Chapter Seventeen

seventeen

There’s a long list of better places I could be right now. I could be sprawled across a beach towel, soaking in the Florida sun, or cozied up in the back corner of a dimly lit restaurant, toasting to what might be my most impressive milestone to date. I could be at home, in bed, sleeping off the ten-hour shift I just finished. Instead, I’m freezing my ass off on the Meyerses’ front porch. Again. How much of my life have I spent on the steps of something, waiting to be let in?

I stamp my thumb against the doorbell, squinting through the sidelites for any signs of Ellie as the two-toned chime sounds. It’s a bold move to show up at a girl’s house unannounced, but there’s too much to discuss properly via text. Talking it out in person felt like the most practical move, or at least it did a few minutes ago when I peeled out of the Sip parking lot with a large chaicoffski sloshing in my cupholder and a half-baked apology in my head. I’m praying I’m not the only one ready to say I’m sorry.

Through the window, I lock eyes with a slightly disheveled Kara, who looks as shocked as I am about my unplanned visit. She tugs the door open just enough for a conversation to leak through without carrying the cold air with it.

“Hi, Professor Meyers.” I hadn’t realized my teeth were chattering until I opened my mouth. We’re sneaking past sunset, and the night air bites back.

Kara blinks away her surprise and opens the door the rest of the way, giving me a full view of her Black Friday best: a pilled maroon Weymouth hoodie, black pants with fraying drawstrings, and Christmas-themed slipper socks patterned with little fuzzy ornaments. I’ve never seen her look so human. “Come in, come in,” she says, waving me inside. “Is your stomach feeling better?”

My right palm floats to my belly as Kara shuts out the cold behind me. Right. The fake stomachache that sent me home early from my fake girlfriend’s house. I should’ve known I’d lose track of my lies. “Uh, much better, thanks,” I mutter toward the floor. “I think I just ate too much. It was all so delicious.”

Kara’s eyes narrow behind her glasses. “Ellie wasn’t feeling too hot last night either. I’m worried Otto might not have cooked that turkey all the way through.” Before I can come to Otto’s defense, she’s onto the next topic. “How was the grand reopening? Carol sent me a few photos.” Either she’s genuinely interested or faking it well.

“It was a huge success. I’m glad Carol could stop by.” I pause to give Kara a chance to mention someone in particular who didn’t stop by, but instead, she motions for me to follow before turning over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, actually,” she says. “You might be just the right person to help me.”

I open my mouth to redirect the conversation back to the reason I’m here, but Kara is long gone before I can form a sentence, so I step out of my shoes without untying them and follow behind her, lukewarm chaicoffski still firmly in hand and a string of questions about her daughter tucked just beneath my tongue.

In the kitchen, all signs of Thanksgiving have been wiped, cleaned, and Cloroxed away to make room for a new brand of chaos. Dozens of tiny, tented pieces of cardstock are scattered in clumps across the countertop, each one boasting a name in thick black block letters. It’s as though someone has been playing a game of RISK with place cards instead of pawns.

“Is this for…?”

“The seating chart for Marcus’s wedding,” Kara explains.

Ah yes. Marcus the golden boy, or Marcus the tip-stealing know-it-all, depending on who you ask. Either way, he’ll be Marcus the groom this summer. It seems a little soon to be working on seating charts, and yet, here we are, overlooking an army of place cards.

“You have events at Sip, right?” Kara asks.

“Yes, but…” I scan the counter, trying to picture each of the tiny name cards as a full-size person in the room with us. The kitchen would overflow. “We definitely can’t fit this many people, even in the new space.”

“Oh goodness, no,” Kara laughs, “that’s not what I meant. I’ve just never had to organize this kind of event before. I thought you might have some experience with it at Sip?” A hopeful shimmer dances in her eyes, and for a second, I consider lying about my seating chart expertise just to make her happy. I’m a little lied out, though, so the truth is what comes out.

“Not really, no,” I admit. “We mostly do bridal showers and baby showers and things like that. People usually sit wherever they want.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” Kara says, but I catch her wilting a little as she swaps two name cards, pauses, then swaps them back again. “It was worth asking. I still have time to get it just right.”

“The wedding’s not till June, right?”

If I had blinked, I would’ve missed Kara’s sped up eye roll. “Correct. But Marcus wants one completed seating chart with all the invitees, and then as people RSVP…” She plucks two tented name cards from one of the little clusters—presumably representing tables—and places them to the side. “We just condense from there and fill in the gaps with guests they add from the B-list.”

“Sounds efficient.”

A stern breath of air shoots out of Kara’s nose as she pinches another card off the counter. “I’d probably choose a different word, but that’s Marcus for you. He has the vision but it’s everyone else’s job to make it happen.” It’s the first time she has acknowledged her son with anything other than complete adoration, and while we’re miles away from the conversation I’d like to be having, I can’t help but peel at the edges of her offhand comment.

“Is that usually how things go?”

Kara sets down the place card and nudges it back into place. “Oh, you know.” She looks up at me with a smile that’s subtle and polite, in direct contrast to my overt nosiness. “Marcus has always been a planner. He’s ten steps ahead of the rest of us most days. But with the wedding, it sometimes feels like twenty or thirty.” Her lips pinch for a moment before adding, “He’s been sort of a bridezilla.”

My laugh comes out louder than I would’ve hoped. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize.” Kara suppresses a chuckle of her own. “This is our first big family wedding, and everything about it is pretty funny to us. It’s exciting, of course, but Otto and I got married at the courthouse, so this”—she slices a hand through the air, overlooking her swarm of name cards—“seems excessive.”

“And expensive, I’ll bet.” I glance toward the staircase and back. Now would be a great time for Ellie to show up. I’m really teeing up the grad school conversation, and I’d prefer if she were here to witness me finally making good on my half of the bargain.

“Well, I don’t know if Ellie mentioned it to you,” Kara starts, giving me her signature over-the-glasses look, “but we inherited a good sum of money when my parents passed, and we agreed to invest most of it in the kids.”

I focus all of my energy into sending telepathic messages to Ellie, then raise my voice a little, hoping she’ll hear. “Oh? I think that might’ve come up on Thanksgiving.”

“Riiiight,” Kara says. She slowly nods as if to jog her memory. “With the grad school business.”

“Yeah, uh. That.” My breathing feels shallow, like the airflow is blocked by my heartbeat thumping in my throat. “That’s a pretty big deal, right?” C’mon, El. This is your moment. Where are you?

“It was the first I’d heard of it,” Kara murmurs, “but it sounds more expensive than a wedding.”

“I guess it depends on the wedding?”

Kara floats her pointer finger over her place card congregation. “It’s her money to use, but I’d hate for Ellie not to have any of it left for her own wedding someday.” Her finger lands on two cards near the center, and she plucks them up and places them on the counter beside me. One card reads “ELLIE” in bold capital letters. The one next to it, “MURPHY.” My heart lurches in my chest like a Tilt-a-Whirl, grinding down its rusty gears.

“I…I don’t think that’s anything that would be that soon.” My eyes dart from the stairs to the garage door and back again, willing Ellie to walk in and keep this thing from going off the rails. Again.

“Well, what do you think then? You certainly know her better than I do at this point. Is she cut out for a New York grad program? Or…”

Kara trails off, but that one little word ricochets off the side of my skull: or or or . I can speak up or I can stay silent. I can take the lead or I can leave this conversation to Ellie. My jaw stings to remind me to stop grinding my teeth. In the end, it’s not about me. This is Ellie’s future, not mine. “I think Ellie would want to tell you about it herself,” I say. “Is she around?”

“Pardon?” A long, quiet stillness falls over the kitchen as Kara’s face contorts in a strange mix of concern and confusion, finally settling into a frown that drags her whole face toward the floor. “Murphy.” She clears her throat. “Ellie went back to Champaign this morning. Did she not tell you?”

The Tilt-a-Whirl breaks down completely.