“Veronica. Are you ready?” My father’s voice booms like a thundercloud, echoing through every sterile room.
“Coming, Mortimer!” Mom takes another minute to primp before shooting me a wary side-eye. “Promise me you’ll be good.”
“You say it like I’m an unruly toddler.”
“You act like one. My fault, I suppose, for raising you with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
“You don’t make those airplane noises anymore.”
She does a final hair fluff and reaches over to fiddle with my collar. “Please, Lexington. At least pretend to have a good time tonight. There are always people watching.”
“If he doesn’t want to be with his family on Thanksgiving, he can stay home.”
My eyes swing toward the bedroom doorway. My father has his shoulder wedged against the frame, his steely gaze pinned on me.
I palm the nape of my neck, flattening the baby hairs that prickle with foreboding. “Stay home?” I echo, messing with my cuff links. “And miss out on the annual recap of our charming family dysfunction? Don’t tempt me with a good time.”
Dad huffs a joyless laugh through his nose and tucks his chin to his chest. “Veronica, let’s go.”
Mom swallows, pressing a hand to my bicep, her touch almost tender. “Come on. Grab your shoes.”
“I saidVeronica.” His voice is even and stony. “Lexington isn’t coming.”
Faltering, my mother glances between us, her long lashes fluttering as she blinks. “Mortimer,” she murmurs. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“And this insolent child is thankful for nothing.” A sharp finger snaps in my direction. “He’s staying home. We’ll enjoy a quiet evening by ourselves.”
“But he—”
“I’ll meet you in the car. Two minutes.” He storms away, leaving a trail of cold contempt behind.
Mom’s eyes close briefly, her face wrought with tension, before she spears me with a damning look. “Are you happy now?”
I’m far from fucking happy. “It is what it is.”
“It is what it is because you make it that way.”
I bark a laugh and collapse onto the pristinely made bed topped with decorative pillows, likely hand-stitched by Martha Stewart herself. “You’re saying I’m responsible for this shit show? You married the guy. I’ve never had a say in that.”
“You instigate him. Poke him. You’re incapable of keeping your mouth shut.”
“I just say the things you’re too cowardly to say.”
I think she’s about to lash out, spew something scathing, but her face falls as she stares at me. Tears wash over her eyes for a moment before she blinks them away. Then she shuffles out of the room, muttering behind her, “I’ll bring you some leftovers. I love you.”
My shoulders slump. “I know,” I murmur, turning back to the mirror and gazing at my reflection across the room as commotion sounds from one floor below me.
Arguing, escalating voices, insults.
Fuck.
I hate this.
Thanksgiving is a time for giving thanks, and the only thing I’ve felt thankful for lately is a girl who turns songs into lullabies, a script, and a secret rooftop beneath the stars.
I remove the tie completely.
Then I change into my casual clothes, ruffle the gel out of my hair until it looks like I just crawled out of bed, and reach for my cell phone as I shuffle down the winding staircase.
