Page 61 of The Dating Charade

“A sixteen-wheeler truck. What else do you see?”

Jett cruised down the interstate, playing the amateur league of I Spy.

Breathing. Driving.

He’d be worrying right now about his future, if he only had the time.

17

Cassie

“A storage bin for the car. Now isn’t that handy?” Poised in the snowflake sweater she’d knit herself three years prior, Cassie’s mother beamed from her perch beside the potbellied Christmas tree. The branches were so thick with tinsel and lights her hair blinked red and green.

Despite Christmas parades, the mass creation of snowman jars, the assembling and distribution of shoebox Christmas projects, and the festive window displays that had covered the streets of Gatlinburg since the day after Thanksgiving, there was nothing quite like her mother’s annual elephant gift exchange party to really settle Cassie into the Christmas spirit, and let her know Christmas was truly around the corner.

Seven days to be exact. And for the first time in her adult life, she’d have a full house to share it with.

Her mother held the bin up and received a round of simultaneous ooohs and ahhhs in response from many of the adults—a comfortable mix of friends, family, and neighbors. The few in the room in their teenage or younger years merely clung tighter to the wrapped presents in their hands. But most of the women had a gleam in their eye, clearly considering swiping Mom’s present when their turn came up.

Cassie, it was painful to admit, was old enough to see the merits of the storage bin. But for the sake of her aging spirit, she gripped the bright-yellow wrapping paper around the shoebox-sized package in her lap, hoping there was a fidget spinner inside.

“Who’s number three?” Cassie’s mother raised her gentle voice as she took the bowl from Cassie’s father and lifted it, the one of the pair to bravely toss aside her reticent ways for the yearly party. She looked around the room, but none of the twenty-five or so faces waved a slip of paper with the scribbled number in the air.

After a long moment, Cassie realized the missing link and turned to Deidre. “What number do you have?”

Sure enough, Deidre handed her the slip of paper.

“Here, Mom.” Cassie put her hands on Deidre’s shoulders and spoke quietly. “It’s your turn to pick your present, Deidre. Go ahead.”

“Actually . . . that’s odd,” her mother replied, picking up a rectangular box with smooth, metallic-red wrapping paper. “I believe this one has your name on it, Deidre.”

She smiled as she handed it to Deidre, then gave a subtle wink to those around her.

It took a little convincing from Cassie, some playful tugs of the large ribbon placed squarely in the center of the box, a little nipping at the tape, but eventually Deidre turned her focus to the mystery of the gift inside. Cassie’s mother had generously rigged the game for Deidre, Kennedy, and Star beforehand, so it was no surprise to see Deidre’s face increasingly glow as she recognized the light-up tracing pad underneath.

“Well, look at that.” Cassie stroked one hand down the girl’s freshly braided ponytail. “Isn’t that what you pointed out at the store yesterday?”

Deidre nodded, already snapping out the blue-colored pencil.

Cassie heard Star, huddled on a stool in the corner, exhale loudly.

Cassie’s jaw clenched. For forty-eight hours she hadn’t been able to get anything out of Star. Not a “Good morning,” not an “Oh, thank you for getting up at 5:00 a.m. and making me eggs Benedict. That was so thoughtful.” For once in their relationship, Star had out-stubborned her. What had originated as hurt after the church service had turned swiftly and concretely into brooding, and with each passing hour, the top of the pot quaked more and more with the threat of explosion. Cassie had realized the grave errors she’d made and apologized. She’d talked to the silent door of Star’s room more than once, saying she was sorry.

Nothing came of it but silence.

Now, however, Cassie felt the threatening winds. She just didn’t have a clue how to respond. But for all the things she didn’t know, there was one thing she did: not here. Please, oh, please, don’t blow up here.

Her mother already thought Cassie was taking too much upon herself. She didn’t have to say so; it was written clearly in every casserole she brought over to help with dinner, in every piece of laundry she offered to help fold. Cassie came from a long line of traditional home-and-hearth women. To her mother, a full-time job as a single woman was an “alternative lifestyle.” Now a single working woman with three kids? It was positively mind-blowing. In the last two and a half weeks Cassie had gained enough casseroles to last a year.

For the next half hour or so, Star stared sullenly out the window, watching the blackness outside while the rest opened presents one after another. Until it came time for number eighteen.

Cassie felt her back stiffen as her mother repeated herself for the third time. “Eighteen, anyone? I think somebody must have it. I wrote down one for everyone.” Her mother gazed down at the half-full bowl as if expecting it to sprout another slip of paper.

Finally, Star turned her gaze from the window.

“Is that you, Star?” Cassie’s mother gently pressed. “Do you have eighteen?”

Star gave a lazy look at her number. “Yeah.”