“Thanks for the warning, Banks.”
He returns his attention to the TV, but this time rests his back against the recliner, positioning himself so that if I moved my leg even just a hair, we’d be touching. I like this level of closeness. The kiss earlier was a mistake, albeit an enjoyable mistake. It was my inner teen acting out because of what happened with my father over drinks. It was my way of distracting myself from my feelings instead of sitting with them like I’ve learned to do. I really do become the worst version of myself when I’m back home, and I don’t want Martin to get caught in the crosshairs of the old me. I want him to get to know me as I am now.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Phoebe: You two look cozy.
I glance in my sister’s direction. Both she and Falon have eyes on me like a mother chaperoning a school dance.
Falon: Very cozy.
This is the first time the three of us have ever been in a group chat together. I kind of feel like I’ve just been invited to sit at the cool kids’ table. Naturally, I have to overcompensate.
Penny: Do you know Nana Rosie has a basket full of weed buds in the kitchen?
Phoebe nearly spits out her wine.
“Everything OK, Phoebe?” Mom asks.
“Went down the wrong pipe,” Phoebe says.
Phoebe: Bullshit.
Falon: She told me she grows rare plants in that little greenhouse in the backyard.
Falon: I had no idea that’s what she meant.
Penny: Go look if you don’t believe me.
Falon: I think they’re technically called nugs.
Penny: Noted.
Phoebe excuses herself from the living room with minimal disruption, and I wait with bated breath for her reaction to Nana Rosie’s latest gardening endeavors. She shuffles back moments later with her jaw practically hanging to the floor. She grabs the remote from the coffee table and pauses the show.
“Why are we pausing?” Nana Rosie asks. “That man was about to disrobe. Give me that clicker.”
Phoebe reaches into the pocket of her pajama pants and pulls out a nug. “You get the clicker once you explain why your basket is full of Mary Jane, Nana.”
My mother leans forward in her recliner and squints. “What is that thing?”
“It’s marijuana, Mom,” Phoebe says.
“Where did it come from?” my mother asks.
“Give me that.” Nana waves her hands frantically. “I never took you for a narc. Who gave you permission to rummage through an old woman’s things?” Phoebe points at me like the snitch she is. “You? Why in the hell would you tell Ms. Goody Two-Shoes about—”
“I’m not a Goody Two-Shoes!” Phoebe plants her hands on her hips. “Falon, aren’t you going to defend me? You’re literally my lawyer.”
“I thought she’d be cool, Nana,” I say between fits of laughter. “I had no idea she’d air your dirty laundry like this.”
Mom turns to Nana Rosie. “Is that what you’ve been growing in that greenhouse you ordered online? You said we couldn’t go in there because you were growing carnivorous plants.”
“It doesn’t matter what I’m growing in my own greenhouse, OK?” Nana Rosie snatches the nug from Phoebe’s hand. “I’m a ninety-six-year-old grandmother, not Pablo Escobar.”
My mother wrings her hands together as she starts to pace. “This is illegal, isn’t it?”
“Actually”—Martin holds up his phone—“according to Google, she hasn’t technically committed a crime so long as she has six or fewer plants and isn’t growing them outdoors. Of course, there are other rules, but those are the basics.”
“How many plants do you have, Nana?” Phoebe asks.
“I plead the Fifth.” She points to Falon. “And I call her as my lawyer if you decide to tip off the feds.”
“You can’t just call dibs,” Phoebe says. “Tell her Falon.”
Falon sinks back into the couch. “I plead the Fifth.”
“It’s past my bedtime, dears.” Nana Rosie clicks her tongue. “C’mon, Ozzie. You can stay with me tonight and alert me if Judas over there comes to betray me again. And don’t for one second think about sneaking into my greenhouse. I’ve got the place locked tight, and I sleep with the key hidden in between my bosoms.”
“That’s a mental image I didn’t need,” Martin mutters under his breath.
“Mother, we’re going to need to have a discussion with Carter about this.” Mom follows Nana Rosie and Ozzie out of the living room. “I don’t think he’s going to approve of any of it, legal or not.”
“Fine, you tell my son about my greenhouse, and I’ll tell him about those little nip and tuck procedures you’ve been trying to pass off as facials and expensive serums,” Nana says.
“Rosamunde, you take that back!”
Their voices trail off as they head up the stairs, leaving the four of us cackling. I laugh until tears pour down my face and my belly hurts. It’s close to midnight, which we all agree is too late to attempt a raid on Nana Rosie’s greenhouse. Tomorrow we’ll get to the bottom of her backyard operation. With any luck, it could end up being the most relaxed Thanksgiving the Banks family has ever had.
Martin walks me to my bedroom, and I invite him in for a nightcap. Not because I want to revisit our kiss from earlier tonight, but because I enjoy having him around. And it feels a little lonely going to my room by myself. Phoebe has Falon to talk to until she falls asleep. Mom has Dad. Nana Rosie even took Ozzie, though I can’t say that I blame him. He’s probably getting a contact high from her right now.
I leave Martin with a bottle of wine at my desk, while I take my makeup off in the bathroom. Just as I splash water on my face, my phone buzzes with a text.
Phoebe: I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry.
Phoebe: You don’t make me feel like a side character.
Phoebe: And you’re not a bitch.
Penny: You never called me a bitch.
Phoebe: I did. In my head. A LOT.
Penny: That’s fair. Start over tomorrow? You, me, and Falon can do traditional Thanksgiving things like make pie and day drink?
Phoebe: Falon says yes.
Phoebe: Get some sleep.
Penny: I will.
Phoebe: And if you’re going to sleep with Martin, please keep it down. I have a headache.
Penny: I’m not going to sleep with Martin. I barely know him. I don’t even know if he carries condoms.
Phoebe: Reason #381 why I’m happy to be a lesbian.
Phoebe: Goodnight.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Martin is no longer at my desk. Instead, he’s leaning against the wall, fiddling with a piece of nylon rope in his hands. The bottle of wine and two empty glasses remain untouched.
“You waited until now to murder me?” I point to the rope. “I mean, you had so many opportunities to do it earlier that would have been infinitely better.”
“I tie knots.” He holds up the cord. “It’s a nervous tic of mine.”
I desperately want to bring up his knot-tying TikTok channel but decide against it. His brows are slanted with worry, and I get the sense that admitting to stalking him would only add to his uneasiness. That’s the problem with stalking people on the internet. There’s rarely ever a good time to admit it.
“I hope you know I didn’t plan for any of this to happen,” he says.
“My grandmother secretly growing weed?” I chuckle. “Yeah, I didn’t see that one coming either.”
“Well, yes, that. But also this.” He motions to me. “I’m having a good time with you. I’m actually having a good time with your whole family.”
“Did my mother not send you the script?” I plop down on my bed and pull a chenille throw blanket over my legs. “I can let you borrow mine, if you like.”
“Do you always use humor to defuse situations that make you uncomfortable?” He smirks.
“It’s my version of knot tying.” I point to the rope that he’s tangled into what looks like a pretzel. “What’s got you nervous?”