18. Testing the Waters

18

TESTING THE WATERS

PATRICK

Mom has me say grace. Even though she knows Quinn and I don't go to church. She has to know, at least on some level, that it makes me uncomfortable, too. But I always try to be a good son. So I suck it up because I know this will make her happy.

Plus, she didn't ask Bradley, which kind of feels like a win for me. Since I can't tell them about my big win last night.

With our hands clasped and our heads bowed before a spread of food presumably cooked by elves, I say, "Thank you for the blessings which we are about to receive." But I'm thinking, Aside from my wedding night, last night was the best night of my life.

Somewhere in my comatose-like REM sleep, my mind wrapped itself around the factual existence of magic. I was tickled when I came downstairs and had it confirmed for me by the Extreme Home Makeover that happened in our absence.

Last night, when we got back, we were too bleary-eyed to notice anything in our amble up to bed. I barely shucked my jeans before flopping onto the mattress and drifting off. Quinn woke me a mere hour before our guests were set to arrive. But honestly, I probably could've slept for another twelve to thirteen hours, undisturbed. Woken up rejuvenated like a grizzly fresh from hibernation.

I look around the table at everyone I love—Mom, Dad, Nan, Quinn, Bradley, Aunt Aggie and Uncle Luke, their son James and his wife Kimiko and their kids, Chasten and Angelica. The whole gang is here to celebrate a holiday that I made happen .

As soon as the prayer ends, Quinn carves the ham. The sides get passed around. Angelica, who is nine and wearing a large, sparkly bow in her hair, loudly details everything Santa brought her from her wish list. "I must've been really good this year. I got a fashion show runway playset, two dolls to go with it, a Disney karaoke machine, three new dresses—"

"I got a dinosaur!" Chasten interjects. He's swirling his fork through his mashed potatoes. The scrape of the prongs on the fine china is grating.

"A dinosaur?" Quinn asks. His eyes flick down to me mischievously. We must have delivered these gifts last night. In the blur of the intense evening, I hadn't even realized we were in my cousin's house in New York. After a while, the routine and the rush made me so singularly focused. Quinn and I were having too much fun to worry about anything else.

Chasten nods vigorously. "You blow it up like a balloon and then you use a remote to make it walk. It scared Angelica." His smile reads as victorious. As if scaring his sister had been the mission when asking for the toy in the first place.

"It did not!"

"It did too!"

"It did not!"

"Kids," Nan says scoldingly. Though her tone is undercut by the blinking, unexpected necklace she's wearing. "There's no fighting at the dinner table."

They both zip their lips and go back to their plates.

"Yeah, and just because it's Christmas doesn't mean you get a free pass," I say before accepting my plate back from Quinn. It's now covered with two thick slices of the juiciest ham I've ever seen. "Santa's always watching. If you misbehave, you might not get anything next year. You wouldn't want that, now, would you?"

Synchronized, they shake their heads. Then we all dig in.

"Quinn, my compliments to the chef," Dad says. I try not to be annoyed by the fact that he dispenses compliments so easily to everyone but me.

I can tell by a single flick of Quinn's eyebrow that he's conflicted about how to respond. "Oh, it was nothing," he decides on, which evokes a little chuckle from me over the truthfulness. I'm thinking back to last night when he told me he didn't like cooking.

All those nights Quinn cooked turkey chili or baked cod and sides, I thought he was doing it because he enjoyed it. If I came home while he was still cooking, I'd often hear him singing along to music or engrossed in a FaceTime conversation with Veronica. I assumed it was the way he destressed after a day in the classroom. I never sensed that it might be an added stressor.

Quinn shoots me with a look of warning over my laughter. But he might as well be reading my mind.

Since I slept late, we had no time to discuss last night nor the decision that looms large ahead of us. Even though I'm pretty certain I know which side I stand on, I still need to temperature check Quinn.

"Pat, how's work?" Mom asks, cutting her ham into equal bite-sized pieces.

Last night was not only magical and amazing, but it also offered me an escape hatch. If I can avoid the fallout of my unemployment and bring a little joy to the world in the process, I should do it. It would be selfish not to.

I clear my throat. "I'm actually fielding an exciting new career opportunity."

Quinn's head snaps in my direction. I wish I could control the heat that crops up into my cheeks. I know we have a lot to discuss. But the last thing I want to do is tell them what went down at Carver & Associates. Everything is going too well tonight. I'm not about to torch that.

"You just started at your firm not that long ago. A promotion already?" Dad asks. He sounds moderately impressed even though he's never fully supported my architectural endeavors. Before he passed, Grandad Hargrave was a lawyer. Before retirement, Dad was a lawyer. Bradley is currently a lawyer. I'm decidedly anything but.

Which is why building a home and a family with Quinn is so important to me. It's the marker of success and stability I have that Bradley doesn't. One less reason to label me "different" on the Hargrave family tree.

"It's top secret," Quinn says for me. "I barely even know any of the details."

"How mysterious," Bradley says in a lawyerly deadpan. His sandy-blond hair is slicked back with product and he's wearing a crisp, charcoal blazer. He's five years older than me, but he looks younger thanks to a multi-step skincare routine and a hundred-dollar haircut.

Mom says, after wiping her mouth on her fabric napkin, "You can't tell us anything?"

I bobble my head. "I can tell you that it would be a pivot for me."

This grabs Dad's interest. "Am I hearing that there's law school in your future? Finally reconsidering? You're not too old, you know."

"No, it's… it's still in the same realm that I've been working in, Dad," I say. Even if that's a stretch. A big one.

"You're so young. Don't go making any big changes," says Mom. "Carver & Associates is such a great firm. Such a great firm. The internet says so!"

The name of my former place of employ makes my neck hot and my hands clammy. "I know, but…"

"Is it a different firm? Were you poached?" Dad asks. Reading between the lines, I can tell he believes this to be the only suitable reason to leave by choice. And I'm not about to tell him it happened by force. My family has very strong opinions about work and money. Because work and money equate to success, and suc cess allows you to keep up appearances, and appearances, in our neck of New Jersey, are everything.

"No, it's nothing like that. But it would require us to relocate for a year."

"Relocate? Not far I hope," Mom says, aghast.

The farthest away possible, I think. But Dad speaks before I can respond.

"What about the house? I suppose you expect us to come and check up on it if you take this new post?" Dad seems annoyed by this. Even though he was the one that told me that as soon as I could I should invest in real estate. He's how I got the idea for me and Quinn to take our honeymoon fund and turn it into a starter-house fund instead. An idea that soured faster than milk, considering Quinn hates this place.

I learned more about Quinn last night than I have in the last year. Have we not been talking? Or have I just not been listening?

"No, of course not. We'd work that out." I look to Quinn, who is busy staring down at his plate. Not eating. Not speaking. Maybe not even blinking.

Dad sets his fork down. "Well, son, I guess you know what's best for you." His words are unconvincing at best and sarcastic at worst.

"And I suppose it's okay if you move for a year. Yes, I suppose it's okay. As long as you're back for Christmas," Mom adds, eyes brimming with worry. As if, at any point, I was asking for their permission. They must sense that I crave it. Even if I'm too old for that.

I chuckle once more to try and lighten the mood. "That's the one day a year I know I'd have off."

Interrupting the moment, Quinn's phone starts ringing. Mom's gaze transfers to Quinn with irritation. She's a stickler about phones at the table. Always has been.

"Sorry, everybody," Quinn says. He's clearly a little embarrassed as he stands up from his chair. "It's my mom. She wasn't supposed to call this early. I'll just, uh, run upstairs and take this." He does a little dip and exits the room. His napkin was still on his lap when he left, so it flutters to the floor in his wake like a lilting white flag of surrender. I scoop it up and set it on his chair.

Mom exhales heavily before returning to her meal. The only sounds for a long while are the clanking of utensils and people chewing. Until Angelica pipes up.

"Did I mention I got three new dresses?"

"You did," Nan says. "Now hush up and eat your ham before it gets cold."