The sound of Wilder’s voice is inside of my bones. It’s an awareness that hums,there he is.Get closer. Go closer.My heart stops beating until I make eye contact with him near the front door, and then it thrashes inside my ribcage, turning the hum in my bones into a screaming riot. If my heart had hands, if this pulsating, throbbing, burning feeling was tangible, it would reach for him. It’s hard to swallow around the pulse point in my throat. Longing aches in the bends of my elbows, and heat warms the palms of my hands and burns my cheeks. But I feel it between my legs the most.
This craving is too much, and I tear my eyes away.
“Dad is on his way up,” Wilder says, this time closer. “He pulled up as I was walking in.”
“And you didn’t wait for him?” Talent asks.
“Too hungry,” he says from directly behind me.
That’s what happens when you skip dessert,I want to accuse.
But his words are a gentle caress that sweep across my shoulders and send a chill up my spine. I close my eyes and clench my teeth to keep from rounding on him, demanding answers. Why is he ignoring me again? Who was the girl? Does he endure this choking, squeezing, red-hot feeling like I do? Because I can’t breathe, and he’s why.
Wilder reaches past me and plucks a carrot from the veggie platter. His wrist brushes across my upper arm on the pullback, and the riot breaks into a straight-up mutiny. While I burn alive, he hugs his brother and kisses Lydia on the cheek. He even bends down to scratch Dog behind his ear, and then he’s facing me and there’s nowhere for me to go.
“Hi, Camilla,” he says like I’m supposed to believe he has a shy bone in his body.
“Hey,” I reply callously. He better believe every bone in my body is revolting.
Talent mouths, “Ouch.”
And Wilder says, “I deserve that.”
This yearning is unbearable, and it would be so easy to tell him that he doesn’t deserve a clipped hello and a shoulder almost as cold as Lydia’s, but I put one foot in front of the other to put space between us before I combust.
David shows up with wine and acts like he didn’t serve up his children to the mafia like Talent is serving Thanksgiving dinner, all silver spoons and platters. He uncorks a bottle of champagne, and I’m the first one to reach out with grabby hands. I need a refill by the time everyone has their own glass. It turned down the heat, but I’m still melting.
“Do you want something stronger?” Wilder asks, again, like he’s approaching an injured animal.
“Like white wine?” I take my glass of bubbles and walk away.
Lydia snorts, and Wilder asks, “What the fuck was that all about?”
By the time the turkey is done, I’m light on my feet and considerably cooler. The men argue over who’s going to carve the bird, while I swipe my finger in the lemon meringue pie while no one is looking. I’ve licked away the perimeter of half the pie, leaning from hip to hip, when I say, “I’m surprised you’re not going to rip the legs off like heathens.”
“Oh my gosh, Camilla, get your fingers out of the pie,” Lydia reprimands.
I meet her eyes and lick lemon filling from the tip of my finger with a pop for emphasis. “Sorry.”
It’s decided that David will carve the turkey because he’s the monarch of the family. I want to steal the carving knife from his hands because he’s already stabbed his kids in the back once, but I keep my mouth shut and pour myself another glass of champagne. Like everything else growing up, Thanksgiving wasn’t a big deal. Mom made dinner, and we ate around the table together, followed by pumpkin pie before bed. I didn’t realize it was a momentous occasion until after I left, and then I didn’t have a family to celebrate with at all.
But as I drink an entire bottle of champagne to numb my emotions, with the realization that being here is torture for Lydia, pretending that Wilder didn’t hurt my feelings, and acting like his dad isn’t kind of a terrible person, I understand why families fight on Thanksgiving more than any other holiday.
It’s hard to be thankful when there’s so much to be pissed off about.
Wilder sits directly across from me at the dinner table, and he’s gone from pretending I don’t exist for an entire week to being unwilling or able to take his eyes off of me. I try not to squirm beneath his persistent stare, but I don’t shy away from it. I’m too drunk to be coy.
“You look pretty today.” Wilder shakes out his napkin and lays it across his lap.
“I know.” I watched a couple of the makeup videos Lydia likes so much, knowing Wilder was going to be here. I thought he might not want to talk to me, but I wouldn’t make it easy on him. He was going to notice me.
His smile lands like a punch in the stomach, all breathless and taut. I’m aware that the rest of our party is running in circles, setting the food out and making sure our first official Thanksgiving dinner together as a makeshift family is perfect. But it feels like Wilder and I are the only two people in the room, and I missed him when he was gone. I want to tell him so, and I should admit that I understand why. Champagne has alleviated the ache in my bones, but it hasn’t done anything about heartbreak.
“Do you want me to make your plate?” he asks.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re drunk. Because you’re a lady and should be served.”
