Chapter Twelve

twelve

Once the plates are cleared and the excessive compliments on the food have run out, we all retire to the family room for what seems to be a weird intermission separating dinner from dessert. I guess we all need a little time to kick back and digest—all of us, that is, except for Kara, who keeps her post in the kitchen, busily scrubbing dishes and boxing up the mashed potatoes we all forgot to eat. I must’ve offered a half dozen times for Ellie and me to take over as cleanup crew, which had really been more of an attempt to secure a little private time to talk to Ellie. Unfortunately for me, Kara was having none of it, and I’ve been booted to the living room with the other noncontributors.

Everyone else seems to have accepted their place on the sidelines: Otto is slumped into his leather recliner, snoring softly; Aunt Carol is working her way through a small mountain of Black Friday newspaper ads on the floor; and Ellie is cozied on the far end of the leather couch, half watching the football game on TV. Following their cues, I join Ellie on the couch. I loop an arm around her to guide her closer, and Ellie takes the invitation, snuggling in. With her back flush to my chest, she fits against me perfectly, like a mug in its corresponding saucer. I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing in her grapefruit shampoo. We’re barely situated when she starts to fidget.

“Hey,” Ellie whispers, just loud enough for me to hear, but quiet enough to be drowned out by the football announcer and the rustle of Aunt Carol flipping through ads. “Can we talk?”

Finally, the discussion we must’ve both been waiting for. I was hoping she’d be the one to bring up the kiss, but this wasn’t the venue I was expecting. I look from Otto to Aunt Carol, who both seem oblivious to our whispers. “Here? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, just real quick.”

It’s not exactly private, but it’s better than going another minute without discussing what happened in the garage. I count five seconds of an inhale before agreeing with a nod. “Okay,” I say. “What’s up?” As if I don’t already know.

“Would you mind taking it a little easier on the Chicago talk?”

I don’t just flinch; my full body spasms. “What?”

“The Wrigleyville and Boystown stuff,” Ellie specifies. “Can we steer things back toward New York to set up the grad school conversation during dessert?” In the silence of me trying to form a response, she scoots out of my arms and turns so we’re face-to-face. “Does that make sense?”

“Yeah…yeah, that makes sense.” I force down what feels like a fist-size lump in my throat. “I just…is that…all? Or is there anything else you want to talk about?”

She gives my hand a little squeeze. It sends a tight, tingly feeling down every nerve. “Nope,” she says, “that’s it.”

That’s it? Is that a joke? My mouth dries up, and my heart feels like it’s skidding down a Slip ’n Slide hours after someone shut off the hose. If she won’t bring up the kiss, I have to, but it takes a bit to generate enough spit to speak up. “Okay, but can we talk about the—”

“Get a load of this!” Aunt Carol’s squawk startles us both with a jolt. Jesus Christ. The interrupting genes are strong in this family.

“What is it?” Ellie asks. “Did you find a good deal?” I guess our private conversation has gone public again.

Carol holds up a flimsy Kohl’s ad that folds in on itself before we can read it. “Up to eighty percent off the whole store! How do they keep their doors open doing this sort of shit?”

“Up to eighty percent probably means only some clearance is eighty percent off,” I explain. “The rest will be, like, thirty percent. But it gets you to show up.” I hope that will be the end of it and Ellie and I can resume our discussion, but no such luck.

Carol straightens, craning her neck over her shoulder to get a better look at me. “El Bell is right. You are a marketing genius.”

I stop myself on the verge of a venti-size eye roll. It doesn’t take a genius to understand basic advertising tactics, but before I can argue the point, Ellie takes my hand and squeezes tight again.

“She’s so smart,” Ellie swoons. “And she hasn’t even taken any marketing classes yet. Just gen eds. Can you believe that?”

“You better hurry up and graduate so I can hire you to fix Monarch’s marketing,” Carol says. “What do you think we need? An Instagram? A Google account?”

I bury my teeth into my lip. Any chance of that private conversation is officially gone, so I guess I might as well weigh in. “I think a website is probably a good place to start,” I suggest. “Have you thought about an eCommerce shop? Selling some of your stuff online?”

Carol’s frown pulls the droop of her cheeks down even farther. “Sounds complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I can show you.”

“Jesus,” Carol huffs. “I feel like I should be paying you already!”

“See?” Ellie says. “I told you. You’ll be drowning in business as a marketing consultant the second you graduate.”

Carol’s nod is so aggressive, she’s at risk of a neck injury. “I feel like all these new shops have something Monarch doesn’t,” she says. “Like Sip or that new bookstore with the dog on the sign. They’re doing nutso levels of business. It’s like they know something I don’t. What am I missing, Murph!?” Every sentence out of Carol’s mouth is a decibel louder than the last, the verbal equivalent of being shaken by the shoulders. What’s worse is the way she stares at me, eyes wide and expectant, like I’m supposed to reveal the secret formula to her right here, right now.

“I think it’s about making the store less of a store,” I start, hoping Carol’s lack of marketing knowledge will mask the fact that I’m talking out of my ass here. “Running a shop is one thing, but making it into a destination creates community, you know? Coffee shops have it easier. They’re meant to be the kind of place where you sit and stay for a while, read a book, talk to a friend. And the bookstore, that’s the same way. They created this setting where you could just come and…be.”

“I don’t want people to just be ,” Carol says flatly. “I want them to spend money.” It’s not very Zen hippie aunt of her, but I get it, and although I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to say, I keep talking anyway.

“I think Monarch is somewhere you go for a purpose, just to do something and get it done. You buy a necklace or a candle and then you leave. Whereas a place like Sip feels more like a community center. There are events and concerts and people you want to see. If you can turn Monarch into more of a destination, a community that people want to belong to, they’re more likely to come by more often and spend more money.” My eyes flit to Ellie, who nods, either impressed or faking it well. When I turn back to Carol, she blinks at me, slack-jawed. I guess I actually landed on something pretty good there.

“Damn, Murph. You’re one smart cookie,” Carol says.

Ellie’s laugh shakes her shoulders without making a sound, and her blue eyes sparkle with amusement. “Told you she’s a genius at this stuff.”

“Not a genius,” I correct her. “I just have a decent sense of how people think.”

“Oh sure.” She nudges me playfully. “Like a genius.”

Carol laughs and slowly shakes her head as she studies us. “Geez, you two bicker like an old married couple. It’s crazy to me you’ve only been dating a year.”

“Is it?” Ellie nuzzles her head into the crook of my shoulder, close enough for me to breathe in grapefruit again. “What’s so crazy about it?”

“You’re just so comfortable with one another. Maybe it’s ’cause you’ve known each other since high school.” Carol steeples her fingers and presses them to her lips. “You know what it is? I think you built your relationship on a really solid friendship.”

“That’s true.” Ellie responds a little slower than feels natural. “We started off as just friends.”

It’s not lost on me that we’re still starting off right now.

“That really shows,” Carol says. “Never lose that friendship.”

“We won’t,” Ellie says. “Right, Murph?”

Carol launches into some parable of her ex-husband, but it’s background noise to me. I’m too caught up in parsing fact from fiction, weighing the kiss against Ellie insisting there’s nothing to discuss but the plan. And that friendship comment? Was she trying to say something? Or am I digging for a deeper meaning that’s not there?

“Is that okay with you, Murph?”

I tune back in at the sound of my name. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Aunt Carol wants to come with me to the Sip reopening tomorrow,” Ellie says. “Is that okay?”

A pinch of hope lifts the layer of fog off my brain. Ellie’s still planning to come. That makes me happier than it probably should. “Oh! Of course it’s okay. Everyone’s welcome. But yeah, it’d be great if you both could make it.”

“It’s your big day!” Ellie says. “We wouldn’t miss it. Plus you owe me a chaicoffski, remember?”

How could I forget? “Maybe I can give you a tour too.”

I can hardly believe myself, agreeing to more plans with this family beyond the limits of Thanksgiving. I guess that means Ellie and I will have to keep up the act tomorrow…right? Or are we supposed to turn back into just friends at the stroke of midnight?

“How’s around three o’clock?” Carol suggests. “That’s usually when I break for lunch.”

“Perfect. Things should be slowing down around then.”

“Totally cool.” She beams at Ellie and gives her two big thumbs-up. “Can you believe it, El Bell? We’re gonna get the VIP treatment.” Carol claps in excitement, and the noise combined with the jangle of her bracelets startles Bo into a barking fit, which, in turn, startles Otto awake.

“What?” Otto asks, frantic eyes ping-ponging across the room. “What happened? Is it time for dessert?”

Carol, Ellie, and I look at one another, then erupt into a rich, warm laughter. A family laugh. It’s enough to get Kara’s attention from the kitchen. “What’s so funny?” she shouts from the room over.

“Dad,” Ellie calls back.

Otto grunts. “What?”

“No, I mean Dad is what’s funny,” Ellie says with a giggle. “He fell asleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Otto insists, but he yawns as he speaks, launching us right back into our laughing fit.

Kara ambles over from the kitchen with pursed lips and a damp dish towel slung over her shoulder. “Now that you’re awake, can you put something else on the TV? I’m sick of listening to football.”

“It’s Thanksgiving!” Otto says. “You watch football on Thanksgiving!”

“Maybe you watch football on Thanksgiving.” Carol jabs an accusatory finger through the air. “Personally, I watch the parade.”

“But ya missed the parade,” he sasses, “because that was in the morning.”

“I recorded it.” Kara gestures toward the pile of remotes on the coffee table. “It’s on the DVR.”

“I’m putting it on,” Ellie says, and Otto grumbles something to himself but doesn’t put up a fight. I watch in amusement as Ellie picks up one remote and then another, testing each one to see if it controls the DVR. Our parents may be different, but it’s comforting to know that the unlabeled remote pile is universal.

“What’s everyone’s favorite part of the parade?” Carol polls the group. “Mine is watching the lip-synchers screw up.”

Ellie moves on to a third, then a fourth remote. “I like when they show the crowd. I try to pick out any locals among the tourists.”

Kara insists that the Rockettes are the highlight, and Otto puts in a vote for the giant Snoopy balloon. When all eyes fall on me, I’m only slightly embarrassed to have nothing to contribute.

“I’ve never watched it,” I admit.

“Because you’re usually at the beach for Thanksgiving!” Otto chimes in with the enthusiasm of someone who just answered a tough Jeopardy question. He looks toward me with a smile as wide as his face. “Right, Murph?”

I hold in a laugh. Every member of this family—well, everyone but Kara—has settled into using my nickname extraordinarily quickly, and I’m surprised that I don’t mind. “Yup, my parents are in Florida as we speak,” I say.

“A destination Thanksgiving.” Kara gazes off into space, her face twisting as she tries to picture it. “I just can’t imagine.”

“Maybe we should try it sometime, Mom,” Ellie says.

Kara frowns. “I don’t know about all that.”

“Why not? It’s not like we have big family Thanksgivings now that Grandma and Grandpa are gone. You always have the week off from teaching, and Aunt Carol…” Ellie nods toward her aunt. “I mean, you could always have a manager watch the store for Black Friday and Small Business Saturday, right?”

“I just don’t know,” Kara repeats. “Maybe if you’re lucky, Murphy’s family will invite you next year.”

There it is again, that uneasy high-tide feeling in my stomach. Excitement churning with disappointment as I’m presented with a beautiful idea set in a fictional world. I want to believe there’s a version of this where it all turns out. If our plan works, I’ll be transferring to U of I next semester, and Ellie and I could discuss actually dating, assuming she even wants that. Which she specifically said she didn’t. Of course, that was before she kissed me. Even then, she graduates this spring, and then she’s off to New York. What then? She won’t do long distance, so I guess we’d have to call it quits after just a few months. Is that really the best-case scenario? A few months of dating, knowing the whole time it won’t last? Worst-case scenario being she doesn’t think of me that way at all? I sink a little deeper into the couch. Crushing on Ellie Meyers is more complicated than an unlabeled stack of remotes.

“Got it!” Ellie says, pumping one hand in victory while the other navigates through the DVR, hitting play on this morning’s parade.

Right away, a peppy musical theater melody trumpets from the TV, and Otto sits up a little straighter in his recliner as one of the Broadway performances starts. “Man, don’t you think they’re freezing their asses off in those tiny fucking costumes?” he says.

“Otto!” Kara snaps. “Language!”

“Sorry. Don’t you think they’re freezing their butts off in those tiny fucking costumes.”

Ellie and I bubble over in laughter, a heap of giggles and grins on the couch. For a moment, I let myself forget our complicated reality for the sake of the simple stuff: how her dimple winks at me when she smiles and her laugh sounds like the swell of a cymbal against my low, bass-drum chuckle. It’s good like this, just me and her, until Kara claps her hands, startling us to attention. “All right,” she says, “I think we can watch while we eat dessert.”

“Let’s do dessert!” Otto slaps his palms against the worn leather arms of his recliner, like he’s announcing a brand new idea, entirely his own.

Carol puts both hands on her belly and jiggles it twice. “I think I have room for pie.”

“And puppy chow,” Ellie adds.

“Yes,” Carol says, “and puppy chow.”

Ellie pauses the parade midperformance, and we filter into the kitchen, where all signs of our Thanksgiving dinner have been completely boxed up and washed away. The pumpkin pie has been moved from the credenza to a spot of honor in the middle of the counter, and the puppy chow has been rehomed from the pink Tupperware to an ornate cranberry-colored glass bowl with a big silver serving spoon, far fancier than it deserves.

“I hope that’s all right,” Kara says, nodding toward the bowl. “I just thought I’d dress it up a bit.”

“It’s perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”

Carol glides the silver serving knife along the spongy center of the pumpkin pie, laying tiny, precursory grooves where she plans to cut it. “Do those sizes look right? You can always have two.”

We pass around a stack of miniature dessert plates, each one lined with tiny cornucopias. “These are cute,” I say, tracing the porcelain details with my pinkie. I’ll be damned, they have a full separate set of dessert plates just for Thanksgiving.

“They belonged to Ellie’s grandma,” Kara says when she sees me admiring them, and I grip my plate a little tighter.

“All right,” Carol says. “Who wants pie?”

“Muddy buddies for Thanksgiving,” Otto murmurs, scooping more than a spoonful of powdered sugar globs onto his plate. I can’t quite tell if it’s disapproval or just genuine surprise in his voice.

“It was just a last-minute thing,” I say.

“I like it.” Otto arches a bushy brow toward his wife. “Whaddya think, Kara? New tradition?”

My belly button draws back into my spine. “I didn’t mean to mess with your existing traditions, I just wanted to—”

“New tradition,” Kara says, not cutting me off so much as gently easing me out of my anxiety spiral. “I think it’s the perfect addition to Carol’s pumpkin pie.”

“My only contribution,” Carol announces proudly as she slides the largest slice off the server and onto my plate. “That and peeling potatoes.”

With full plates, we opt to hold off on the parade and return to our same spots at the kitchen table. The tiny corner I’m wedged into feels a little tighter one full Thanksgiving dinner later, but the lack of space is balanced by the much emptier spread on the table. I can prop my elbows up instead of gluing my arms to my sides just to fit.

“Thank you again, Murphy and Carol, for the desserts.” Kara gives each of us a polite smile before pinching a clump of puppy chow off her plate and popping it between her lips.

“How is it?” Ellie asks, and I can hear the undercurrent of nerves in her voice. She’s probably expecting a needs more peanut butter to validate her ridiculously precise behavior. I’m a tiny bit nervous myself. It was a rush job, and I didn’t even sample the final product, but how bad can it be with only good stuff in it?

“It’s delicious,” Kara says. She grabs another piece, a single square, and places it on her tongue, letting the powdered sugar dissolve. “I haven’t had muddy buddies in years.”

I bounce my knees beneath the table. “My family calls it puppy chow.”

Kara holds up one finger, chews, swallows, then finally says, “Call it what you want, so long as you bring it again for Christmas.” She dabs the powdered sugar from her lips with a napkin, leaving behind a small, warm smile. A genuine smile. I have to make the conscious decision not to let my eyes bulge out of my head. Is this ridiculous plan actually working? Does Professor Meyers actually like me? Is she inviting me back next month?

“Why don’t we ever make this anymore, Kar Bear?” Otto asks through a mouthful of half-chewed chow. The faintest cloud of powdered sugar puffs off his lips with every plosive.

“I don’t know. I guess I just forgot about it.” Kara smiles at me again and adds, “Thanks for reminding us.”

“Has anyone tried the pie yet?” Carol pipes up, surveying the plates. She’s clearly not used to sharing dessert-related compliments.

“It’s perfect, Aunt Carol,” Ellie assures her. “It’s perfect every year.”

“Have I done a year where I’m thankful for dessert yet?” Otto scans the room in search of the notebook, but quickly gives up and gets back to his plate. “Someone check.”

“I’m sure Marcus has,” Kara says. “You can’t repeat your own, but what’s the rule on repeating someone else’s?”

Ellie mulls it over, then shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s fair. I think it has to be original.”

“I think you need to write down the bylaws,” I mumble, not entirely sure if I’m kidding or not. It gets a laugh from everyone except Ellie, who just rolls her eyes.

“I’m just saying, if no one has repeated someone else’s yet, I don’t think we should start,” Ellie says.

“But I do think we should start the whole rigamarole,” says Otto. “It’s about that time, right?”

The general consensus is yes, it’s about that time, and Kara retrieves a pen and the notebook from where she put it—back in its rightful place in the top drawer of the credenza. When she takes her seat again, it’s as though she’s transformed into an old-timey scribe, ready for her official duties.

“I love that notebook, by the way,” I say, greedy for extra brownie points so long as I’m on a roll.

“Thanks.” Kara smiles at Ellie. “My daughter made it.”

Suddenly, I’m no longer just sucking up. “No way.” I turn toward Ellie, whose cheeks are turning the color of my mom’s Tupperware. “Can I see that?”

Kara hands it off to me, an only slightly nervous look in her eyes. “Careful.”

“Of course.”

Upon further inspection, the notebook doesn’t have a hummingbird cover like I originally thought—it has a black cover with a small hummingbird painting pasted over it. The edges are folded in and taped to the inside cover, next to an inscription: Ellie’s name and the year. This year. “You painted this?”

Ellie just barely nods. “For Mom. For her birthday.”

“It was last week,” Kara says. “She didn’t intend it for the cover of the notebook, but I just thought it fit.”

“Mom loves hummingbirds. She has a feeder in the back.”

“In the summer,” Kara clarifies. “This isn’t their season.”

I trace the delicate edge of the hummingbird’s wing with slow, careful fingers. “This is gorgeous, Ellie.” I look up, meeting her soft blue eyes with a smile. “You’re so talented.”

Kara makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a high note, all behind closed lips. “She better be for what we’re paying for that art degree.”

My chest tightens. This is it. The perfect setup for the grad school conversation. Or it will be, if we can shift back to that positive tone we had moments ago. I clear my throat, nudging a piece of puppy chow across my plate with the side of my fork. “It’s really paying off, actually. Or, uh, from what I’ve seen. Ellie’s learning a lot of…practical uses for her degree. Did you tell them about the conversation you had with your advisor, Ellie?”

Ellie’s throat bobs with a swallow. “Right. I’ve been wanting to talk to you guys about that.”

“About how you’re planning to use your degree? Or about how you’re planning to pay off those private loans ?” The way Kara leans the full weight of her voice into those words—private loans—reminds me of why Kat and I made this whole “community college then state school” plan in the first place. Big Ten schools come with Big Ten price tags.

“Both, actually,” Ellie starts, but her mom doesn’t let her finish.

“You know, Murphy, you’re smart for choosing community college,” Kara says, talking out of the corner of her mouth. “That’s what Marcus did. Two years at Weymouth before transferring to finish his engineering degree at Cal Poly. Ellie could have done the same and saved a lot of money.”

“A good education is an investment, Mom.” Ellie drops her fork on her plate with a clatter, shooting me a sidelong save me look as she folds her arms over her chest. What am I supposed to do? I agree with Professor Meyers. And if I’m honest, I’m stuck on the sound of her calling me smart. Is this how it feels to be the favorite?

Ellie’s mother holds her hands up in defense, her mouth pinching into a perfect O shape. “I was just pointing out that your girlfriend made a very economical move.”

“But money isn’t the only factor when it comes to an education, right?” I chime in, and Ellie places a hand on my thigh in a silent thank-you.

“Of course,” Kara agrees, but when her eyes lock with mine, they narrow with skepticism. “Did it factor into your education, though? Or was there another reason you chose community college?”

I squirm a little in my seat. There were two deciding factors that made me pick Weymouth: money and Kat. But considering Kara’s earlier assumption that my best friend was my girlfriend, I can’t admit that Kat was half of my major life decision. It would just raise suspicions again—and spin this conversation off in an entirely different direction. “Money was a huge factor,” I finally say, only because it seems better than saying nothing at all.

“But it’s not like she’s doing her entire degree at Weymouth,” Ellie continues. “Because her future is the main priority, and U of I is a way better school for her career goals. Right, Murph?”

I squirm again. Truthfully, I don’t really know what my career goals are right now, and my main reason for choosing U of I is that it’s where Kat wanted to go. But I can’t say that either, and with all the back-and-forth, I feel a little like I’m being asked to pick a side on the subject of my own life.

“Some schools just have better programs than others,” I say. Another nonanswer.

“Exactly,” Ellie says with a decisive nod. “And U of I is… well, it’s U of I! No wonder Murphy’s transferring next semester.”

I focus my attention on the divots in the pie crust, waiting for my brain to tell my mouth what to say in order to get the attention off my life and back on Ellie’s. You’re smart, Murphy. Professor Meyers just said it herself. Say something. Say the right thing.

“Next semester?” Kara places her fork on the table with a tinny clink , then redirects her narrow gaze toward me. “Have you already heard back about your transfer application?”

“Heard back? No, I uh.” I clear my throat into my napkin, trying to rattle the truth free. “I still need my accounting grade to submit my transfer requirements.” When I look back up at the table, Kara’s face droops.

“Murphy,” she says, her voice airy with regret. “Honey, I write a lot of letters of recommendation for transfer students. The U of I transfer applications were due in October.”

The table falls quiet, sinking into a long, horrible silence. Kara’s words don’t quite make it to my brain; instead, they knock against my eardrums, an unwelcome and unexpected visitor. That can’t be true. There’s no way that’s true. I try to reference my mental calendar, checking the timeline of when Kat submitted her application last summer. It couldn’t have been that far in advance…could it?

“October,” I finally say. One word, not even a complete thought. October. Last month. That was right after the construction wrapped up on Sip, right when we started laying the groundwork for the reopening. October is when I started making overtime. My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.

“Oh Murphy, it’s okay,” Ellie says, but this time, when she squeezes my hand, I don’t even feel it. “Maybe we can call the registrar next week and see if they’ll let you file for an extension. You can’t be the only midyear transfer in this situation.”

“October,” I repeat again, blinking up at Professor Meyers with disbelief. “But I don’t have my grade for your class yet. I don’t know if I have the accounting credit. And I need the accounting credit to transfer into the business school. How could I apply without knowing I had the transfer credits to…”

“The deadline passed, Murphy,” Kara whispers. “And I’m not even sure the business school allows for midyear transfers. I’m so sorry.”

“Murph?” Ellie asks. “You okay?”

My internal panic must not be so internal. It feels like there’s a to-do list stuck in the base of my throat rapidly unrolling down to my stomach. Is there an administrator I can email? A handbook I forgot to reference? It feels like every missed deadline is behind me and every one of my classmates is five years ahead.

“I’m fine,” I choke out. “Just overthinking.” Or I’ve been underthinking for the past two and a half years.

The rest of the table conversation sounds like it’s happening underwater. Otto makes a joke. Aunt Carol squawks a laugh. Ellie says something in a voice that sounds serious, but the words themselves are smudged. When she digs her fingernails into my thigh, I have no context for what’s been said or what she needs, but I know I need some air. Bad.

“So, like Murphy mentioned, I spoke with my advisor, and she thinks I’m a great candidate for the art therapy master’s program at NYU.” Ellie’s claws haven’t risen from the shallow graves they’ve dug in my leg. Shit, okay, we’re still doing this. I sit up a little straighter in my chair.

“You want to go into even more debt for another art degree?” Kara’s voice is slow and each word is spread out a half second from the last. A scoff gets stuck in her throat, and when I look her way, she’s looking back at me like I’m supposed to speak up. Like I’m supposed to take her side. I open my mouth, but all I can choke out is an airy “eh,” the sort of defeated noise you might expect if I was lifting something heavy or breathing through a cramp.

Kara makes a smug little sound behind closed lips. “If that’s Murphy’s official stance on the subject, I’m not so sure she’s on board.”

“No no no,” I insist, each “no” a pitch lower than the last. “It’s just…” I have the full table’s attention now, but I can’t make use of it. I’m too drenched in panic, too buried beneath the rubble of my own crumbling future to say anything helpful—or really, anything at all.

“Well,” Ellie says, picking up where I’m so brutally letting her down, “ I think it’s a good career path for me, and I was thinking it’d be a good use of the money from Grandma and Grandpa. Funding my education.”

“So our contributions to your four years of art education aren’t enough?” Kara sounds sterner than I’ve ever heard, and that’s saying a lot. “And why New York? It’s so expensive and far—don’t you want to be close to Murphy?” She turns to me and adds, “Assuming you’d try to transfer to U of I next fall. Is that still what you’d want?”

“I…uh…” I push my tongue against my teeth and stare down at my plate. It’s like we’re back in the classroom, and just like always, Professor Meyers is asking a question I don’t know the answer to. What do I want? I want to disappear from this table. I want to squeeze my eyes shut and magically reopen them somewhere else, somewhere private where I can cry. I lock my jaw to bite back the tears. “I don’t know.” It’s my first bit of honesty since the moment I arrived, so why does it feel worse than a lie?

When I look up from my plate, Kara is still looking at me, only now, there’s something sad clouding her eyes. I know that look. It’s the same look Ellie gave me this morning when she turned me down. It’s pity, and I can’t stand it. My heart slouches into my stomach. Like mother, like goddamn daughter.

“I, uh. I have to run to the bathroom.” I push back from the table, and my chair stutters against the hardwood, then my head bangs against the bay window behind me, but I don’t even react. I try to maneuver past Ellie, but it’s worse than trying to get to an airplane bathroom from the window seat. She stands up to clear a path, which means Otto has to get up so Ellie can move her chair. It’s a circus of moving parts, and soon we’re all on our feet—except for Kara, who taps her pen against the open notebook.

“We should get back to what we’re thankful for,” she says. “Do you want us to wait for you?”

“No, no, I’ll be fast.”

Ellie is watching me, her lips parted on the verge of saying something, but it’s too late now. I’m already halfway down the hall before the buzzing in my pocket drags me out of my head and into an unsteady reality. Apparently, I’ve missed two calls and a text from Kat.

SOS. emergency. PLEASE call back.

I fixate on the first half of the message. SOS. emergency . I could say the same for myself. How very like us to both be in crisis mode right now. Before I can still my shaky hands enough to respond, my phone rumbles alive with a third call from Kat, and I hurry into the little yellow bathroom and turn the lock just in time to catch the final ring.