Page 69 of Even After This
Maybe I should never tell anyone that this morning I called my phone from her phone to see if mine was working. I look at the ceiling. “Whatever.” Gah.
Leaning into the waste bin to retrieve the bane of my existence, I think I hear something. “Was that the doorbell? Mom and Dad can’t be back from their ice run so soon.”
Molly scoots past me and rinses a long-handled spoon in the sink. “It could be Stanley.”
Her words register as I wipe my phone with a dish towel. I whirl my head in her direction. “What?”
“I invited him to join us for Thanksgiving.” She opens the dishwasher and places a silicone spoonula in the top rack. “But he was kind of weird about it. I don’t know if he’s coming or not.” Molly shuts the dishwasher and snaps it closed with her hip. “Taylor, grab the door, please.”
I drop my head in my hands. This is it. I’m going to kill my sister. And my only defense is fake teenage hormones.
Muffled voices float to the kitchen. Taylor yells something in our direction, but I don’t catch the words because I’m in a panic to appear busy. I snag the bowl of Cool Whip and vigorously fold the canned fruit into the creamy substance. Clank, scoop, clank, scoop. This will be the most thoroughly mixed ambrosia salad in the history of Thanksgiving.
“Aunt Meredith.” Taylor’s voice is closing in on us, and my heart beats faster. “Did you hear what I said? Harlan Holcombe is at our door. Hercules is here.”
Clank, clank, thud.
“What did he say?” I have no idea if I whispered the question because alarms are going off in my head. Piercing, clanging, find-an-exit, stop-drop-and-roll, save-yourself, what-is-happening alarms.
“He said he’s an idiot.” Hannah picks up my spoon, shoves it in her mouth, and turns on her heel to leave the room. “I’ll go see who it is.”
“Molly.” My voice croaks. “I think I need to tell you something.”
I’m paralyzed. All my body can do is stand frozen. Waiting. Watching.
The screech Hannah produces has the potential to shatter the crystal goblets I set out for the meal.
Molly takes a step forward. “What’s going on?”
A puff of air escapes my lips. “I might have invited a friend to Thanksgiving.”
Hannah’s burst into the room causes me to jump. She bounces, her face lit up, eyes darting between her mother and me. “This is sooooo much better than Jackson coming over for Thanksgiving,” she breathes.
Before I can explain, react, feel, or hide, Harlan Holcombe saunters into the room.
Harlan.
Holcombe.
In my kitchen.
Not just Harlan Holcombe. Harlan Holcombe and his smile are in my kitchen. He might be wearing irresistibly attractive faded jeans with boots and a wrinkled button-down chambray shirt. But man. His smile has superpowers, and my bitter teenage angst melts like ice cream on a summer Texas sidewalk. That smile can’t silence my doubts from the last few weeks, but it sure can quiet them down to a dull roar.
For now.
He raises his eyebrows. “Happy Thanksgiving?”
I shake my head, trying to clear my brain, and can’t really help the smile on my face. “Yes.” My legs wobble as I move forward. “Yes. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Once I’m in range, he pulls me to him, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and one around my waist in everything that a hug is supposed to be.
“Hi.” His deep voice rumbles in my ear, and something zings through me. “Hope it’s okay that I surprised you.”
Was my moan audible? As I release him, I step back to Molly.
“Okay. Okay. Sure. Everyone, this is Harlan.” My open palm gestures in his direction, as if they don’t know who I’m talking about.Get a grip,Meredith.“Harlan, this is my sister, Molly, her two kids, Taylor and Hannah, and somewhere is her husband, Michael. He’ll be in soon to pull the turkey from the oven. Mom and Dad ran to the store for ice.”
Harlan leans forward to grasp Molly’s hand.
