It felt good, really. I felt calm. The air was crisp, and red and orange leaves crackled underfoot. The neighborhood was quiet: everyone was snuggled inside with their families. I wore a sensible and seasonal burnt-sienna dress with tights and high-heeled booties topped with a peacoat, hat, and scarf, the picture of a sophisticated woman on her way to a Thanksgiving dinner. Yesterday had been our first bridesmaid dance rehearsal, and my muscles ached in a satisfying way. (We still hada lotof work to do on the dance routine. But I felt like I’d gotten a decent workout, and I’d laughed more than I had in weeks.) I was ensconced in this feeling of acceptance. Like I’d grown up, and nothing was exactly the way I’d thought it would be, and that was okay.
I arrived exactly on time, with a bottle of prosecco for theadults and one of Martinelli’s for the twins. Jane and I had agreed not to tell Mom and Dad about the video and Jane getting demoted and undemoted. I expected a peaceful Weiss Thanksgiving. There was, for once, no ongoing family drama.
Dad greeted me with a hearty hug, saying, “My favorite daughter named Rachel!” (His favorite joke.) He was wearing an argyle sweater that stretched a bit noticeably over his paunch, and he had the dewy-eyed, cinnamon-scented aura of one who’s been indulging in hard cider and holiday cookies all day.
He took the bottles from me as I hung up my coat. I followed him into the kitchen as he crooned, “We’ve got bubbles!”
Jane and Owen sat at the kitchen counter, nibbling from a cheese plate. Jane’s eyes kept darting toward Mom, who was dashing around the kitchen, muttering to herself and stirring various pots.
“She won’t let me help,” Jane said morosely as I kissed her hello.
“Smells great, Mom.” Mom shot me a look of furious suspicion, as though she thought I was being sarcastic.
Dad popped open the prosecco, and I seated myself next to Jane, helping myself to cheese as Dad poured us each a glass.
“Where are the twins?” I asked. Jane pointed to the dining room, where the twins were quietly engaged in some activity.
“They’re making the chocolate turkeys.” This gave me a genuine shock—the twins were doing something sweet and productive. Without shrieking. It was like they were little girls again—actually, I can’t remember a time from any age when they weren’t shrieking.
“Oh yes, aren’t they angels?” Mom paused, looking over at them fondly. Jane beamed; Jane loved it when everyone was quiet and content.
Dad sat on the other side of Owen, sipping his drink. “My dear, are you sure I can’t help you at all?”
“No, no,” Mom said lightly. “Please enjoy yourselves. Everything is almost finished here.” And then, inexplicably, she shot me a mutinous look. Some of my sparkling wine dribbled out of my mouth.
“Um. CanIhelp at all?”
“You can toss the salad!” Her voice was thick with some emotion I couldn’t put my finger on. “And then take the stuffing out of the oven.” She added something under her breath, too quietly to hear.
“What was that?” I asked, salad tongs in hand.
In response she simply glared at me for a moment before turning back to her stirring. I cast a bewildered look at Jane, who shrugged in response.
Does she know?I mouthed to Jane. Dad and Owen had slipped off to the other room, from which sports sounds were now emanating.
“I don’t know,” Jane said. The twins, who had apparently been watching our whispered conversation, appeared at Jane’s side.
“You mean… about this?” Ollie held out her phone, where the infamous video was playing.
“Stop it, stop it,” I hissed. “How did you—? I thought it was gone!”
“We saved it, of course.” They truly were evil.
“Did you show it to Mom?” Jane had panic in her eyes.
The twins shared a look and then said, with no trace of malice, “Of course not. We would never show that to Mom.” And then, with malice returned in full force: “It’s just for our own entertainment. And blackmail purposes.”
“May I see your phone for a second?” I held out my hand sweetly.
Ollie raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Feel free to delete it. Everything on here is backed up in the cloud.”
I spluttered, covering up my confusion with a display of frustration. Honestly, these Gen Z-ers! The cloud, I ask you.
“Well, just… keep it to yourselves.”
“Of course.” Ollie pocketed her phone.
“I watch it every night to fall asleep,” Abby added, straight-faced.
