36. Chapter 36

Lunch is served family-style. Platters of delicious food line the table. Smoked turkey, honey ham, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes with gravy, cornbread dressing, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce are all placed in front of us.

Everyone helps themselves to the food in front of us, and the conversation goes back to normal.

"So, Brynn, what are your plans after college?" Mel, Marcus's wife, asks as we are halfway through lunch.

"I'm studying psychology with the intention of being a youth grief counselor," I answer.

Eyes seem to find mine from around the table while Quinton's hand finds my thigh, rubbing those damn tiny circles on my exposed skin.

Dabbing her mouth, a look of appreciation coats her face. "Wow, that's amazing. I imagine that would be a really hard field to go into."

"But you have experience with that, don't you?" Abigail chimes in.

What a bitch.

It's not that she's saying it in a nice way, it's almost like a dig. Well, fuck you very much, Abigail. It's not a goddamn dig, and I'm about to make you look like a fool at your own damn table.

"Ma," Quinton scolds, his head snapping toward her.

Finding his thigh, I give it a squeeze. His eyes find mine.

"It's fine," I tell him before turning my attention to Abigail.

"Having a dead twin brother and dead high school boyfriend definitely counts as experience."

Gasps elicit from the table. Grams's head snaps toward Abigail. My eyes never leave hers, and hers never leave mine.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry for your losses," Mel says with a solemn expression. "How long have they been gone?"

"You don't have to talk about it," Quinton whispers in my ear.

Shaking my head, I whisper back. "It's okay. I'm done running from it, they deserve to be talked about."

Turning my attention back to Mel, I tell them the story. Every little detail gets shared. How long it's been, how I've harbored guilt for five years for sending Asher in my place, and how my relationship with my family changed drastically. Mel has tears in her eyes. Grams finds my hand on the table, giving it a pat.

"Seems everyone you love dies," Abigail mutters into the napkin she's brought up to her face.

Every head whips in her direction.

Damien is the first to speak. "What happened to you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. What happened in the last few years to make you such a bitter bitch?" Damien spits at her.

No one else at the table says anything. It's tense. It's awkward as fuck, but I'd like to actually hear this answer.

Her eyes shoot straight to her husband's. They lock on each other in a stare-down. Both dare the other to either speak first or keep their mouths shut.

Minutes seem to fly by when, in reality, it's only been a few seconds of awkward silence. Damien is the first to break the silence.

"Whatever, I'm out." He places his napkin on the table before scooching his chair backward. "It was good seeing everyone. Happy Thanksgiving."

And with that, Damien heads out of the dining room. The sound of the front door closing snaps everyone back to reality.

Quinton follows his lead, sliding his chair out from the table. Before he gets the chance to stand, his mother's attention snaps to him.

"Sit your ass down. Lunch isn't over."

He continues to rise, placing his hand on the back of my chair. Helping me push my chair back, I begin to rise too.

"Nah, this family lunch is over."

"Let them go, Abigail," Howard barks out. "We never should have had this lunch."

Tension radiates off Abigail. Chest heaving, she flips her hand out, gesturing us to leave. Grams grabs my arm before I can walk past her, causing Quinton to bump into my back.

"I had fun today with you, honey. Don't be a stranger." She grins at me before finding Q over my shoulder. "Don't let this one go," she says with a wink, and Abigail scoffs.

I force myself to ignore her. I would love to share words with this woman, but I respect Quinton too much to cause any more drama.

With a final goodbye to everyone, we get the hell out of there.

Thanksgiving didn't go as planned, but I finally got to meet Grams. And for that, I'll always be thankful for this Thanksgiving dinner.

"God, baby, if I would've known that was going to happen, I never would've taken you."

Quinton and I made it back to my town house some time ago. Both of us were stuffed from the incredible meal but mentally exhausted from the tension. We went straight to my bedroom, stripping out of our dress clothes. I slipped on an oversized, Imagine Dragons concert tee, while Q just stripped down to his boxers, both of us climbing into bed for some Thanksgiving Day football.

Rolling into Quinton's side, I prop my hands under my head, resting them on his chest. I let a finger trail over the feathers of the eagle he has inked across his chest.

"Don't apologize, seriously. I knew what I was getting myself into."

"But you shouldn't have to. I'm done with them."

"Quinton, they're your parents."

"So what? Parents aren't supposed to act that way."

No, they're not, I think. Parents are supposed to support you and love you unconditionally. But I'm not one to judge, my relationship with my parents is complicated. Who knows if I would've spoken to my mom had I not run into her in Chicago? I mean, I haven't even received a ‘Happy Thanksgiving' text. Q's parents might be judgmental assholes, but at the end of the day, they care enough about their kids to reach out to them.

What's that say about my parents?

What's that say about me?

A hand reaches out and slides to the nape of my neck. Gathering my hair in his first, he grips it. Hard. He pulls my head back, and a small moan escapes my lips as he fists my hair.

"Get out of your head or I'm going to fuck the thoughts right out."

"Is that supposed to be punishment?" I quip, running my tongue across my lips.

His eyes track the movement. I feel him harden beneath me. A smirk tugged on my lips as I lift my eyebrows in question.

Before I know what's happening, I'm being flipped to my back, and his lips are devouring my neck. His hand still grips my hair, and he uses the fisted strands to tilt my head, exposing my long, lean neck for him to devour. Sucking my skin into his mouth, he bites down. A moan escapes me as he slowly releases it. Arms bent on both sides of me to help hold himself off me, his head pops up, finding my eyes.

"I love you."

"I love you, too." Grabbing his neck, I bring his lips to mine.

We spend the rest of Thanksgiving devouring each other like the pumpkin pie we never got to have.

We fall asleep, limbs tangled together, drifting off in a happy, blissed-out state.