“Uh, what?” I reach for my phone and unlock it. Then I hand it to him, because Vermont has a law against holding a device while driving. “Go ahead and play it.”
“Okay, but you’re singing with me. We’ll do the chorus together.”
A few seconds later the guitar intro starts up. Weston starts clapping his hands with the syncopated beat. “Ready?” he says. And then he launches in.
And it’s rude not to join him, right? So I sing along. And we sing loud, the same way I would if I were alone.
Weston doesn’t embarrass easily, I guess. He sings every word of every verse, and I belt it out too. Three minutes later we’ve done the whole thing.
“Whew!” he says, leaning back against the headrest. “That was fun. I always sing loudly before tests too.”
“Is today stressful for you?” I ask. “This was your idea.”
He laughs. “Not at all. I’m fine, but you look ready to barf.”
Huh. He’s probably right. A trip to Dalton’s always stresses me out. Although the words you look ready to barf were not part of my fantasy date with Weston.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I won’t barf. They’re not really worth it. I just have to show my face on the holiday, make nice, eat some gourmet turkey and then it’s over until Christmas.”
“Fair enough. Where’s the rest of your family? Out of state?”
“Well…” Oh man. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. I swallow carefully before speaking my truth. “This is actually all my family.”
“Oh,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. What a stupid question. Way to put my foot in it.”
“No, it’s okay. I never met my dad. And my mother passed away three years ago.” I can say it smoothly now. For a while there I couldn’t really talk about losing my mom. I don’t remember the last part of my senior year in high school. I spent it curled into a ball, in shock that my mother had taken my dog to the vet one morning, and then died in a car crash an hour later.
It’s not supposed to happen to a forty-year-old woman. But it did.
I clear my throat. “So tell me about you. I bet you come from a huge family.”
“Uh…” He chuckles nervously. “It’s kind of true. I have a million cousins. And an older sister and a younger brother. Thanksgiving can get rowdy.”
“That must be fun. No wonder you like the holiday—it must be a huge party. How big is your table?”
“Big,” he says. “And my Aunt Mercedes practically has to drive an eighteen-wheeler to shop for Thanksgiving.”
“I can’t even picture it,” I say. Although I’ve always wanted to be part of a big family. My mom didn’t marry Dalton until I was twelve. So for years it was just the two of us, living in various run-down apartments around the greater Burlington area.
My mother had been Dalton’s receptionist. He married her about eighteen months after his first wife left him. They were married for six years. So now he’s on wife number three.
I moved out about ten minutes after his recent wedding.
Dalton isn’t a monster. But I am not his child, and neither of us ever did a good job of pretending differently. He owed me literally nothing after my mother died. She had no assets to speak of. She cut back her working hours after she married him, because he wanted her to have time to take care of his home, and to cook and to entertain.
My mother loved this arrangement. She learned to play tennis. She went out to lunch with friends.
What she didn’t do was buy a life insurance policy. Or put any savings in my name. And since my mother entered her marriage with no assets, save for a beat-up car and a nice collection of 90s music on CD, there was nothing for me to inherit.
I get a lot of financial aid from the university because my mother passed away. But Dalton pays a few thousand dollars every year toward my books and fees. He didn’t want to pay for me to rent an apartment, though. “Seems silly when you could live in your old room,” he’d said.
That was a generous offer, but it didn’t feel like a real option for me. So I work a lot of hours at the Biscuit, and I’m going to graduate a year early.
“What was Thanksgiving like?” Weston asks me. “Before? With your mom?”
“Oh!” I say stupidly. But it’s been so long since I thought about this. “When I was a little girl, it was just the two of us. We’d get up and watch the Macy’s parade from start to finish. And then mom got KFC chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn. She made the pumpkin pie, though. From scratch. My mother was an impractical person. Back then, she didn’t cook all that often, but she would bake the most exquisite things. I didn’t mind. And I really loved the ritual of Thanksgiving.”
“I bet,” he says. “The ritual is half the fun. Maybe more than half.”
We both go quiet for a few minutes after that. I’m picturing one of our small apartments, with its ugly green carpet and the sagging sofa. The truth is that I would give anything to go back there one more time. My whole childhood, I never had any cause to doubt my mother’s love. Even when she married Dalton, I still knew I was her number one.
“Sorry,” Weston says quietly. “Didn’t mean to bring you down. Do we need another song?”
“Too late!” I pull into Dalton’s grand driveway. “We’re here already.” I park behind Lila’s shiny BMW and put the car in park.
“Hey.” Weston turns to me in his seat, and makes no move to get out. “It’s never too late for a song. I sing loudly and badly whenever the mood strikes.”
Wow, is my only lucid thought. Those blue eyes are quite debilitating at close range. Weston Griggs is in my car. For the next couple of hours, he’s my Thanksgiving date.
“Once more for luck,” he says, hitting the play button again. The Avett Brothers launch into the intro again.
“Are we really doing this?” I laugh.
“We really are.”
Then we both open our mouths and launch into the song. This time I’m not driving, so we can watch each other. I’m sure I’d feel self-conscious if Weston weren’t hamming it up like a drunk karaoke singer.
He’s even dancing a little in his seat. It’s so ridiculously cute that I can’t help but giggle my way through the song.
Oh God, I’m giggling. Just like the girls who are always perched on his knee after hockey games. I get it now. Giggling makes more sense when Weston Griggs is smiling at you.
We’re both red faced and laughing as the song ends. Reluctantly, I climb out of my car. Weston grabs the flowers and the wine, and then wraps an arm around my shoulders as we approach the house.
It feels—wow—really nice. He’s naturally talented when it comes to this fake boyfriend thing. He even gives my shoulder a little squeeze just before the front door opens onto my step-stepmother.
“Abbi! Happy Thanksgiving!” she gushes. “And you must be Abbi’s young man. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Really?” he asks with a chuckle. “What did she say?”
Oh no! When I’d called Lila to tell her I was bringing someone, she’d asked polite questions about my “new man.” And since I already admired Weston, it was easy enough to provide some details. Terrific at hockey. Fun person. Lovely manners.