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We all head outside in silence, then converge outside the building as if in silent agreement.
Delia’s the one who speaks first. “Youhaveto host Thanksgiving dinner,” she says to me. “Please, Mira. I’ll help with all the food.”
I still don’t believe in psychics. I have a deep suspicion of Josie the Great. But there’s that look in my sister’s eyes. I can see her need to believe in a world where magic is real and anything is possible. I’ve always been the person who’s made things magical for her, the person who’s held her hand or hugged her when she needed it.
Don’t get me wrong, our mother always did the things a mother needs to. She made our lunches and taught us how to launder clothes and clean the house and take out the trash. To cook serviceable meals and do our Geometry homework—I never did it, mind you, but that was my choice, not because no one explained why I should. But she didn’t care about us beyond doing her duty—and although my father is a much warmer man, he’s the kind of person who can only love people in fits and starts. He’ll spend all day making you feel like you’re the most special person in the world, only to disappear for four weeks without a word.
Delia needs to be loved better than that, and up until she met Burke,Iwas the one who did that. I made her a rainbow cake for every birthday and held her hand and told her it would be okay whenever there was an upsetting story on the news or someone she loved got hurt or she was exposed to the hard fucking truth that life is always,alwaysas jagged and cruel as it is beautiful. That we only get the joy and the fun if we make the world give it to us—if we push back and refuse to be broken.
So that’s why I find myself nodding. I turn to Danny and say, “Say, roomie. What do you think about hosting Thanksgiving dinner?”
ChapterFourteen
Danny
Iignore Mira’s question, because my mind is fixed on Byron Lord and his peroxide hair. He’s hiding inside his apartment, and he should be, because I can’t remember the last time I was this furious.
“That guy actually thinks he put a hex on you?” I ask through my clenched jaw. We’re standing on the sidewalk outside of the apartment building, but Shane, Shauna, and Delia have congregated a slight distance away from us, closer to the parking lot, giving us space to talk.
Mira glances at them. “I guess he hired Josie to do it. So they both suck. She tells me that I have to host Thanksgiving dinner at the apartment, and on the off-chance she’s right—”
“I don’t believe in psychics,” I say, mostly meaning it. “Or Thanksgiving dinner.” I feel the persistent throb of my wrist and a growing ache in my temples. I’m drained. I’m burnt. I’m toast that was forgotten under the broiler.
I can exit my comfort zone, but there’s always a cost, and I’m feeling it now. I’m also still tempted to burst back into the building and hammer on that asshole’s door. To tell him that if he calls Mira a bitch ever again, even in his sleep, I’ll make him answer for it.
I don’t like confrontation, but I like it even less when someone messes with—
I rub my temples, but I do it with the wrong hand and flinch. Mira’s still looking at me, so I admit, “I try to avoid the holidays.”
“Do you celebrate when you can cross them off on the calendar?” she asks, and it feels like we’re falling into our rhythm again.
“I’m happier when I have, yes. Cranberry sauce is an abomination. Watching my parents get drunk was worse. They’re not together anymore, but I imagine their patterns haven’t changed. They pull out the special sauce at this time of year. The last year I went home for Thanksgiving, someone called the cops on them. Both of them. My mother threw a ceramic turkey at my head.”
Her eyes widen. “Why?”
“I don’t remember.”
I do. She did it because she was pissed that I might not be able to be their golden goose anymore.
“Did it hit you?”
I shove down the impulse to lift a hand to my forehead, to the small scar about my eyebrow. “No.” I didn’t lie for her, but because her sister and Shauna are likely close enough to hear.
The look of sympathy in her eyes tells me she knows. “You know, my mom and dad used to love fighting on the holidays, too,” she says. “It’s like they saved up all their shit for then. Why is that?”
“Some people find it more fun to be dysfunctional with an audience. They figure there’s no fun in being miserable alone.”
Her lips twitch into a smile. “Byron seemed to take particular joy in being miserable in front of an audience.”
I run my fingers over the edge of my pocket, needing to settle myself. “Are you still mad at me for going there today? You’re…my friend. I wanted him to know there are people looking out for you. People who have your best interest in mind.”
“No,” she says, glancing back at the others. They’ve drifted farther away and are standing in front of Shauna’s car. Shane appears to be holding court, telling them a story. Shifting her attention back to me, Mira says in an undertone, “I think it’s hard for me to accept help because I always felt like I had to be the strong one, you know? Delia’s so sweet and sensitive, and it felt like that should be protected.” She pauses, watching me, then adds, “Sounds like you’re not close with your parents, so I’m guessing you won’t be spending the holidays with them.”
“I never do. Not since I was in my early twenties.” Usually, what happens for Thanksgiving is that Shane and I go for a long bike ride, ending it with a sunset drink in the mountains, but he’s already told me one of the other partners invited him over for the holiday. Ruthie and Izzy usually spend the day at a friend’s house.
I guess I’ll probably still go for the bike ride, but I have to admit the thought’s a lonely one.”
“We can talk about it later,” I say, noncommittally.
