“Not lately,” he said, desperately trying to avoid the truth.
Jim and Trenton traded glances. “Thomas’ room has been storage for years now, so I was going to let him take your room. I guess he can sleep on the couch,” Jim said, looking to the ratty, discolored cushions in the living room.
“Don’t worry about it, Jim. We were just trying to be respectful,” I smiled, touching him arm.
His laughter bellowed throughout the house, and he patted my hand. “You’ve met my sons, Abby. You should know it’s damn near impossible to offend me.”
Travis nodded toward the stairs, and I followed him. He pushed open the door with his foot and sat our bags on the floor, looking at the bed and then turning to me. The room was lined in brown paneling, the brown carpet beyond normal wear and tear. The walls were a dirty white, the paint peeling in places. I saw only one frame on the wall, enclosed was a picture of Jim and Travis’ mother. The background was a generic portrait-studio blue, sporting feathered hair and young, smiling faces. It must have been taken before they had the boys, neither of them could have been older than twenty.
“I’m sorry, Pidge. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Damn straight you will,” I said, pulling my hair into a ponytail. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
He sat on the bed and rubbed his face in frustration. “This is going to be a fucking mess. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I know exactly what you were thinking. I’m not stupid, Travis.”
He looked up at me and smiled. “But you still came.”
“I have to get everything ready for tomorrow,” I said, opening the door.
Travis stood up. “I’ll help you.”
We peeled a mountain of potatoes, cut up vegetables, set out the turkey to thaw, and started the pie crusts. The first hour was more than uncomfortable, but when the twins arrived, everyone seemed to congregate in the kitchen. Jim told stories about each of his boys, and we laughed about tales of earlier disastrous Thanksgivings when they attempted to do something other than order pizza.
“Diane was a hell of a cook,” Jim mused. “Trav doesn’t remember, but there was no sense trying after she passed.”
“No pressure, Abby,” Trenton chuckled, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “Let’s get out the cards. I want to try to make back some of my money that Abby took.”
Jim waved his finger at his son. “No poker this weekend, Trent. I brought down the dominoes, go set those up. No betting, dammit. I mean it.”
Trenton shook his head. “All right, old man, all right.” Travis’ brothers meandered from the kitchen, and Trent followed, stopping to look back. “C’mon, Trav.”
“I’m helping Pidge.”
“There’s not much more to do, Baby,” I said. “Go ahead.”
His eyes softened at my words, and he touched my hip. “You sure?”
I nodded and he leaned over to kiss my cheek, squeezing my hip with his fingers before following Trenton into the game room.
Jim watched his sons file out of the doorway, shaking his head and smiling. “This is incredible what you’re doing, Abby. I don’t think you realize how much we all appreciate it.”
“It was Trav’s idea. I’m glad I could help.”
His large frame settled against the counter, taking a swig of his beer while he pondered his next words. “You and Travis haven’t talked much. You having problems?”
I squeezed the dish soap into the sink as it filled with hot water, trying to think of something to say that wasn’t a bald-faced lie. “Things are a little different, I guess.”