Chapter 23Ingrid. Thanksgiving, Present
INGRID. THANKSGIVING, PRESENT
"When you are born in a storm, you believe the world is made of lightning and thunder. Ready to strike without reason."
"Can you pass the mound of butter-shaped turkey?
" Ronan asked, his lips twitching as he nodded toward the vaguely bird-shaped, slightly sweaty butter sculpture that sat proudly in the center of the table.
It looked less like a turkey and more like it had just barely survived a microwave-related accident.
Ingrid grinned as she handed it over, barely resisting the urge to make it gobble first. She’d splurged on the ridiculous thing for Friendsgiving, fully aware of how much her mother would’ve despised it.
But this was her table, her friends, her holiday and it was already a thousand times better than any Thanksgiving she’d endured with her biological family.
"Ingrid really thought of everything this year," Quentin said, drowning his turkey in an alarming amount of gravy.
"The attention to detail is unreal, babe," Eden added, raising her glass in a small toast before taking a sip.
Ingrid smiled, slicing into her green beans, the knife squeaking faintly against her plate. Everything was perfect: Eden’s mashed potatoes, Ronan’s bad jokes, Quentin’s commitment to pouring gravy on everything. Domestic bliss.
Then bang . A loud thump echoed through the wall like someone had body-slammed a couch.
She froze, fork mid-air.
Her gut twisted. Beck was alone today. She knew that.
And sure, she could rationalize it. He probably wanted silence or to eat pie in his underwear while watching music documentaries.
Still, all her brain could picture was him eating Stove Top stuffing in the dark like some tragic Dickensian character.
She shook off the guilt, reaching for her drink–
Knock knock knock.
The sharp raps at the door cut through the chatter, sending her pulse skyrocketing. Her hand froze mid-air over her glass.
"Well, that’s ominous," Quentin muttered, pausing mid-gravy flood.
Ingrid’s stomach clenched. Was it him? And if it was, what then? Would she invite him in? Yes. Obviously. She wasn’t a complete monster.
She pushed back from the table too fast, bumping her thigh against the edge with an undignified thud.
"You okay, Indy?" Ronan asked, eyeing her over the rim of his glass.
"Yep! All good!" she chirped, her voice way too high-pitched to be convincing. Eden’s knowing gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, one brow slightly raised.
Ignoring her friend’s silent interrogation, Ingrid slipped away from the table, weaving through the chairs as her heart pounded. She reached the door, hesitating for the briefest second before swinging it open.
Her breath hitched, but instead of Beck, it was Sadie, standing there like an overly enthusiastic Girl Scout, a bottle of red wine clutched in one hand.
Ingrid blinked. Processing… processing…
"Surprise!" Sadie announced, arms flung wide.
A flicker of disappointment sparked in Ingrid’s chest–unexpected, unwelcome, and rude as hell, considering she actually liked Sadie. She shoved it down quickly, replacing it with a grin as she pulled her friend into a hug.
"Sadie!" Ingrid beamed. "I thought you were stuck on that movie set in Maine until December?"
Sadie shrugged, her green eyes sparkling as she stepped inside. "Got a few days off, so I hopped on a bus. Figured I'd come crash Thanksgiving and bask in the glow of my dorky brother’s gorgeous wife and cool friends."
From the dining table, Eden’s voice cut through the chatter. "Is that Sadie?"
Two seconds later, she came skidding around the corner like an overexcited puppy. With an exaggerated whoop, she launched into a sprint toward Sadie. The two collided in a fit of laughter, and Eden actually scooped Sadie up, spinning her in a full circle.
Quentin, watching from the table, smirked. "Pretty sure your sister likes your wife more than she likes you," he teased Ronan.
Ronan rolled his eyes but smirked. "Oh, she does." Then, jabbing a thumb toward Quentin, he added, "At least she likes me better than you. She despises you."
Quentin huffed, reaching for his drink with a shake of his head.
Sadie hated him, though no one could quite figure out why.
They’d only met a handful of times since Ronan introduced his sister to the group, but from day one, Sadie had treated Quentin like a telemarketer who’d somehow gotten her personal number and kept calling during dinner.
She was probably the only person on Earth who actively disliked him. Which, frankly, was kind of impressive.
Quentin was an A-list actor. People usually fawned over him. tripping over themselves to laugh at his jokes or touch his forearm like it granted luck. He claimed to hate the attention, and maybe he did, but still, watching him get completely blanked by Sadie was kind of hilarious.
Quentin and Eden had been friends forever, which meant Ingrid had basically inherited him by default.
The first time they met, she’d braced for full diva; his face was literally plastered across a Times Square billboard, mid-explosion, for his latest action movie.
She expected sunglasses indoors, maybe a handler.
But instead of being insufferable, he was weirdly normal.
Funny. Goofy, even. Unbothered by the fact that he was basically the human version of a summer blockbuster.
Eden was famous too, just in a cooler, Grammy-nominated, "wrote that song that ruined you emotionally in a Walmart parking lot" kind of way. But she was still the same girl who used to scribble lyrics on coffee shop napkins. Somewhere along the way, she and Quentin became best friends.
The wild part was that neither of them acted like celebrities. On paper, sure–they were celebrities. In her living room? Just two nerds who bickered over dumplings and spilled wine on her rug.
"Hey, big bro," Sadie called, spotting Ronan. She strolled over and pulled him into a quick hug, giving him a firm pat on the back like she was checking for weaknesses.
But as she stepped away, her gaze flicked toward Quentin. The moment she saw him, her steps faltered. Quentin was lounging at the table, arms crossed like he knew he was about to cause a scene.
"You," Sadie said, her voice cool and clipped, like he was a stubborn stain she’d just discovered on her favorite shirt.
Quentin lifted an eyebrow. "Me," he echoed, voice dripping with amusement, like he’d expected this kind of reaction and, frankly, kind of enjoyed it.
Sadie’s jaw tensed. She crossed her arms, mirroring his posture. For a beat, neither of them moved. Ingrid felt like she was watching a Western standoff, if Westerns were fueled by passive aggression and unresolved drama.
"Ugh, who invited the buzzkill?" Sadie muttered, breaking the silence as she pushed past him toward the table.
She grabbed an empty glass and poured herself a very healthy serving of wine.
Ingrid just sat back, sipping her drink, already way too invested in whatever weird, antagonistic energy was going on between those two.
"Yeah, who invited you?" Quentin shot back without missing a beat. "No one, apparently. You just took a bus and showed up. Uninvited."
Eden sighed, sliding into her chair with the exasperation of someone used to mediating this exact argument. "Okay, children. Behave. No bickering in front of company."
Sadie huffed and took a long sip of her wine, like she was trying to drown the conversation in Merlot. Quentin smirked and kept eating like petty drama was his appetizer.
Ingrid jumped in before round two of the Sadie-Quentin Show could kick off.
"So, Sadie, how’s the movie going?" she asked, genuinely curious. They kept in touch, but she hadn’t heard the latest update from the front lines of low-budget cinema.
Sadie worked as a special effects makeup artist, which meant she always had wild stories about fake blood, prosthetics, and actors who had no idea how to sit still.
Sadie leaned back, wine in hand, already looking like she had stories. "It’s been a beautiful disaster," she said with a grin. "Shoestring budget, twelve-hour days, one working bathroom but honestly? Some of my best work."
She perked up. "Last week the fake blood I had to apply basically turned into a Slip ’N Slide across set. The splatter? A Jackson Pollock fever dream."
Ingrid laughed. "High art."
"Nothing says prestige like being covered in corn syrup. But hey, the next job is a big-budget project in Montana. Real crew, real funding. I might finally work on a set where the fog machine doesn’t double as a space heater."
"What’s it about?" Eden asked, leaning forward as she took a sip of her wine.
Sadie’s grin widened. "Western thriller with supernatural elements."
Quentin’s reaction was immediate. He choked. Violently. Wine went down the wrong pipe, and he sputtered, slamming his glass onto the table like he was moments from meeting his maker.
Ronan, leaned over and thumped him on the back.
Quentin’s face turned a lovely shade of tomato as he coughed, wheezing out, "I’m the lead in that movie. ‘Blood on the Prairie’, right?"
Sadie froze mid-sip, her wine glass hovering in midair like someone had just spoiled the ending of her favorite show. Slowly, she lowered it.
"Please tell me you’re kidding," she muttered, her face a perfect blend of disbelief and barely-contained horror.
"I don’t joke about things this tragic," Quentin muttered.
Eden clapped her hands together like a kindergarten teacher about to settle a dispute over crayons. "Looks like you two need a truce!"
Quentin just shrugged, while Sadie rolled her eyes so hard they nearly left orbit.
Another thump echoed from Beck’s apartment next door. This one was so aggressive it rattled the picture frames. She clenched her jaw. She looked at Eden, who just shrugged.
"That’s it," Ingrid announced, shoving back her chair and standing up so abruptly that her wine nearly sloshed out of the glass. "I can’t take it anymore. I’m inviting him over."
Eden raised her hands in mock surrender. "Don’t let me stop you."
Ingrid marched to the front door, yanked it open like she was about to serve an eviction notice, and stormed down the hall. She stopped in front of Beck’s door and knocked.
The door creaked open, and there he was, looking inconveniently good for someone who had been causing enough noise to make her question the integrity of her ceiling. The soft hallway light hit just right, emphasizing the unfair angles of his jaw and the perfectly tousled mess of his hair.
Barefoot, in low-slung jeans and a plain white T-shirt, he radiated that just rolled out of bed and directly onto a magazine cover energy. Did the man even own a single ugly sweater? Or was he genetically incapable of looking anything less than insufferably handsome?
"Howdy, neighbor. Come for a cup of sugar?" Beck greeted, his lips curving into a lazy smirk, eyes twinkling.
"What’s with all the thudding? Are you breakdancing or just rearranging your furniture very aggressively?" she shot back, arms crossed, already regretting every decision that led to this moment.
He grinned, completely unbothered. "How did you know? I’ve been this close to nailing the headspin."
She exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You want to join us?" The words felt physically painful to say. "Eden asked me to invite you." She tacked on the last part quickly, shamelessly lying through her teeth.
Beck arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Did she now?" His tone was teasing. "Well, I definitely wouldn’t want to disappoint Eden."
Ingrid resisted the urge to chuck her shoe at him and instead turned on her heel, marching back to her apartment. She left the door open just enough to be technically polite.
"What the heck? Where did you come from?" Quentin blurted out, before pulling Beck into a classic bro hug–half back slap, half I-miss-you-but-must-be-manly-about-it.
"Eden’s letting me stay in her apartment while I teach at Juilliard," Beck explained, sliding into a chair. A thin gold chain peeked out from under the collar of his shirt, catching the light.
"And that just happens to be the apartment next to Ingrid’s?" Quentin asked, his tone thick with suspicion.
"I own both apartments," Eden chimed in, scooping up a bite of mashed potatoes. "Ingrid rents hers from me."
Ingrid had been renting Eden’s apartment for years.
After returning from France, she knew she couldn’t move back into her dad’s place.
Too many memories lurking in the furniture, too much emotional booby-trapping in every corner.
Eden’s apartment had seemed like the ideal escape: familiar, cozy, safe. At the time, it felt right.
They’d even drawn up their "lease" on the back of a diner napkin, giggling between bites of pancakes like it was a sleepover, not a legally binding agreement.
Oh, how naive. Present Ingrid wanted to time-travel back, grab past Ingrid by the shoulders, and yell, "Look at the mess you’re in now, genius!
Living next to your emotionally hazardous, smoking hot ex-boyfriend like it's not a recipe for total psychological torture! "
"Oh, well that’s not awkward at all," Sadie deadpanned, taking a long, slow sip of her wine.
"Not one bit. I've always dreamed of living next to my ex-boyfriend," Ingrid said, her sarcasm practically dripping onto the table.
"I’m glad we’re on the same page, babe," Beck shot back smoothly, winking as he casually helped himself to the cranberry sauce. Ingrid glared, mentally weighing the pros and cons of launching a bread roll at his head.
Sensing the rising tension, Sadie clapped her hands together. "Aaaanyway," she said, grinning. "Who wants to hear about the absolute disaster that is Ronan’s and my parents’ visiting Ireland with our Granddad? Let’s just say Guinness and donkey rides do not mix well."
Ronan, still scrolling through his phone, let out a low chuckle. "We’re getting live updates," he said, flipping his screen toward the group.
On the display was a video of their dad, absolutely caked in mud, looking deeply betrayed and standing in the middle of a field, surrounded by a very unimpressed herd of donkeys.