Unfortunately for both of us, my mother is already at the threshold, decked out in a hot-pink velvet tracksuit, her hair freshly curled.
Rudy beams brightly. “Veronica!” Then he turns toward me and covertly jabs his index finger underneath his chin and flicks an invisible trigger with his thumb.
Mom strolls through the doorway with multiple grocery bags, sending a flat smile to Rudy. “You look dapper today, Mr. Sinclair.” When she reaches me, she presses a kiss to my cheek and ruffles my bedhead. “You, on the other hand, look like you haven’t slept in weeks. Is the insomnia back?”
“It’s not a good time for visitors.”
“I’m hardly a visitor. I figured we could spend the next two days together for the holiday, now that your roommate has left for greener pastures.”
My roommate.
Right.
Mom tosses the bags on the counter and starts sifting through organic ingredients from Whole Foods. “I hope it was nothing I said,” she quips, scanning the nutritional label on a can of creamed corn. “I’d hate to have contributed to any discord between you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Stevie needed to be with her family, considering an anonymous source leaked her parents’ address to the press and the vultures flocked.” My head tilts, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that though.”
“Certainly not.”
Maybe that’s another reason I’ve yet to publicly announce the separation: the only thing worse than this heartache is the notion that my mother will think she won.
“Mr. Sinclair, will you be joining us for Thanksgiving?” Mom asks, her eye twitching as she glances at Rudy.
Rudy pales, and the smile he beams is a striking contradiction to the fear in his eyes. “Oh, sorry, I usually spend Thanksgiving untangling my grandmother’s collection of vintage Christmas lights. It’s been a tradition for years.”
“Mm, well, you’re here now. Help me assemble this green bean casserole.”
Sweet, sweet revenge.
I back away slowly, waving my hand like a send-off. “I need to hop in the shower. Be back down in a few…”Decades.“…minutes.”
Rudy discreetly flips me off before I trudge back up the staircase to the bathroom. When I’m safely secured inside, I collapse against the sink and blow out a breath.
I imagine what she’s doing right now.
Rolling dough by hand for homemade pies. Laughing with her sister in her cozy kitchen, her pretty autumn dress dotted in flour dust and cranberry stains. Playing the piano by candlelight while her family tells stories of Thanksgivings past.
My heart shrinks two sizes.
Sighing miserably, I pull out my phone again and open up my text messages. A million thoughts and questions spring to mind of all the things I want to say.
Are you sure you’re okay?
Do you miss me?
Did I do the right thing?
Do you really love me?
But even through the cowardly guise of digital correspondence and withmultiple states between us, I can’t get the words down. All I can manage is a pathetic.
Me: Happy Thanksgiving.
She responds right away.
Nicks: You too.
Part of me wonders if we can still be…friends. Despite everything. The world feels cold without her in my life in some way. Ice cubes in my lungs. Glaciers in my chest. It’s an underwhelming existence in the aftermath of Stevie St. James.
