Chapter Nine

nine

It’s an eight-minute drive from my house to Ellie’s—at least that’s about how long it took this morning. It’s all residential roads, too, so we don’t hit any holiday traffic. We’re running behind schedule, so this should be good news, and under normal circumstances, it would be. Too bad today is anything but normal. I would need about eight hours to gather the amount of information on Ellie that would make me a convincing girlfriend, but we can only work with what we have, and what we have is eight minutes. Maybe ten at the snail’s pace Ellie is driving to buy us a little more time.

“Okay, your favorite color is navy, your favorite movie is Back to the Future , and you don’t have a favorite book because you don’t really read.” Ellie recites my own information back to me with the flat apathy of a doctor’s office confirming your appointment details. Hand over hand, she turns the wheel in slow motion, pulling into her neighborhood at a crawl.

“Perfect. And for you, favorite color red, favorite movie 27 Dresses , and favorite book is some poetry collection.”

“Which poetry collection?”

I bite my cheek and hazard a guess. “Something by…Mary Anderson?”

“Mary Oliver,” she corrects me. “But not bad.”

“One more question.” I just barely raise a hand, feeling like I’m back in Professor Meyers’s class. “Are we going to Thanksgiving or a taping of The Newlywed Game ?”

Ellie glosses over my joke, which was honestly too dated for either of us. Clearly my audience has been my parents for too long. “I’m just trying to be safe. Mary and I were together for almost a year, remember? You never know what will come up.”

I picture Ellie and me seated at a kitchen counter with a panel of her entire family on the other side, grilling us on the sort of questions we put on our elementary school “About Me” posters to determine whether our relationship passes the reality check. “I feel like there are more reasonable things I would know about you after a year of dating. Like…” I pause to think, unsure if the car is even moving at this point. “Like what’s your roommate’s name?”

“Rachel,” Ellie says. “What’s yours?”

“Um.” I pick at a loose hangnail. “Mom and Dad?”

“Oh right.” She rolls her lips over her teeth. “Sorry.”

We spend the last few seconds of the car ride wading out of an awkward silence, and by the time we’re turning onto her street, I have three fun facts and a roommate’s name. With that amount of basic info, I wouldn’t even believe I was this girl’s dental hygienist, but here we go anyway. As her house comes into view, so does the dusty-blue Subaru. It’s been joined in the driveway by an olive-green Jeep, bringing another obvious question to mind. “Who all am I meeting?”

“Just my dad and my mom’s sister, Carol,” Ellie says.

“Right, because Marcus is with his fiancée’s family.” I wait for my verbal gold star for remembering, but instead all I get is:

“Right.”

The car jostles beneath us, trading asphalt for concrete as we pull into the driveway. A closer view of Carol’s Jeep gives me a half dozen more questions I don’t have time to ask. While the geometric mountain design plastered on the back wheel cover is an odd choice for the famously flat Chicago suburbs, the bright pink nasty woman sticker on the bumper is a nice touch. I’m still trying to count exactly how many crystals are lined up on the back windshield when Ellie kills the ignition and hops out of the car, jogging over to the passenger side to get my door.

“Quite the gentleman,” I murmur, handing off the puppy chow while I unbuckle. “You think your mom’s watching from the window or something?”

She lifts a shoulder, drumming her fingers on the Tupperware lid. “Could be. Mostly I just don’t want you spilling the muddy buddies.”

“Puppy chow,” I correct her, motioning for her to hand the Tupperware back. “We’re gonna need to be a united front on that.”

We trudge up the limestone pavers to the front porch, where the flower pots bookending the door have been given a festive makeover with craft maple leaves and tiny plastic pumpkins. Ellie pauses, her fingers hovering just over the doorknob. “You ready?”

My stomach tucks into itself. There’s no such thing as ready. Even if the drive over had been ten times longer, if we had known each other twice as many days—even if Ellie was actually my girlfriend, there’s still no version of me that’s prepared to spend Thanksgiving angling for a passing grade via my professor’s daughter. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I admit. One final bit of honesty before the performance starts.

“All right.” Ellie pushes a sigh through the tight circle of her lips. “Let’s do this.” She cranks the doorknob to the right, releasing the thick, buttery smell of midstage dinner preparations as we step inside and into character.

“We’re back,” Ellie shouts to no one in particular, then kicks off her Docs and ditches her coat over the banister. I try to follow suit, but I’m still battling a stuck zipper when a scraggly looking dog with an impressive underbite trots toward me. With wispy white whiskers and crusted-over eye boogers lining his big black eyes, he’s adorable in a nasty way. He yaps twice, then jumps up on my leg, his little paws barely reaching the tops of my shins.

“I think you forgot to mention someone I’d be meeting,” I tease, pinching one tiny paw between my thumb and forefinger in something close to a handshake. “Nice to meet you, sir or madam.”

“This is Bo.” Ellie crouches to scratch behind his ears. “Carol’s dog.” Bo sniffs at the Tupperware of puppy chow tucked under Ellie’s arm, taking the dessert’s name a little too literally. “Nooo,” Ellie warns, “this isn’t for puppies.”

“Don’t let him pee on you!” A shrill voice echoes from somewhere deeper in the house, and Bo scampers off toward it. We follow shortly behind, stepping into a kitchen that feels like a suburban Mom’s Pinterest board brought to life. Every stretch of the canary yellow walls offers a different word of inspiration to remind me how lucky I am to be here. Above the table, gather . By the fridge, thankful . And over the big copper farmhouse sink, the word blessed is printed in big white letters on a plank of repurposed wood. If an AI were to develop a dream kitchen for the average white, midwestern mom, this would be it.

“Welcome back, girls.” Professor Meyers leans against the cream granite countertop, muscling open jar after jar of premade cranberry sauce. Her stained apron and worn-in house shoes humanize her, but I’d recognize that stern, disappointed look in her eyes anywhere. She glances from her daughter to the clock on the stove: 3:55. “What took so long?”

“We were baking,” Ellie says. “Well, sort of. Combining ingredients, at least.” She turns to the other side of the counter, where a thin woman with silver tent-shaped hair and a mess of colorful necklaces is raking a vegetable peeler over a potato, sending the skins flying off in sheets. “Hi, Aunt Carol. Good to see you.”

Aunt Carol looks down at Bo, who is vibrating at her feet, then toward Ellie. “Did he pee?”

“I don’t think so.” Ellie scans my jeans for any non-preexisting stains. “We may have gotten lucky.”

“Thank God.” Carol blows out an exaggerated breath of relief, the kind you might expect from someone who narrowly dodged a car crash. “He hates the doggy diapers, Kara,” she goes on, returning her attention to the potato she’s peeling. “Chews ’em right off.”

“Um, Carol? Were you planning on saying hello to Murphy?” Kara shakes a colander of freshly boiled potatoes over the copper kitchen sink, offering me a small smile through the steam.

Whatever hypnosis the potatoes have Aunt Carol under shatters at the sound of my name. “Murphy! Ellie’s girlfriend!” Her big dark eyes stretch with excitement, and I can’t help but notice she more closely resembles her dog than her sister. Both the potato and peeler drop from her bejeweled fingers and onto the counter. The clatter sends Bo into a barking fit, but Carol just raises her voice over the noise. “Kara told me everything about you!”

My heart rate doubles. Everything ? What constitutes everything ? Was she pulling from two semesters’ worth of tardies and half-assed assignments or the sparse catalogue of information Ellie’s shared about her ex? I’m desperate to know, but there’s no way for me to ask. It’s probably better that I don’t know anyway. I accept Aunt Carol’s awkwardly limp hug, trying not to get tangled up in her necklaces and praying she can’t feel my heart race through her oversize knit sweater. When we pull away, Carol grabs my forearms, holding me in front of her for further examination. Her eyes crinkle as she studies me, tilting her head back and forth. Bo looks up at me from her feet, his head following a similar tilting pattern. When she finally speaks, it’s to Ellie, not me. “She’s beautiful, El.”

“Thank you,” Ellie and I say in perfect unison.

“I mean it,” Carol insists, speaking to me this time. “I’m telling ya, Ellie brought home some real jerks in high school, some real clunkers. I always knew she’d eventually find a sweet guy or—” She cuts herself off with a cackle, leaning into her grip on my arms. I try to laugh along with her, only because it seems like she wants me to.

“Geez, Car, let the poor girl out of your death grip,” Kara scolds, waving the potato masher at her sister.

“Oh hush, Kar, I was just looking at her, is that such a crime?”

I bite my cheek, trapping the threat of nervous laughter. I’m not sure if I hate or love the parents who gave their daughters two nearly identical names, but if we run into one another in the afterlife, I want to shake their hands. You have to respect that level of commitment to chaos.

Carol loosens her grip on my arms a little, just enough for me to feel the blood flowing to my fingertips again. Her eyes, however, don’t budge from my face. She pushes her lips out, scooping her chin toward the cowl of her burgundy sweater in slow, deliberate nods. “I feel like I know you already,” she says.

“Can we not do the hippie-dippie stuff today?” Kara pleads, sounding her usual level of annoyed.

“No, not that, I mean I think I’ve seen her in the shop before.” Carol tucks her silver hair behind her ears, showing off a pair of dangly gold earrings in the shape of peacock feathers that glisten under the fluorescent kitchen lights. “I’ve got this little jewelry and accessory store in downtown Geneva called—”

“Monarch,” we both say, our voices overlapping.

Carol’s eyes flicker. “Did Ellie tell you?”

“No, but I’ve been in the store a few times.” I sneak a second look at her mess of necklaces, wondering how many are from her own inventory. Monarch has sourced my mother’s Christmas presents for more years than I can count.

Carol flashes her sister a told-you-so look, then swivels back to me. The flicker in her eyes has grown to a full-on gleam. “I knew it,” Carol says. “I knew I’d seen you around. Do you work downtown?”

“Yeah, I’ve worked at Sip since high school.”

Kara perks up. I’ve used one of her trigger words. “Marcus was a barista at Sip in high school too.”

“Murphy’s not just a barista though,” Ellie says. She balances the Tupperware on her hip and loops her free hand around my waist, pulling me so tight against her that her hip bone digs into the side of my thigh. It’s bony and persistent, but I don’t particularly mind, except that it’s revealing some major holes in our plan. I know her roommate’s name and her favorite movie, but I don’t know our boundaries so far as physically playing the part of her girlfriend. Do I hold Ellie’s hand at the table? Do I snuggle up to her at every chance?

“Murphy does all of Sip’s marketing and social media too,” Ellie goes on, blissfully unaware of the panic kicking me in the gut. “Like I told you, Mom. She’s really good at business stuff.”

Kara smiles just enough to prove that she heard her daughter, but not enough to convince anyone she’s impressed, then pulls out her phone without saying a word. Luckily, Carol has enough words for all of us, launching into a lengthy spiel about how Sip has changed the fabric of downtown Geneva. By the way that Professor Meyers looks up from her phone every few sentences, I get the feeling she thinks her sister is spewing nonsense, but I’m eating up every word. It’s a nice distraction from the list of worries compiling in my head vis-à-vis: how I should and shouldn’t touch my fake girlfriend. I’m sure Carol and I could babble on for hours about Sip’s impact on the downtown demographic, the need for fewer high-end stores and more shops that fit a Sip customer’s needs and budgets. I could weigh in, but my attention is tied up in Ellie’s hipbone, the way my skin warms around her hand on my side. I could babble on about that too.

“Here it is,” Kara interrupts. She flips her phone around to show off a low-resolution photo of a teenage boy wearing an apron with the original Sip logo. He looks a little like Ellie did in high school—dark hair, blue eyes, a little on the short side—but his smile is wide and bright like something out of a Crest Whitestrip ad.

“Aww, Little Marcus.” Carol lays a hand over her heart, her stack of silver bracelets clattering and clinking together. “You’ve gotta put that one in the slideshow for the rehearsal dinner.”

“I’m sending it to him now.” Kara flips her phone back around and thumbs out a message. “When we talked this morning, he said his fiancée’s family Thanksgiving is going to be twenty people. Can you believe that? Twenty! No wonder the guest list for the wedding is so long.” She pauses, then looks up at me to add, “Ellie’s brother is spending Thanksgiving with his fiancée and her family in Sacramento.”

“She knows, Mom,” Ellie says. “She knows all about Marcus.”

After a few scattered pieces of conversation about plus-ones and whether or not there should be a bride’s and groom’s side during the ceremony, the kitchen returns to the task at hand: Thanksgiving dinner. While Kara opens the last of the cranberry sauce, Carol resumes her post at the counter, putting her full weight into slicing a quarter-size eye off a potato. Ellie joins her, shaving potatoes at twice Carol’s rate. She’s gotten two done in the time it takes her aunt to whittle off that eye, which flies across the room and onto the floor, becoming Bo’s afternoon snack. Playing the role of vacuum cleaner, the dog is officially more helpful than me. As I look around for something to do to give the illusion of helpfulness, I spot the Tupperware among the potato scraps. “I uh, brought dessert. Where should I put it?”

Kara lifts a brow. “What is it?”

“Puppy chow,” I say, ready with an apology. “I know it’s not really a Thanksgiving food, but…”

“But it’s perfect,” Ellie says, then lifts her cheek in what I think is a wink, but it’s over so quickly, I’m not totally sure.

“You can put it with the pie on the credenza,” Kara says, and although I don’t know what a credenza is, I do know what a pie is. I scan the room, locate the foil-topped pie tin, and set my bowl down next to it. Out of curiosity, I peel the foil back half an inch. Pumpkin. Good thing the store was out.

“Is there anything else I can help with?” I ask, praying for a yes. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand around feeling completely useless.

Kara pauses to think. “Want to check on Otto? He’s been fussing with that smoker all day. I’m starting to wonder if we’ll even have turkey this year.”

“Backyard, right?” Ellie hops down from her stool, rolling a half-peeled potato toward the middle of the counter. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

“Uhp-uhp-uhp!” Kara protests in the sort of stuttering, finger-wagging way moms are experts in. “You’re not going anywhere if we want all these potatoes to be done in time.” She gives me a knowing look over her horn-rimmed glasses before adding, “She was supposed to have them done before she picked you up.”

A twinge of guilt pinches my stomach. So far, my campaign for the title of teacher’s pet is looking grim.

“I’ll meet you out there,” Ellie assures me, returning to her post at the counter. “Promise.” And as much as I don’t want to go out there alone, I want to stand around and feel useless even less.

I grab my shoes and coat from up front and verify one last time that there’s really nothing I can do to help in the kitchen— You’re sure there are no more vegetable peelers? And only one potato masher, really? —before I slip out the back door, following the low grumbles of frustration to the far end of the brick patio. The backyard is quintessentially suburban, white picket fence and all. Unlike my neighborhood, the few trees they have are newly planted and only a bit taller than I am, allowing plenty of sunlight to warm up the air. Behind a smattering of wrought-iron patio furniture, Otto is crouched over a small black pod with stainless steel legs, the bright red pom of his Cubs stocking cap bobbing as he futzes with something. When I step on an especially crunchy leaf, he looks up, startled out of his close watch on the smoker.

“Who are you?” His voice is gruff, if not a little accusatory.

“I’m Murphy. Ellie’s girlfriend.” I stop a few feet away from him, leaving a patio chair between us. I’d shake his hand if his gloves weren’t covered in charcoal.

“Girlfriend?” Otto’s face twists up. The word must sound as weird to him as it does to me. His eyes roll skyward, scanning his memory. “Yeah, I think El Bell mentioned ya. Hey, ya ever used a smoker before?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Me neither,” Otto says. He shoves a gloved hand into his pocket, digging out a crumpled instruction manual and holding it at a distance. “Guess I should’ve read this thing first. No clue if I’m doing this right.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say with more conviction than I have any right to. “How long have you been out here?”

He checks his watch. “Six hours, give or take? Although if you subtract however long the neighbor kept an eye on it while I ran out for more charcoal…” His laugh is more of a grunt as he stuffs the manual back into his pocket. “I don’t know. Kara’s the one who’s good with numbers, not me.”

“I’m no mathematician either,” I admit, nudging a few loose wood chips into a pile with the sole of my shoe.

“Yeah?” He lifts one thick, furry brow at me. “Whatcha do for work?”

Shit. I guess I set myself up for that.

“I’m a student. And…a turkey smoking consultant,” I joke, and his laugh turns my nerves down a notch.

“Any insights on how I’m doing, then?”

I suck my teeth, shaking my head as I study the little black jetpack of a smoker between us. “Yeah. I’d say this turkey had a serious nicotine problem. No surprise he died so young.”

This time, his laugh is a full-body guffaw that shakes his shoulders. “Atta girl,” he says. “You can stay.”

Before we can fully settle into the comfortable lull in conversation, Otto pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping unsuccessfully at the screen with gloves on three or four times. He finally peels one off and pockets it, punching his pointer finger against the screen and thumbing up the volume until we’re listening to the brassy voice of a sports broadcaster shouting about the third down. “You like football?” he asks.

I pinch the air, holding my thumb and forefinger just far enough apart to show that my football knowledge isn’t zero. “More of a baseball girl.”

“Cubs or Sox?”

“Cubs.”

He smiles, pulling his glove back on before tugging his hat over the red shells of his ears. “Right answer. Hand me some more of those wood chips.”

We work in silence for a while, feeding wood chips into the smoker and taking turns being the one to stoke the embers and the one to hold their hands up near the flame, although I’m not sure if it’s to block the wind or just to keep our hands warm. We communicate in head tilts, grunts, and nods. Otherwise, the only sound between us is the carnival barker–level football commentary blaring from his phone speaker. When the Cowboys score, Otto shuts it off with a huff.

“Gonna be another Bears loss, I bet,” he says in a voice more deflated than Tom Brady’s football. “Stick to being a baseball fan. At least the Cubs manage a win from time to time.”

“Enough to keep us hopeful every once in a hundred years,” I say.

“Yeah, 2016 was a good year.” He tilts his head back, checking the sky for a memory of the last Cubs World Series win. “I think I might fly out to Arizona this year for spring training since I won’t make it to Wrigley much with the wedding this summer.” He pauses, then looks down from the sky and back at me. “Are you coming to the wedding?”

I speed through my answer. “We haven’t discussed it.”

Luckily, Otto seems more interested in talking baseball anyway. “What about spring training? You ever been? It’s a fuckin’ party.”

One f-bomb from him and any remaining tension in my body dissolves. “I’ve never been,” I admit.

“You’ve been to Wrigley though, right?” His tone has shifted to concerned father mode.

“Dozens of times,” I reassure him. “Don’t worry. My dad raised me right, pulling me from school at least once a year for Cubs games.”

“That’s a good dad.”

“Yeah, he’s the best,” I say. “He came to all my softball games growing up too.”

“And what is your Cubs fan Dad up to today?”

“He’s in Florida.” The wind whips through the yard, an unwelcome reminder of the weather I’m missing out on. “We always go to Florida for Thanksgiving.”

Otto nods, but his frown doesn’t budge. “Why aren’t ya there, then?”

I rub the zipper of my coat between my thumb and forefinger. Why aren’t I there? If only he knew how many times I’ve asked myself the same question over the last twenty-four hours. “I hung back to…” I pause, revising my story in real time. “To see Ellie,” I finish. “And to meet you guys, of course.”

“So you’re not down in Champaign?”

“Not yet. I’m trying to transfer next semester. Just gotta pass accounting first.”

Otto nods and grunts. “You should ask Kara to help you,” he says, oblivious. “She’s an accountant. Even teaches a class at the community college.”

I could correct him. I probably should. But instead, I just smile and say, “Great idea.”

“How’s it looking?” A familiar voice interrupts with stellar timing. I turn toward the house, where Ellie has slid the kitchen window open just enough to yell through the screen.

“Like a turkey!” Otto shouts back.

“Murphy, did you talk him into reading the instruction manual?” Ellie asks, holding up crossed fingers.

Before either of us can form a snappy reply, Kara’s distant voice clucks in the background about letting the cold in, and Ellie slides the window closed again, only to reappear moments later outside the back door. In her long tan coat and a giant pair of white New Balances, she shuffles across the patio, trying not to trip on her oversize shoes.

“What, didja leave all of your shoes back in Champaign?” Otto teases. “Have to steal mine now?”

“I didn’t feel like lacing up my Docs,” Ellie says, shaking one giant white sneaker toward her dad. “These are cool. You know Dad shoes are back in style again?”

“Oh good,” Otto snorts. “You know how I always have to be in style.” He drags the side of his glove beneath his nose, wiping snot away. “Colder than a witch’s tit out here.”

Ellie cringes at the expression, but it gets an honest laugh out of me. It’s the kind of thing my dad would say, the sort of nonsensical phrase he probably got from his own father. It makes me miss him.

“What’s your level of familiarity with witch tits, Dad?” Ellie asks, tilting her head to the side to feign innocent curiosity. I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from making an obvious joke at Professor Meyers’s expense.

“Is that what you came out into the cold to ask us?” Otto asks gruffly.

“No, I came out here to check on Murphy.” Ellie steps behind me, rubbing her hands up and down my arms for warmth. “And the turkey. We’re getting close to being ready inside.”

“Murphy’s doin’ great,” Otto says, and I don’t even mind him speaking on my behalf. “Hey, why didn’t ya tell me you were dating a Cubs fan? We coulda gone to a game together this fall, maybe grabbed a few beers at Murphy’s Bleachers.” I hear the sharp inhale as he realizes what he’s said, and he turns toward me with an open-mouthed smile. “Hey! Murphy ’s Bleachers!”

My smile matches his. “I was named after that place. I introduce myself that way sometimes. Murphy, like the bleachers.”

“Only works if you’re in this part of the world though, huh?”

I replay my clumsy exchange with Daniel from last night. “Even then, not everyone gets it.”

“Well I guess they can’t all be Cubs fans,” Otto says wistfully. “Somebody has to cheer for the losing team.”

“Dad!” Ellie interrupts. “Focus! The turkey? How long until it’s done?”

“Right, right.” Otto shifts the cover off the top of the smoker just long enough to get a read on the meat thermometer. “Thirty, forty-five minutes? No later than five thirty.”

“Gotcha,” Ellie says. “I’ll tell Mom. Cool if I steal Murphy to help me set the table?”

With the thumbs-up from Otto, Ellie weaves her fingers into mine, pulling me toward the house and out of earshot. “How’d it go?”

I ignore the tingle that runs across the hand she’s holding. “Good, I think.”

She frowns. “Just good?”

“Excellent? I like your dad.”

She pinches my thigh and loops a thumb into one of my belt loops, giving it a gentle tug. “I figured you might. It seems like he likes you. And Carol won’t stop talking about how you’re some kind of sign from the universe.”

My nose scrunches. “A sign of what?”

“I’m not really sure, but it seems to be a good thing. The point is, she likes you too.”

“Yeah, well.” I suck in a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. “Two down, one that actually matters to go.”

“Give Mom some time. She’ll warm up in time for dinner, and then we’ll bring up grades and grad school.” Ellie tugs on my belt loop again, pulling me toward the side of the house. “C’mon, I gotta show you the garage.”

I arch a skeptical brow. “We’re setting the table in the garage?”

“Noooooo,” she says, dragging out the o ’s as she shuffles her giant shoes against the brick. “Trust me. There’s something I need to show you first.”