9. Family #2
“Grab the wine from the fridge,” Jeanette instructs. “And tell Sienna the stuffing needs another twenty minutes.”
Emma opens the fridge, and I should absolutely not be noticing the way her jeans fit when she bends to reach the lower shelf.
I’m standing in her mother’s kitchen. Grayson is six feet away.
Jeanette is four. The crucifix on the wall is directly in my line of sight, which feels like divine commentary on my current situation.
I stare at the crucifix. It doesn’t help.
The table seats six comfortably. Jeanette’s at the head. Grayson and Sienna on one side. Emma and me on the other.
Two inches of space between Emma’s elbow and mine. That I measured with my fork as a unit.
My fork.
This is where my analytical mind has led me. Measuring proximity to my best friend’s sister in units of silverware .
The MBA was worth every penny.
“Before we eat,” Jeanette says, lifting her glass, “I want to say something.”
We all pause. Jeanette’s Thanksgiving speeches are legendary. She speaks from the heart and devastates everyone at the table annually. Grayson once cried into his mashed potatoes. He was twenty-two.
“This year has been special,” she begins, and her voice has that steady and warm quality somehow threaded with emotion she doesn’t try to hide.
“Grayson, your season is off to a wonderful start. Sienna, watching you build something incredible with the youth program makes me prouder than you know. Emma—” She turns to her daughter, and I see Emma’s throat work.
“Baby, seeing you find your place at Silver Pine. Seeing you happy. Really happy. That’s everything a mother wants. ”
Emma blinks fast. Doesn’t cry. But close.
It makes me wonder what exactly I’m missing about Emma’s transfer. If there’s more to her story than she’s really shared.
“And Luke.” Jeanette’s eyes find mine. All at once I’m nineteen again, standing in the doorway with a duffel bag and nowhere to go, and this woman said you’re eating with us like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Having you back. Having all my kids in one place.” Her voice catches. “I’m so grateful.”
All my kids .
The table is quiet for a beat. Grayson reaches for Sienna’s hand. Emma’s fingertips rest near my forearm—not touching, but present. A grounding point.
“To family,” Jeanette finishes, raising her glass higher.
“To family,” we echo.
I drink. The wine tastes like guilt and belonging and the agony of being where you want to be for both the right and entirely wrong reasons.
Jeanette’s turkey is, as always, perfect.
My contribution, the sweet potato casserole, gets compliments from Gray (“You’ve been holding out, man, this is incredible”) and Sienna (“Luke, this recipe should be classified information”).
Emma just glances my way and mouths show-off when nobody’s looking.
My fork-width gap shrinks to half a fork.
Grayson launches into a story about a recent away game where his rookie backup got lost in the arena and ended up in the Zamboni bay during the first period.
Under the table, Emma’s knee touches mine .
Not a bump. Not an accident. A deliberate, sustained press of her leg against mine that sends a signal so clear it might as well come with a written invitation.
I’m here. I’m right here. And I know you feel this .
I take a long drink of water. Set the glass down slowly. Don’t look at her.
Grayson looks at me funny. “Luke, you good? Look like you swallowed a bone.”
“Fine. Turkey went down wrong.”
“Amateur.” He grins. “Seven years of Mom’s cooking and you still can’t handle the bird.”
Emma’s knee presses harder.
I’m going to die at this table. They’ll find me face-down in the cranberry sauce, cause of death: femoral contact with a twenty-one-year-old left winger.
“So, Luke,” Sienna says, and the precision in her voice makes my spine straighten. Sienna doesn’t make casual conversation. She conducts interrogations disguised as small talk. “How’s coaching been? Really? Not the press-conference answer.”
“It’s been…” I search for words that are honest without being revealing. “The best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. The team’s special. What they’ve built in three months. The chemistry, the work ethic. It’s beyond anything I expected.”
Beside me, Emma grins. “It’s what happens when you have a good coach and players who give a shit.”
“Language,” Jeanette murmurs automatically.
“Sorry, Mom. Players who give a crap .”
Sienna’s eyes flick between me and Emma. Quick. Analytical. If Sienna Brooks were a hockey player, she’d be the one who sees passing lanes before they exist.
Right now, she’s seeing a passing lane I desperately need to remain invisible.
“And you and Emma?” Sienna continues, taking a casual sip of wine. “You guys are doing okay with this whole…arrangement?”
The table’s attention shifts to us. Grayson’s looking between me and his sister with the unsuspecting curiosity of a golden retriever. Jeanette’s expression is warm but watchful. Emma is very still beside me.
“We’re good,” I answer, aiming for light. Teasing. The dynamic that’s always defined us here. “Though Emma doesn’t listen to a word I say. ”
“Only because your nitpicky,” Emma rebukes. “Give me constant criticism of my backchecking, which, for the record, is fine .”
“Adequate,” I correct, and Emma turns to look at me with mock outrage.
“Adequate? I lead the team in—”
“In offensive production, yeah. But your defensive transition in the neutral zone needs work and you know it.”
“Oh, so we’re doing this at Thanksgiving dinner now? You want to pull up film? Because I have my phone—”
“Maybe not at the table,” Jeanette interjects, smiling.
Grayson’s laughing.
See… Normal . We can be normal.
Except Emma’s knee is still against mine. And my body is acutely, painfully, relentlessly aware of every micromovement she makes.
When she reaches for the wine to refill her glass, her elbow brushes my arm.
When she laughs at something Grayson says—that full, head-back laugh that restructures my cardiovascular system—her thigh presses more firmly against mine.
When she leans back in her chair, her hand drops below the table and rests between us.
Two inches from my hand.
An invitation.
I could reach over. Thread my fingers through hers. Hold her hand under the table while her family talks and laughs and has absolutely no idea.
I don’t.
But I don’t move my hand away either.
It sits there, two inches from hers, for the rest of the main course. A gap I’m not closing and she’s not widening. A no man’s land that represents everything we are… Close enough to touch, too afraid to reach.
Story of my fucking life.