CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The week before Thanksgiving break is the last wave of midterms before finals in December. Trying to use my virtually nonexistent spare time to see Ben and also focusing on the cell reproductive process and the minute details of the Civil War have made it impossible to find the right words to say to Grace. She gave me one week of the silent treatment, and was then able to acknowledge me at lunch throughout this week. But Sloane, Abby, Grace, and I all had our heads down to focus during the times we’d usually spend talking to each other. It’s like we silently agreed to put the meet-cute tension on hold to offer each other flash cards or help each other find that one very important section in our textbooks that could help finish a paper. By the time school let out on Friday, Grace was already gone and so was my opportunity to apologize in person.

For as long as I can remember, Grace has always come over for Thanksgiving dessert. Both Grace’s family and mine are used to hosting our respective Thanksgiving dinners. The first year that we went to the Davenports was so weird because Grace wasn’t able to just walk over to my house for dessert. But, thankfully, the Davenports prefer when we host. Geoffrey’s parents use the small size of our house as an excuse to not invite their entire family for the holiday. I didn’t mind at first because hosting the Davenports meant that I could go back to having Grace come over, and Sam and I could start decorating the Christmas tree at the end of the night. We used to stay up until early in the morning talking about the ornaments that we’d gotten on family vacations or from friends.

Now, as I’m watching Sam in the foyer greeting our relatives at the door, with a smile permanently plastered to her face, I feel how far from our old tradition we are. Not only do I miss Grace, but Sam has barely talked to me since the bridal shower. Before, her going home and sleeping at her own apartment full-time would’ve been a win. But since I know the reasons why she packed up and left her room here at the house, her going home feels more like a loss.

Dinner is basically a lot of small talk, me tuning out the sound of Jasper’s games from across the table, and a lot of my older relatives mistaking me for a senior instead of a junior and asking me what colleges I applied to. I decide to go light on the mashed potatoes and stuffing this year because my second-to-last meet of the season is next week, and the Thanksgiving slump tends to last for a few days. I can’t afford to lose the headway I’ve gained.

My aunt June, Dad’s younger sister, sticks me with her baby when she sees me sitting on the couch with “not enough to do.” Babies make me more uneasy than dogs, so I end up frozen in place. Last Easter, Marcel kept grabbing at my boobs because he thinks all boobs have his milk. When I—of course—couldn’t deliver, he started crying, and suddenly everyone was laughing at me, telling me that babies cry, it’s no big deal, hold him like this, tilt his head like this, let him drool on your shoulder like this.

So, as much as I want to hop up and run away when Jasper makes eye contact with me from the doorway of the living room, I have no choice but to make sure Marcel’s head remains in the crook of my arm, and I sink as far into our leather couch as I can.

“There’s something about maternal Mia that just doesn’t add up,” Jasper says, flashing me a smile.

In one motion he turns on his heel, whips his Nintendo out of his back pocket, and lands on the cushion next to me with a game already open. I wonder how long he’s ever gone without staring at that thing. I don’t ask, though, because engaging is the last thing I want to do.

“Sam told me that you found a date to the wedding,” Jasper says, gunshots pew, pew, pewing from his game.

“Did she now?” I say, deadpan.

“Yeah. I’m happy, though. I was dreading having to tell you that the Jasp-man is taken. Didn’t want to have to break your heart.”

“The Jasp-man?” It’s impossible not to laugh. I try not to let my shoulders shake, though, for Marcel’s sake.

“It has a nice ring to it,” he says, even though it comes out more like a question.

So I give him an honest answer. “No, it doesn’t.”

We fall silent. I think maybe Jasper didn’t hear me, or that maybe he decided to ignore me. The high-pitched noises from his game clash with the low rumble and crackle of the fire. I’m surprised that the loud popping noises that come from the wood every so often don’t make Marcel stir, but I don’t question it.

I watch the flames dance, and then I look up at the stockings Mom already hung from the mantel. She took care of pulling out the decorations this year, so the tree is already decorated—none of the memories discussed and relived. Above the fireplace is an outdated family portrait in which I’m posed on my mother’s lap with a straight face. I don’t look on the verge of crying, but I don’t look happy, either. Usually the picture makes me laugh and we all joke about how I was serious even back then. But something about that doesn’t seem funny anymore. The way my mouth is a flat line and my eyes seem spaced out while I’m staring into the camera, it looks like little me is trying to stare into my current-day soul. It creeps me out and I tear my eyes away, looking in the direction of the dining room instead. I wish Aunt June would come back for her baby, but she’s laughing at something my granddad said, with her back to me, no end to my torment in sight.

There’s a decrescendo in the music in Jasper’s game that catches my attention. He sighs before looking up from his game with a wistful smile on his face, like losing is some old favorite pastime of his.

“Yup, the Jasp-man has landed himself a lady.”

“I can’t take you seriously if you’re going to talk about yourself in the third person.”

“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I met a girl at school, okay?”

“Okay?”

He stares down at his Nintendo, looking at the screen telling him he lost and offering him a rematch or to start a new game.

When he doesn’t hit one of the buttons, I ask, “So, what’s she like?”

He nods before saying, “Basically a younger, nicer version of you but with braces.”

“Of course,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Of. Course.”

“She was actually really nice to me when Toby had to get his surgery. I was scared because Mom had said we might have to put him down if things didn’t go well, and this girl was the only person I knew who’d had to go through that, putting their dog to sleep.” Jasper looks away. Even though his Nintendo is in his hands, I can tell he’s not looking at the screen so much as he’s reimagining some of his conversations with this new girl.

There have been a few times when Ben and I have been up late, texting back and forth about nothing important. I wanted to talk to him about Sam, about how I’ve been feeling like maybe I really messed up. But whenever I try to bring up anything other than the wedding or math team, he always steers the conversation back to himself. Before, I would tell myself it’s okay, since I do want to know more about him. But now, hearing that Jasper has even found a girl who cares, who’s willing to listen when he needs someone, I begin to question what exactly Ben and I have.

“Look at it this way: now both of us have dates to the wedding,” Jasper adds when I don’t say anything.

I stand up from the couch, trying to slowly and gently adjust my grip on Marcel.

“What?” Jasper asks, almost whining.

“Nothing,” I say, trying not to laugh. “It’s cool that you met someone. I’m glad.”

I shuffle off toward the kitchen, careful not to step on the parts of the floor that creak, so that Marcel won’t wake up.

In the kitchen I shift Marcel so that I’m holding his tiny body in one arm and am able to use my free hand to sneak a little bit of stuffing into a small dessert bowl. I figure I’ve earned a little cheat on my strict swim diet, and I take my bowl over to the far corner of the kitchen, away from the living room and dining room.

I’m thankful to find Marcel’s portable bouncer hidden on the other side of the island. I put the bouncer on the table, gently lay him inside, and turn the dial to the gentle rocking setting before pulling the tinfoil back on some of the already sliced pies. I take a picture of the half-eaten cherry-and-pecan pie, and I Snapchat a picture to Grace. I draw eyes in the uneaten half and draw a frown in the other half.

I’m surprised when she opens it immediately. She responds with a video of her baby cousin Cambree hooking his fingers at the corners of his mouth and stretching out his lips so that they look like they’re about to crack.

I take a picture of another pie and draw a face and stick-figure arms reaching out for a hug. Before I send it, I add a white flag in one of the hands, with a question mark in a thought bubble. Sometimes stick figure drawings can do a lot more than words.

She responds: If I accept your surrender, does that mean I can come over and eat pie?

I reply: Yes, please with a huge smile on my face.

By the time she is cracking open my front door, Marcel is back with his mom and I have two plates with slivers from four different pies, all topped with dollops of whipped cream. I pour hot apple cider into two mugs and drop in cinnamon sticks, pleased that we’re not skipping our tradition.

“Thank goodness,” she gushes, her face red from the cold. She shrugs her coat off and drapes it over one of the breakfast barstools before grabbing her plate and mug and moving ahead of me toward the stairs.

The sound of everyone chatting gets quieter as we ascend, and with my bedroom door shut behind me, I feel the first bit of peace I’ve felt all week. I tell her I’m sorry and that she’s right about it not being smart, me going on that date with Darth Vader. She tells me I wasn’t crazy and that she’s sorry for flirting with that guy during my first meet-cute. I jokingly tease her and say, “Oh, so you were flirting?” We laugh about it and fall silent. I take a bite of sweet potato pie and pretend that it’s the only thing in the world that matters right now. Grace spears a piece of my pie, and I reach over and slice off an edge of her pumpkin. She taps her fork against mine while we chew, her eyes bright and smiling. I’m glad that while things feel upside down right now, at least this hasn’t changed.