Adeline
Silverware clinks.
That’s it. That’s all. Because my family is currently sitting in complete and utter silence as we eat.
It’s never this quiet in my house. It’s Mom and Dad bickering in dueling languages. It’s Nat talking about women’s rights. It’s Lennie off somewhere reading.
Which admittedly doesn’t fit the other examples, but my older sister is currently eating with us. I was surprised but touched when she crept down to the dining room.
Nat travelled from Brooklyn, something that Mom insists she doesn’t do enough.
It’s a complete Akatov family gathering. My parents are at the heads of the table, my two sisters sitting on the opposite side of Ciaran and me. There’s pasta and green beans, and usually I’d be tearing into garlic bread.
Instead, I carefully cut up my pasta. Ciaran just made me come in my childhood bedroom with my parents downstairs, but God forbid I get some spaghetti sauce on my chin.
My thighs press together. I’d rushed to the bathroom after Lennie texted me. I’d cleaned myself up, spritzed on some perfume, and then tumbled downstairs like it was no big deal, hauling Ciaran with me. I’m the only person in pajamas. Everyone including him, is in nicer clothes.
Putting on some jeans wouldn’t have fixed anything, though. Dad’s glare is pointedly on either his wife or Ciaran.
Apparently, there has been some great betrayal between husband and wife because Mom let the fox in the henhouse.
God, Dad would lose it if he knew what Ciaran did to me upstairs. What I had done to him.
I shovel food into my mouth, hoping no one will notice my red cheeks.
“So exactly how long are you planning on being here?” Nat asks, not giving a fuck that we’re all awkwardly silent.
Ciaran pauses his eating. His button-down is rolled up, his forearms on display. It’s completely unfair how the look does something to make my belly go so swoopy.
“He hasn’t even finished eating,” I tell Nat.
“I meant in America,” she clarifies. “Are you, like, on a work visa or?”
I shoot my sister a look, and I’m gratified to realize Mom has as well. Obviously Ciaran’s got a visa; however, his work isn’t accurately reflected on the application.
“Or do you have dual citizenship?” Nat asks, and my skin tingles. She’s being too nosy. “Your dad’s been here long enough, right? That he’s got citizenship.”
“Did you map out his family tree?” I ask, shooting her a look as I sip my wine. Dad never cares when we drink at home, but he purses his lips.
“Are we not supposed to know who his dad is?” Nat asks. “Okay, sorry. The question still stands, though. Are you putting down roots or planning on traveling back to Ireland anytime soon?”
“You must miss your family,” Mom says.
He nods.
“I’m sure they miss you too,” Dad says, cutting his green beans. “You’ll probably want to see them again soon.”
“Dad,” I murmur.
Ciaran’s lips twitch.
“Do you have a large family?” Lennie asks, flushing. She’s trying hard, making an effort to chat even if our family is going slightly nuts.
“On the O’Connell side, sure,” Dad answers darkly. Mom throws him a look, some silent caution passing between them.
I touch Ciaran’s thigh, but he merely smiles down at his food before answering Lennie. “I’ve got one older brother. My mam is in Dublin too. And Nora.”
“Nora?” Lennie asks.
“Nora Hayes,” he replies. “My brother Ian’s mam.”
My parents say nothing, but I see that they recognize the name. Mom sits back in her chair, her finger playing with the stem of her wineglass.
“Your brother didn’t want to come to New York?” Nat asks.
“No.” It’s all Ciaran says.
The brothers are close. When Ciaran speaks about him, there’s a smile in his eye even when he shakes his head in frustration. I’d like to see them interact someday. But he’s also told me that Ian shies away from the other O'Connells, some divide even though they all know each other.
“What’s he do for a living?” Nat asks.
“I have absolutely no fucking clue,” he replies and then immediately shakes his head. “I’m so—”
“Oh, don’t fucking worry, we love cussing.” Nat sinks in her chair, pulling her wine glass toward her.
Mom chides, but she’s smiling.
“Do you plan on sticking around a while, though?” Nat asks, veering us back into awkwardness.
“Yes.” Ciaran adds nothing else, but the one word makes my heart hammer anyway.
I accidentally catch Mom’s eye. She smiles softly and then asks Ciaran if he’d like more food.
“So what are you going to do for Thanksgiving?” Nat asks. Dad’s fingers wrap around his fork, squeezing tight.
Ciaran doesn’t have an immediate answer.
“I mean, it’s a terrible holiday,” Nat says but restrains herself from launching into the historical context. “But the food is great, and you’re in America this year. Any plans?”
Ciaran shakes his head, looking like he’s truly never thought of it. I know his uncle, his boss, keeps them busy. At the very least he deserves a day relaxing, watching TV, and eating.
“You should come celebrate with us,” Nat says.
I don’t know who looks more surprised—Ciaran or my dad.
“You should,” my other sister says.
Ciaran blinks like he understands that this is a big deal for Lennie to agree. That having a strange man in her house, even if he’s dating me, is a big deal for the shy introvert.
“I-I don’t want to intrude,” he says.
Mom waves him off. “You’re not intruding, Ciaran. We’re inviting you to Thanksgiving, so come.”
“You can help carve the turkey.” Nat not so slyly looks at Dad.
His left eye twitches.
“Come to Thanksgiving.” Nat smiles wide.
I touch Ciaran’s thigh again. He doesn’t have to come spend more time with my insane family, but. . . The idea of hanging out with him all day is nice. Especially because it’ll be a day when I’m not thinking about schoolwork.
We could hang out. Like we do at his apartment. Only there will be a ton more food, and the house always smells great. Later, we’ll pull out Christmas decorations and. . .
I’ve done so well pretending like I don’t miss home. It’s stupid. I’m only an hour away by train. It’s not like Ciaran, who moved across an ocean.
My childhood wasn’t spent in this house, but it is my home. Where my parents reside, and I can’t believe this happened, but I actually miss living with my sisters.
Ciaran’s apartment is ten times better than my dorm room. He’s super sweet when he makes me dinner or leaves little notes in the morning if he gets up first.
A vision of Thanksgiving comes to me, marrying the two safe places. Ciaran and I here, at home with my family.
“You should come,” I tell him lightly. So it doesn’t come across as pressuring. His warm brown eyes are wide as he looks at me.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, aware our conversation is being watched by four different Akatov’s.
“Come,” I say, but the one word is also a question. He’s the one who gets to truly decide if he wants to.
“I’d be honored,” he immediately tells my mom.
“Oh, yeah, no, that shit’s on fire,” Nat says a week later.
“Everyone out!” Mom shouts. “Out!” she orders when we don’t move.
“I’m not the one who burned the turkey,” Nat mutters as we shuffle out of the kitchen.
“Ads, your boyfriend is here!” Lennie yells from the front foyer. I’m so proud of her because she’s speaking to Ciaran all by herself, even if I don’t like what she’s saying. “Yeah, we probably won’t have any food for a while because Nat and Adeline tried to be helpful in the kitchen.”
Ciaran chuckles, the dark rumble making my skin flush as I run around the corner, nearly knocking into him.
Lennie scuttles off quickly when I wrap my hands around Ciaran, squeezing tight.
“You’re here.”
He holds me close. “You sound surprised.”
“I mean I wouldn’t blame you if you chickened out.”
“Do you think I would’ve chickened out?” he asks, pulling back.
Right. He’s just gotten an invitation to spend Thanksgiving with my dad. Talk about the ultimate opportunity to rub elbows.
“You look really nice.” He’s wearing a sweater, and God, what is wrong with me that it’s somehow hot to see him in knitwear. “I told you to wear some sweats.”
He chuckles again, kissing my forehead. My fingers wrap into his sweater when someone clears their throat.
Dad is in the doorway. He’s also wearing a sweater but he has never looked so old and exhausted before. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a glass of vodka in one hand.
Basically, he’s not going anywhere.
“Thank you for having me,” Ciaran says, holding out a hand.
Dad eyes it before begrudgingly shaking hands. “Adeline, your mother is asking for you.”
“She just kicked me out of the kitchen.”
“Go to your mother.”
“So you can interrogate my boyfriend?”
“Adeline.”
Ciaran runs a hand down my arm, telling me it’s okay. Dad’s jaw spasms, not a fan of the G-rated affection.
I pad down the hall, acting like I’m going to go to the kitchen. I double right back around when Dad shows Ciaran into his office.
It’s the one place us kids never went. Even my mom avoids it, but that’s also because they once argued about how he’d decorate. She lost, and to this day, his sense of interior design bothers her.
He leaves the door open, which means he wants me to listen in. Or so I tell myself as I creep closer.
“Ciaran O’Connell,” Dad says, and I bite down a wave of secondhand embarrassment. I know Dad does bad things sometimes, but this is so tacky, this little fatherly chat. “It’s an honor to have you in my home.”
“The honor is mine,” his dark voice replies, sounding every bit as confident as he normally does. “Thank you for having me.”
“You can thank my wife.”
Oh, jeez.
“You’ve taken care of my daughter the past few weeks.”
Months. We’ve been together for months now, but the olive branch has only occurred the past couple of weeks.
“I’d say it’s the other way around,” Ciaran replies, and I frown at his tone. It’s. . . gentle. “Adeline is very caring.”
“Empathetic, yes,” Dad agrees. “You’re not the first stray she’s brought home before.”
My mouth drops open.
Ciaran’s reply is measured. “Did those strays always get an invitation to Thanksgiving?”
I’m desperate to hear Dad’s reply, but I jump when someone grabs my arm.
Mom holds on tight, her face blank, as she pulls me backward.
“But,” I argue.
She shakes her head, pulling me away from the men.
“He’s being—”
“He’s your father,” she says lightly.
“Your husband is being rude.”
She shakes her head, grinning. “My darling daughter. You’ve put that man through a lot. Let them at it.”
“But—”
“Adeline.”
I’m stopped by her voice. It’s the one she used to use when we were little. Not when she found us getting into snacks or fighting over who got the TV remote.
When I was seven, one Saturday morning, I’d rushed toward Dad’s office. I’d needed to tell him about a funny cartoon, but he’d been on the phone, a frown on his face. I’d argued, just like this, when Mom dragged me away.
She’s using the voice—the warning—when I’m getting too close to a side of Dad she still wants to shield me from.
This time it’s different, though. Dad is currently talking to a man I sleep beside most nights.
For the first time in our lives, a current runs between me and my mother. We are a mirror. Two women attached to partners whose sole design is to amass wealth and power by any means necessary.
“Come on.” Mom squeezes my hand, pulling me into the kitchen. Away from our men.