Page 34 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
Caitlin
I stir the sauce one last time, inhaling the aroma of garlic and basil that fills our kitchen. My homemade marinara, Adam’s favorite, simmers on the stove while I check the garlic bread in the oven. It’s turning a perfect golden brown, the edges crisping just right. The table’s already set, with wine glasses waiting to be filled. Maybe it’s a little over the top for a Wednesday night, but Adam and I have barely spent time together this week, and I’m excited at the thought of having an evening with him.
Adam opens the door and steps inside. His face has that pinched look, the one he gets when he’s carrying something heavy inside him. It’s the same expression he wore when he told me his father had had a heart attack, the one that convinced us to move to this town where I still don’t feel at home.
“Smells amazing,” he says, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He walks over and kisses my cheek, but I can tell that his mind is elsewhere.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, just… a long day.” He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair instead of in the closet where it belongs. Something that looks like a brochure falls out of the pocket, but he quickly scoops it up and shoves it back in. “Let me go wash up.”
While he’s gone, I slide the pasta into the boiling water and try to shake off the unease crawling up my spine. When he returns, he’s changed into a clean t-shirt and jeans, and his hair is still damp from his shower.
“Want wine?” I ask, already reaching for the bottle.
“God, yes.”
I pour us each a glass, and we settle at the table. I serve the pasta, and he takes a bite and makes an appreciative sound. But then he falls silent, pushing the noodles around his plate more than eating them.
“So,” I venture, “how was your mom?”
He freezes mid-twirl of his fork. “How did you—”
“You texted me, remember?” I keep my tone light, but something in his reaction makes my stomach clench.
“Right. Sorry.” He takes a gulp of wine. “It was fine. Just mom being mom.”
“Which means what, exactly?” I can’t help the edge in my voice. Paula Kelley has made it abundantly clear since the day we met that I’m not what she pictured for her son.
Adam sets down his fork and looks at me directly for the first time since he’s been home. “She wanted to talk about Thanksgiving.”
“Thanksgiving?” I repeat. “Okayyyy. What about it?” I can’t imagine what Paula had to say about Thanksgiving that would have Adam looking like his world is about to end.
I wait, the pasta cooling on my plate, my appetite evaporating while Adam takes another fortifying drink of wine, and I know whatever comes next is going to hurt.
“Mom’s organized a cruise,” he finally says. “For Thanksgiving weekend. Five days, four nights. Leaving from Miami.”
“A cruise,” I echo. “That’s… unexpected. Your mom doesn’t strike me as the cruise type.”
“She’s not. It’s…” He pauses, and I can see him choosing his words carefully. “It’s for Millie and Rhonda, really. The first Thanksgiving without Eric. It was his favorite holiday, and he really went all out, and well…Mom thought it might be easier for them to be somewhere completely different.”
“And you’re going,” I say. It’s not a question.
He nods, his dark eyes miserable. “I told Mom I’d talk to you about it. See if there’s any way you could come too,” his voice is both hopeful and pleading.
“How could your mother possibly imagine I’d get a week off work, at Thanksgiving, with such little notice? And why bother talking to me about it? Because it sounds like your mind’s already made up.”
“It’s not like that,” he protests, but it’s weak, and we both know it.
“Your mom didn’t care if I could get time off work, did she? She doesn’t want me to come, does she?” I ask, though I already know the answers.
His silence is confirmation enough.
“You realize this is our first Thanksgiving in Mount Pella, don’t you?” The words taste bitter in my mouth. “And I have absolutely no family here? I have no one here except you?”
“I know, and I hate that. But Millie—”
“No.” I slam my palm on the table, making the wine glasses jump. “Don’t you dare ‘but Millie’ me. Don’t you dare make that woman’s grief more important than our relationship. Than me.”
