed, so he and I could have plenty to talk about. One more question—can I ask why you felt the need for a date tonight? And are there any topics I’m supposed to avoid? Any conversations I’m supposed to interrupt?”

"Well…” I do have my reasons. But Weston doesn’t really need to know what they are. “We should avoid the obvious tricky subjects—like politics. But there’s no specific issue between Dalton and me.”

“Gotcha,” he says. “So I’m just here as a buffer? Is it a big gathering?”

“Nope, which is why I need a buffer. It will just be them and her son.”

“Your step-stepbrother?” Weston guesses.

“Yeah, and he’s a tool. You’ll see.”

“No problemo,” he says easily. “So you might as well tell me about you too.”

“Me? I’m just a student like you. I grew up here in Vermont. And I’m trying to finish my degree in three years plus the summer terms I’ve done.”

“Whoa! Major?” he asks.

“Business, with concentrations in finance and marketing.”

“Ooh, finance? That sounds hard. I'm currently suffering through Modern Global Markets.”

“Huh, I loved that class,” I admit. “Plus, the business degree is practical. I’ll be on my own after graduation. That’s why I accelerated my degree. But it’s been so stressful. And all my extra time is spent delivering wings to drunk hockey players, so there isn’t much else to tell about me.”

“Oh, sure there is,” he says. “If we’re dating, I would know more about you than the basic facts. What’s your favorite song? What’s your favorite food? What’s your favorite color? Give me something to work with.”

“Let’s see.” I chuckle. “Food? Lately just anything that didn’t come out of the fryer at The Biscuit in the Basket. My favorite color is orange. My current favorite song is “Ain’t No Man” by the Avett Brothers.”

“Ooh, good one!” Weston says. “Put it on. Do you want to take the chorus or the verses?”

“Uh, what?” I reach for my phone and unlock it. Then I hand it to him, because Vermont has a law against holding a device while driving. “Go ahead and play it.”

“Okay, but you’re singing with me. We’ll do the chorus together.”

A few seconds later the guitar intro starts up. Weston starts clapping his hands with the syncopated beat. “Ready?” he says. And then he launches in.

And it’s rude not to join him, right? So I sing along. And we sing loud , the same way I would if I were alone.

Weston doesn’t embarrass easily, I guess. He sings every word of every verse, and I belt it out too. Three minutes later we’ve done the whole thing.

“Whew!” he says, leaning back against the headrest. “That was fun. I always sing loudly before tests too.”

“Is today stressful for you?” I ask. “This was your idea.”

He laughs. “Not at all. I’m fine, but you look ready to barf.”

Huh. He’s probably right. A trip to Dalton’s always stresses me out. Although the words you look ready to barf were not part of my fantasy date with Weston.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I won’t barf. They’re not really worth it. I just have to show my face on the holiday, make nice, eat some gourmet turkey and then it’s over until Christmas.”

“Fair enough. Where’s the rest of your family? Out of state?”

“Well…” Oh man. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. I swallow carefully before speaking my truth. “This is actually all my family.”

“Oh,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. What a stupid question. Way to put my foot in it.”

“No, it’s okay. I never met my dad. And my mother passed away three years ago.” I can say it smoothly now. For a while there I couldn’t really talk about losing my mom. I don’t remember the last part of my senior year in high school. I spent it curled into a ball, in shock that my mother had taken my dog to the vet one morning, and then died in a car crash an hour later.

It’s not supposed to happen to a forty-year-old woman. But it did.

I clear my throat. “So tell me about you. I bet you come from a huge family. ”

“Uh…” He chuckles nervously. “It’s kind of true. I have a million cousins. And an older sister and a younger brother. Thanksgiving can get rowdy.”

“That must be fun. No wonder you like the holiday—it must be a huge party. How big is your table?”

“Big,” he says. “And my Aunt Mercedes practically has to drive an eighteen-wheeler to shop for Thanksgiving.”

“I can’t even picture it,” I say. Although I’ve always wanted to be part of a big family. My mom didn’t marry Dalton until I was twelve. So for years it was just the two of us, living in various run-down apartments around the greater Burlington area.

My mother had been Dalton’s receptionist. He married her about eighteen months after his first wife left him. They were married for six years. So now he’s on wife number three.

I moved out about ten minutes after his recent wedding.

Dalton isn’t a monster. But I am not his child, and neither of us ever did a good job of pretending differently. He owed me literally nothing after my mother died. She had no assets to speak of. She cut back her working hours after she married him, because he wanted her to have time to take care of his home, and to cook and to entertain.

My mother loved this arrangement. She learned to play tennis. She went out to lunch with friends.

What she didn’t do was buy a life insurance policy. Or put any savings in my name. And since my mother entered her marriage with no assets, save for a beat-up car and a nice collection of 90s music on CD, there was nothing for me to inherit.

I get a lot of financial aid from the university because my mother passed away. But Dalton pays a few thousand dollars every year toward my books and fees. He didn’t want to pay for me to rent an apartment, though. “Seems silly when you could live in your old room,” he’d said.

That was a generous offer, but it didn’t feel like a real option for me. So I work a lot of hours at the Biscuit, and I’m going to graduate a year early.

“What was Thanksgiving like?” Weston asks me. “Before? With your mom?”

“Oh!” I say stupidly. But it’s been so long since I thought about this. “When I was a little girl, it was just the two of us. We’d get up and watch the Macy’s parade from start to finish. And then mom got KFC chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn. She made the pumpkin pie, though. From scratch. My mother was an impractical person. Back then, she didn’t cook all that often, but she would bake the most exquisite things. I didn’t mind. And I really loved the ritual of Thanksgiving.”

“I bet,” he says. “The ritual is half the fun. Maybe more than half.”

We both go quiet for a few minutes after that. I’m picturing one of our small apartments, with its ugly green carpet and the sagging sofa. The truth is that I would give anything to go back there one more time. My whole childhood, I never had any cause to doubt my mother’s love. Even when she married Dalton, I still knew I was her number one.

“Sorry,” Weston says quietly. “Didn’t mean to bring you down. Do we need another song?”

“Too late!” I pull into Dalton’s grand driveway. “We’re here already.” I park behind Lila’s shiny BMW and put the car in park.

“Hey.” Weston turns to me in his seat, and makes no move to get out. “It’s never too late for a song. I sing loudly and badly whenever the mood strikes.”

Wow , is my only lucid thought. Those blue eyes are quite debilitating at close range. Weston Griggs is in my car. For the next couple of hours, he’s my Thanksgiving date.

“Once more for luck,” he says, hitting the play button again. The Avett Brothers launch into the intro again.

“Are we really doing this?” I laugh.

“We really are.”

Then we both open our mouths and launch into the song. This time I’m not driving, so we can watch each other. I’m sure I’d feel self-conscious if Weston weren’t hamming it up like a drunk karaoke singer.

He’s even dancing a little in his seat. It’s so ridiculously cute that I can’t help but giggle my way through the song.

Oh God, I’m giggling . Just like the girls who are always perched on his knee after hockey games. I get it now. Giggling makes more sense when Weston Griggs is smiling at you.

We’re both red faced and laughing as the song ends. Reluctantly, I climb out of my car. Weston grabs the flowers and the wine, and then wraps an arm around my shoulders as we approach the house.

It feels— wow —really nice. He’s naturally talented when it comes to this fake boyfriend thing. He even gives my shoulder a little squeeze just before the front door opens onto my step-stepmother.

“Abbi! Happy Thanksgiving!” she gushes. “And you must be Abbi’s young man. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Really?” he asks with a chuckle. “What did she say?”

Oh no! When I’d called Lila to tell her I was bringing someone, she’d asked polite questions about my “new man.” And since I already admired Weston, it was easy enough to provide some details. Terrific at hockey. Fun person. Lovely manners .

Praising him came easily to me. But if she repeats any of it, I’m going to sound like a creepy stalker.

But I’m in luck. She gives him a generic smile instead, probably because she wasn’t listening to me anyway. “It’s good to meet you. Come right in.”

“These are for you,” Weston says, offering the flowers. “And I brought a bottle of sauvignon blanc.”

“How lovely,” she says. “Hang up your coats, and meet me in the kitchen. I’ll pour you a drink.” She leaves us alone in the entry hall of this house, which I’ve always thought of as Dalton’s. Never mine. Not even when I lived here.

“Oh jeez,” I say under my breath, realizing I’ve left something in the car.

“Problem?”

“The wine I brought is still outside.”

Weston glances toward the door. “If you want, I’ll step outside right now and grab it for you. But I have a better idea. You could think it over.”

“What’s that?”

“Leave it out there for now. And you and I can drink it later ,” he says, his voice richening to a suggestive pitch. “If you’re into that. ”

Wait . Now hold on a second. Did Weston just proposition me? For real ? I might do a happy dance right here on Lila’s fussy new rug.

“Hello, sir,” Weston says in the next breath. “You must be Dr. Ritter.”

And sure enough, my stepfather is right here with us, reaching out a hand to shake Weston’s. “Call me Dalton,” he says.

They introduce themselves to each other while I stand here feeling befuddled. A second ago—when Weston suggested we save the wine for later—it felt so real . My mind offered up a few naughty ideas on command.

But now I realize that Weston probably saw Dalton approaching and whispered to me because it made us look like a convincing couple. Just a hot hockey player having a private moment with his girlfriend, right?

That has to be it. Weston is just doing his best to nail this acting job.

And it’s too damn bad. Because white wine and a hookup with Weston Griggs would be the most fun I’ve had since…ever.

“Abbi?” Dalton’s voice breaks through my reverie. “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” I say quickly.

Weston takes my hand in his and gives it a friendly squeeze. And that feels nice, too.

It’s all pretend, Abbi , I coach myself. Don’t you forget it .