“I’d invite you for dinner if I was coming back,” he says, misinterpreting my distraction. “I mean, if you really want, you can still come. I’ll drive you back to campus, then turn around again. It’s only an hour, so—”
“Crosbie.” I press my fingers to his lips. “It’s not a problem. I’m just thinking how nice it’ll be to have the apartment to myself. What will it be like to not smell powdered cheese every day?”
He grins, relieved. “I’ll bring you back some leftovers.”
“Leftovers that have survived the mock meet? Thank you, but I’ll pass.”
“What’s wrong with Thanksgiving? If you hate winter and Thanksgiving’s in the fall, it should be a safe holiday.”
I roll my eyes. “Nothing with my family is safe.” My parents are what they like to call “functional, friendly, and former.” Basically they’re a divorced couple, each of whom resides in one half of a duplex, and they tell everyone they get along, but really they hate each other. They divorced when I was ten and neither one has remarried, and they bring a different date to every holiday in a desperate attempt to show how mature they are. As the only child marching in this dysfunctional parade, I’d much rather hide in the woodshed and eat worms than sit down to dinner with whichever unsuspecting date is unlucky enough to show up that day.
I relay this information to Crosbie, whose eyes widen as I talk. “It’s torture,” I say. “And nine times out of ten, there’s not even any turkey. If it’s not—”
“Hi, Crosbie.”
We glance over to see a trio of girls who look like they just stepped out of a winter catalogue. They wave at Crosbie over cups of steaming hot lattes as they take a seat nearby. I’m instantly transported back to the day we met, when Crosbie invited himself to join me for dinner then promptly abandoned me when something better came along.
Now, however, he just lifts a hand in a vague semblance of greeting and sips his water, gaze trained on me. “If it’s not what?” he prompts.
I shake my head. “If what’s not what?”
“You were saying there’s never any turkey. If it’s not…?”
“Oh. Um…if it’s not burned to a crisp it’s completely raw. They’ve actually sent three people to the hospital.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. And once my mom got so angry at my dad that she threw the turkey into the street and it got run over by a bus.”
“Tell me you filmed it.”
“I wish. My favorite is the two times the turkey just disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yep. There was just an empty roasting pan in the oven and a wishbone sitting on the counter. I wished for a turkey.”
“Twice?”
I lift a shoulder. “Point is, it’s not worth the trip.”
“What about Christmas?”
“I’ll take the bus on Christmas Eve and make up some excuse about why I have to come back on Christmas Day. They know I work—they’re usually pretty willing to believe me. That way they don’t have to keep up the ‘functional, friendly, former’ charade any longer than necessary.”
“That’s really sad, Nora.”
“The distance helps.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear your turkey sob story,” Marcela says, flitting over and collecting the empty plate.
“You’ve heard it before,” I say, recognizing the glint in her eye and hoping to end whatever it is she’s plotting before it can get underway.
She barrels ahead. “Since I’ll be in Mexico for Thanksgiving, why don’t we make our own post-Thanksgiving turkey dinner? You and Crosbie, me and Kellan. A double date.”
She says “double date” unnecessarily loudly, and entirely for Nate’s benefit. Not that the raised voice is required, since he’s clearly hanging onto every word she says, anyway.
I shake my head and start to stand. Break’s over. “I don’t—”
“The more turkey, the merrier,” Crosbie says, oblivious of my murderous stare. “Why don’t we do it right before the Christmas break? That way everybody gets some turkey.” He glances at me and must interpret my glare as more turkey terrors, because he just pats my hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Nora. I’ll keep an eye on it the whole time. That turkey won’t go anywhere.”
Since he’s immune, I turn my glower to Marcela, who smiles smugly.
It’s time for this little emotional tug-of-war she and Nate have going on to come to an end. “You know,” I say, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “A whole turkey is a lot of food for just four people. Why don’t we invite someone else?”
Her eyebrows shoot up when she realizes where I’m going with this. “No—” she begins.
“Nate!” I call. “Turkey dinner at my place. You and Celestia are invited.”
He’s polishing silverware, and I see his mouth quirk up. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says.
I beam at Marcela. “That settles it.” I do my best to pretend her fulminous glare isn’t legitimately frightening. “And would you look at that? My shift’s over.”