There’s a smattering of laughter and sarcastic applause.
“You’re charging money?” one of the freshmen squeaks.
“It’s a nominal fee,” Weston says with a shrug.
“But it makes you sound desperate,” the youngster says.
“Nah, it makes me sound like I value my own time and company. And I always get multiple offers. The fee keeps the nutters away. Only women who really need my help will apply.”
Someone asks: “What if it’s a dude who calls?" And the whole table snickers.
I’m surprised when Weston just shrugs. "That would be fine I guess. Fake love is fake love.”
Twelve hockey players howl with laughter.
And I am captivated. There’s nothing on Netflix that’s half as interesting as Weston Griggs hiring himself out on Thanksgiving. Boyfriend for Rent.
I wonder if there’s a rent-to-own option?
“Weston, is this even legal?” one of the twins asks. "Coach will be pretty pissed if you’re busted for solicitation.”
“Does the team have a bail fund?” his brother asks. And then they high-five each other.
“Don’t twist my good deed into something tawdry.” Weston lifts his perfect, masculine jaw and gives the twins a glare. “My intentions are pure. Last Thanksgiving I had a lovely meal with a sophomore nursing student in Winooski. She’d recently broken up with her high school boyfriend, and her parents were upset about the breakup. God knows why. So I went along and they didn’t mention him once the whole day.”
“Huh,” Tate says. “So I guess she got her twenty-five bucks’ worth in peace of mind.”
“Exactly. And I enjoyed a lovely turkey—cooked sous vide style, so it was extra moist and juicy. Then her mother rubbed the skin with butter and crisped it up under the broiler. And there was a sausage stuffing with water chestnuts so good I almost cried.”
“Water chestnuts?” Tate shudders. “That’s just wrong.”
“No, it’s glorious.” Weston puts down his beer glass. “And now I’m hungry again. We’ve got to stop talking about Thanksgiving. It’s a whole week away.”
“You started it,” Tate says with a chuckle. “And the Pats are totally going to win this year.”
“Bullshit,” Weston mutters. “Maybe I should come over just so I can watch your dad cry.”
“Bet you a four-pack of Goldenpour they win,” Tate challenges.
“Deal. We’ll settle up after the holiday.”
Then Weston gets up and hangs his flyer on the bulletin board right by the door.
They depart forty minutes later, leaving behind a tip of fifty-five bucks. Totally worth it! I yawn my way through the rest of my side work until it’s time to race home to burn the midnight oil for my test.
But before I leave the Biscuit for the night, I stop in front of the bulletin board. If I hadn’t overheard that conversation tonight, I wouldn’t have looked twice at this sign. Weston didn’t put his name on it. There’s nothing there to advertise the fact that whoever hires Weston on Thanksgiving is getting a date with the hunkiest man on the hockey team.
I reach out and tear one of the phone numbers off the bottom corner. And then I tuck it into my pocket on my way out the door.
Two
People Get Restless
Weston
My phone rings when I’m on the way into my econ class. This class bores me, so I stop outside the lecture hall and answer my brother’s call. “What’s shakin’, Stevie?”
“You’re coming home for Thanksgiving, right?”
Uh-oh. Cue the awkward silence. “Nah, I’m sorry. My practice schedule is awfully tight.”
“Bullshit!” he says immediately. “You’re a lying liar who lies!”
“Aw, come on now. It doesn’t make sense for me to rent a car and drive across the state for a meal, Stevie. I’m a busy guy, and it will be a—“
“Shit show,” he grumbles. “That’s why you should feel obligated to come home and suffer with me. It’s not like we live in Texas, asshole. Get a Zipcar. Drive a hundred miles. A hockey game is longer than your drive home.”
“I can’t, man. I have a date.” This is strictly true, seeing as I have at least three offers already this morning.
“A date,” he says, his voice betraying flat disbelief. “On Thanksgiving.”
“Yup.”
“That’s what you said last year, too.”
“It was true last year as well.” He doesn’t need to know that I’ve hired myself out. In truth, I feel bad that Stevie has to suffer through Thanksgiving at one of our parents’ homes. He’s a year behind me at Dartmouth, which is just a few miles away from our mom’s house in Norwich and a few more miles from our dad’s place in Fairlee. He can’t blame the hockey schedule, either, because he hasn’t played since high school.
He’s trapped. But that is not my fault. “You’ll have Lauren’s company though, right?” Our sister lives in town with her fiancé.
Stevie makes a disgusted sound. “You know what she’s like right now. All she can talk about is the wedding. Flowers and colors and the rest of that bullshit.”
We both shudder. As the owner of a dick, weddings were never interesting to me. But since our parents’ spectacular divorce a couple of years ago, just the idea of marriage makes me feel a little squicky.
At some point in the near future, I’m going to have to put on a tux and watch my sister marry her boyfriend of three years. I’m going to have to clap and smile and try not to suffocate in my bow tie, while I watch my sister make the biggest mistake of her life.
Nothing against her guy, either. He seems nice enough for now. That’s the problem, though. Once the glow wears off, people get restless. And then they do stupid, crazy things to each other. And they make their kids watch.
Fun times.
“Look.” I level with my brother. “I’m not coming home for Thanksgiving. You don’t have to either, you know. You don’t owe it to them.”
“Dad, though. He’ll be all alone.”
“That’s true,” I murmur. And I feel for the guy. “But our father is an adult, you know? The destruction of his marriage is about to celebrate its third anniversary. He can either stew about it, or he can find a way to move on.”
“Good luck telling him that.”
“Oh I’ve tried.” I was gentle, of course. I’m not a monster. The problem is that my father prefers rage to action. He’ll spend the whole holiday muttering about “that bitch,” which is how he refers to our mother.
Or, if Stevie went to Mom’s house instead, Dad would be mad at him for days. You really can’t win with him anymore.
He doesn’t see how much this upsets us either. Sure, we were all pretty astonished when Mom left Dad. It was brutal. But she’s still our Mom, and she still loves us. Three years later, and our father still expects us to take sides. It’s fucking exhausting.
I shove a hand into my pocket and absently rub the smooth piece of obsidian stone that’s resting there. Our assistant coach is really into crystals. He said obsidian would help me get rid of “emotional blockage” and give me strength, clarity, and compassion.