Chapter Eleven

eleven

“Do you have enough room, Murphy?”

I sidestep into my designated place at the kitchen table, a folding chair wedged in with the four-piece oak dining set. None of us has any personal space, but crammed in with my back against the bay window, I’ve certainly got it the worst.

“Of course,” I lie, then fold my arms mummy style so I don’t bump Ellie or Carol on either side as I settle into my seat. Any backward movement and I’ll bang my head on the window; forward, I’ll dunk an elbow in the cranberry sauce. As long as I don’t move, Thanksgiving should be a breeze.

“How’d we ever fit at this table with Mom, Dad, and Marcus?” Carol asks as she scooches her chair another half inch away from mine. It’s a nice gesture, but it doesn’t do much good.

“I’m fine,” I insist. “Promise.” I’d hold a hand up in oath if there were enough room to do so. I’m not fine, really, but that has very little to do with my lack of space. It’s entirely the fault of the extremely cute and brutally confusing girl seated beside me, the one whose thigh is pressed against mine just enough to make my head spin. In the wake of our little off-script moment in the garage, every little touch feels magnified, more electric, and in turn, more confusing. I’ve lost the line between real and pretend, but for better or worse, that doesn’t impact our plan. We’ve got two critical topics to bring up, and neither of them are our feelings.

“All righty, where do you want me to put this?” A booming voice interrupts. Otto, the only one not seated, saunters in with a giant bowl of mashed potatoes balanced between his belly and his forearm. By the eye daggers he’s getting from Kara, you’d think he’d walked in with his own head on a pike.

“There’s no room,” Kara growls, sweeping a hand through the air across the width of the table. “This is why I told you to use the green bowl.”

Otto lifts a shoulder. “But there were a lot of potatoes.”

The two of them tumble into an argument, and I’m glad to have the attention off me for a second. No wonder people complain about the holidays. There are so many moving parts and people and traditions. And this is only five people. Marcus’s Thanksgiving has twenty. My parents knew exactly what they were doing starting the Florida Thanksgiving tradition before I was old enough to know any other version of this holiday.

The bickering dies down, ending in a compromise: the potatoes will remain in the big ornate bowl for the sake of not dirtying another dish, but they’ll stay on the counter, and anyone who wants them will simply need to go get them. A perfectly reasonable solution, although you wouldn’t think it by the tick of Kara’s jaw.

“The turkey smells awesome, Otto,” Carol says. “And Kara, the rest looks absolutely delicious.”

“Well, the stuffing is a little burnt,” Kara grumbles, “but thank you.”

I can hear Ellie’s voice in my head from earlier this afternoon. If we can make it perfect, why wouldn’t we?

“Come on,” Kara says, “let’s say grace.”

Everyone extends a hand to either side, and it takes me a moment to get the hint. I wasn’t raised in a praying family, and I’ve never even eaten dinner with a hand-holding family, but when in Rome. Carol takes my right hand, and I place my left in Ellie’s, simultaneously calmed and confused by the stroke of her thumb against the soft space between my thumb and forefinger. They all recite something close to a nursery rhyme, and I remember to chime in at the “Amen.”

No sooner have we dropped hands than the plates start passing, a revolving door of dishes moving from one person to the next. It’s methodical and silent, apart from the clanging of serving spoons against dishware and the quiet murmurs of compliments on the juiciness of the turkey or the snap of the green beans. When the carousel of casseroles has completed one full rotation, everything returns to its place, each dish settling back in to the only configuration that will allow it all to fit.

“So Murphy,” Kara starts, lifting her first bite of stuffing to her lips. “Ellie mentioned you have a job lined up after you graduate?”

It feels like my brain is cracking its knuckles. I guess Ellie wasn’t kidding about her mom’s priorities; I guess we’re getting right to it.

“Right, uh, sorta,” I say. A weak start. “I’m already running the marketing for Sip, but once I graduate, I’m planning to start my own marketing consulting business.” I turn to Ellie for reassurance that I said the right thing, and she squeezes my thigh under the table to confirm that, yes, I got my line right.

Kara, however, is slightly less encouraging. “You’re planning to?” She peers at me over her glasses. “It’s just an idea, then?”

“No, I’m going to,” I correct myself quickly. “It’s, uh, already in the works. You wouldn’t believe the number of small businesses in Geneva who are trying to work with me.” That’s not entirely a lie. She really wouldn’t believe the number: zero.

“Add Monarch to that list,” Carol chimes in, bumping that number up to one. “We could use the help.”

“I’ll put you on the wait list,” I say to Carol with more confidence than I’m entitled to. Look at me go, marketing my nonexistent company.

“So you’re planning to stay in the area, then?” Kara asks. It’s directed more toward her daughter than me.

“We’re figuring it out,” Ellie says. “Murphy still has at least a year of school left after I graduate. We have time.”

Kara nods toward her daughter, then turns her attention back to me. “I can’t imagine the suburbs can compare to your summer in New York.” If she sees me flinch, she doesn’t acknowledge it. The easy part of the lie is over; we’re on hard mode now.

“Oh! Yeah. My internship.” I pick up my fork and skewer a few green beans. “New York was cool.”

The silence that follows feels light-years long, and Kara looks at me, stone-faced, through all of it. I don’t even taste the green beans as I chew them; all I can focus on is my own heart beating in my ears. When Ellie nudges me with her thigh, I swallow hard and try again. “I mean, I could even see myself living there. In New York, I mean. I could see…us…living there.” I turn toward Ellie, whose limp smile reads as less of a good job and more of an eh, you could’ve done worse. It’s enough of a smile to show her dimple, though, which feels like a win to me.

Carol waves a spoonful of cranberry sauce as if to command our attention. “Lemme get this right. You’d live in New York and work with shops in Geneva? How would that even work?”

“Um, yeah.” Panic creeps up my throat like a stubborn pill. I gulp it down with my green beans and try again. “Yeah, I would. There’s so much you can do remotely these days, and…”

“And we’re figuring it out,” Ellie says for a second time in as many minutes. “What’s important is that things are looking great for Murphy’s business already.”

Kara lifts a brow. “Oh?”

“Yup,” Ellie continues, and I unclench my glutes while she takes the lead. “We’ll have no trouble affording a nice apartment, and I’ll be able to pursue my next steps wherever we are. Los Angeles, New York…”

“Hey,” Otto interrupts, wiping turkey grease from his lips, “what about Chicago? Ever thought about livin’ in Wrigleyville?”

I work up a smile before letting him down gently. “I’m not sure I’d want to live in Wrigleyville,” I say. It sounds nicer than the truth: that Wrigleyville is a petri dish of overgrown frat boys and, therefore, a complete no go for anything but a night on the town.

“Wrigleyville is right by Boystown,” Carol points out. She looks quite proud of herself for knowing that.

“That’s true. I could definitely see myself living there,” I say.

“Except we don’t really see ourselves in Chicago.” Ellie spits her consonants a little extra, nudging my thigh with hers again.

“Oh. Right,” I agree, but the disappointment on Otto’s face has me padding the landing. “I’ll probably be in the suburbs this summer though. Maybe Ellie and I can catch a home game at Wrigley if we’re up there for Pride in June.” The words come easier to me than I can rationalize. I didn’t expect making fake plans with my fake girlfriend to feel this natural.

Kara frowns at her daughter. “June? The wedding is in June.”

“We don’t have to block off the whole month, Mom,” Ellie reminds her, then turns back to me. “I’ve never been to Pride. That’d be fun, if I’m in town.”

I bite my cheek, curbing my excitement at the thought of bringing Ellie to Hydrate or Roscoe’s or any of the other legendary gay bars that have thrown me and my fake ID out onto Halsted Street. I haven’t been back since turning twenty-one in September, mostly because I’ve had no one to go with. Kat is so far from Chicago, and even if she was more local, taking my straight best friend to a gay bar feels sort of like riding a corporate float in the Pride parade. Fun enough, but a little forced. Ellie, on the other hand? I can easily picture us cheering and posing for pictures in front of rainbow balloon arches. In my mind’s eye, we’re kissing in those pictures…but that’s not allowed, is it?

“We should all go to Pride!” Aunt Carol pipes up, interrupting my gay daydream. “I’ve always wanted to see the parade.”

Kara clears her throat in her sister’s direction. “Pride isn’t for you, Carol.”

“Pride is for everyone,” I assure her. “I mean, as long as you’re not homophobic or anything. I know plenty of people who bring their family.”

“See?” Carol waves her fork at her sister. “It’s called being an ally to your bisexual daughter.”

“Is that how you…what is it, identify , as well?” Kara lifts a brow at me. “Bisexual? I try to keep up with all these terms, but it seems like they’re always inventing a new one.”

Ellie tenses up next to me. I can feel it. Maybe because she’s only about an eighth of an inch away. “We’re not inventing anything,” she says, overarticulating each syllable. “We’re—”

“Gay,” I interrupt. “I’m actually just gay. Plain old gay. Pretty easy to understand.” I hope that will be the end of the conversation, but when Kara clears her throat again, it feels like we’re teetering on the edge of something worse.

“When did you and your last girlfriend break up?” she asks.

I tilt my head, trying to scare up the name of the girl I briefly dated two summers ago. If you can even call it dating. She might’ve just been using me for my Sip discount. “Who?”

“The dark-haired one.” Kara twirls her fork around her head, suggesting curls. “You two were attached at the hip. She was such a pleasure to have in class.”

My whole body goes numb apart from the slow burn of heat creeping over my cheeks and down my chest. There’s only one verified pleasure to have in class that I know, and we’ve certainly never dated. I swallow hard, forcing a too-big bite of stuffing down my throat. It goes down with a fight. “That’s Kathryn,” I choke out. “She’s not my girlfriend. I mean, she was never my girlfriend. She’s straight. We’re just friends.”

“Kathryn, yes, that’s it.” Kara straightens in her seat, unfolding and refolding her cloth napkin before dropping it into her lap. “You two just seemed really close is all.”

“We are close,” I say. “Close friends.”

Kara looks skeptical, but she doesn’t push the point. “Well, regardless. I really liked Kathryn.”

I force a smile that I hope reads as polite. I know. That’s why you passed her.

Otto looks up from his plate for the first time since the conversation strayed from Wrigleyville. “Wait. Kara’s your teacher?” His bushy brows smush together, and when no one says anything, his big belly laugh rumbles the silverware on the table. “Wow, that’s a hoot.” He wags a finger between me and Ellie. “Is that how you two met?”

If I thought my cheeks were hot before, they’re surely on fire now. “Uh, no…” I turn toward Ellie, panic bouncing from my eyes to hers. “I mean…”

“We met in high school and reconnected last year,” Ellie says, as breezy and calm as I am tense. “Murphy insisted that she didn’t want any special treatment in class just because she’s dating me, so we opted not to tell you, Mom.”

I almost choke on my turkey. I can’t believe how opposite that is from the truth.

“That’s quite mature of you, Murphy,” Professor Meyers says, the threat of a smile twitching at her thin lips. “I’m impressed.”

The table is quiet apart from Carol’s open-mouthed chewing, until Otto gets our attention with a phlegmy cough. “Anyway. Murphy .” He says my name like it’s the perfect joke. “Ms. Bleachers . We’re glad ya came.”

“Hell yeah, we are,” Carol echoes.

“We’re thankful to have you here,” Kara says, her lips finally giving way to a toothy grin.

“Is that an official thankful submission?” Carol leans in to ask, the wispy ends of her hair dipping into the gravy.

“Not yet!” Ellie’s eyebrows leap up her forehead in warning. “Not till dessert!”

I frown at Ellie. “We can’t be thankful till dessert?”

“Did El Bell not tell you?” Carol asks. “During dessert, we all say what we’re thankful for. It’s tradition.”

I turn toward Ellie. Did she tell me? I don’t remember, but admittedly, we were speed running through each other’s personal lives. I’m liable to have missed a detail or two.

The squeak of Kara’s chair rivals sneakers on a high school gym floor. She gets up, and for a moment I’m sure she’s walking out. Instead, she heads for what I now know is the credenza. “Did she tell you we keep a journal?”

“I don’t think I brought it up,” Ellie says.

Her mother tugs open a drawer and starts riffling through a stockpile of takeout napkins. “Here it is.” She returns to her seat, shifting her plate to make room for a small notebook with gold spiral binding and a pale-blue cover featuring a watercolor-style hummingbird. “We’ve been doing this since the kids were little.” She turns back the cover, running her finger along the smudged pencil script. “Here it is. 2004, Marcus is thankful for Mom and Dad. So sweet. Ellie is thankful for grape juice.”

“Still true,” Ellie murmurs into her wine glass.

“Otto was thankful for no snow, Bruce Springsteen, and that he has tomorrow off work. Grandma was thankful for Grandpa and vice versa, I was thankful for my new teaching job, and Carol was thankful for”—she squints and frowns at the page—“her divorce lawyer.”

“Also still true,” Carol says. “I might say that again this year.”

“No repeats,” Ellie says. “That’s another rule. Except for Grandma and Grandpa. They got to be thankful for each other every year.”

“It’s a bullshit rule,” Otto grumbles. “If I’d known that , I wouldn’t have listed multiple things those first few years.”

“Try having a crappier life,” Carol says. “Then you’d have less to be thankful for.”

“Or more,” Kara says. “We were extra thankful during the recession.” She flips a few pages, presumably landing on 2008. “Marcus is thankful for his Xbox, Ellie is thankful for her slippers, Grandma and Grandpa are thankful for each other again, Otto is thankful for…” She draws in a deep breath, then rattles off about fifteen household items from the toaster to the towels.

“I did towels already?” Otto groans. “We have different towels now, does that count as a repeat?”

“Still counts,” Ellie says, a tiny satisfied smile pulled across her lips. Why do I get the feeling she’s the one who made up this rule?

“I think it’s great that you can’t do repeats,” I say, angling for the title of most supportive fake girlfriend. “It’s a great tradition. My family never really put much emphasis on the thankful portion of Thanksgiving.”

Ellie pivots toward me, her smile relaxing into something more genuine. “You’re lucky. First year, fresh start. You can be thankful for anything.”

I run my tongue along the front of my teeth, sucking out any turkey that might be wedged in the gaps. My instinct is to opt for something goofy: I’m thankful that my hangover didn’t last. For the dry shampoo that’s hiding my hair washing crimes. For the happy accident of bringing puppy chow instead of a store-bought pumpkin pie that wouldn’t hold a candle to Aunt Carol’s, I’m sure. It’s all true, and it’s all to avoid the sappy, entirely unhilarious reality: I’m thankful to be here on a day I otherwise might’ve spent playing second fiddle or entirely alone. Instead, I have the undivided attention of a girl who gives me butterflies—no, not just butterflies. Hummingbirds, flapping their watercolor wings at an impossible speed just behind my chest.

Ellie presses her thigh against mine again, and I turn toward her, worried that I’ve said or done the wrong thing. Instead, I’m met with a sheepish smile as her gaze hovers over my lips. Maybe I’m not the only one losing track of what’s pretend and what’s very, very real.