Chapter 11
Penny
“’Cha doin’?” my older sister says over the video call propped up on my desk. She’s mashing a big bowl of potatoes.
“Don’t ’cha doin’ me, Banks,” I say. “You know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Yes, I do. You’re avoiding your family.”
“No. I’m working.”
Currently, I’m holed up in the back offices in the Herald’s building.
I wrapped up all my post-parade tasks about an hour ago, and I’ve been staring at spreadsheets and placing merchandise orders ever since.
My vision is blurring, and my stomach is rumbling.
But the work isn’t letting up any time soon.
“Besides,” I continue, “I’m not avoiding you, am I? I picked up your call on the first ring.”
“Second ring, but who’s counting?” She clears her throat.
“Allow me to be more specific. You’re avoiding the people who raised us.
Are you seriously not coming tonight?” she whines.
“Because I just checked the train schedules. If you hustle over to Grand Central right now and hop on the 4:11, you can still make it here before the main course.”
Banks and I grew up in the same house. Same parents. But you’d never know it. I love her dearly, but we see the world so very differently. Always have. Always will.
“Would you call what they did raising us, though?” I ask. “Squashing, stifling, and smothering us feel like more accurate word choices if you ask me. For Mom, anyway. Dad was more of the tolerate, intimidate, and obfuscate variety.”
“Alright, Merriam-Webster.” Banks lowers the volume on her side of the call, gets closer to the phone, and whispers, “You’re not wrong, Penn. But come on. They’re family.”
Well-meaning people always say that. “But they’re family.” Like it’s perfectly acceptable to allow people to treat you like crap if those people happen to be blood-related. But I deserve better than that. Banks does too. Hell, we all do.
I lower my voice now, too. “Why are we whispering? Wait, are you already there?” I squint at the tiny screen. “That doesn’t look like their kitchen.”
“They just remodeled.”
“Again?!”
“You know what Mom always says. ‘If you’re not moving with the times…’”
“You’re dying with them. Yeah, yeah.” My heart rate picks up. “I should go.”
“No, don’t rush off! She’s upstairs beautifying. And Dad’s in the garage doing whatever Dad does. I would like some time with my sister on Thanksgiving if you can spare another minute or two.”
“Of course I want to spend time with you,” I say, feeling guilty. “But look, I skirted my work responsibilities last year so I could come to Thanksgiving. And it was an emotional shit show. I have no desire to put myself through that again.”
What kind of woman lays out a Thanksgiving feast in front of her children, then proceeds to criticize them for eating it?
My mother, that’s who. I try to have compassion for her.
After all, it’s her own issues as a former ballerina that made her this way, but I’ll be damned if she passes those issues down to me.
Banks doesn’t respond. She knows I’m right.
But I do hate seeing her sad. And I miss her too.
In the past, we could count on seeing each other in person at our parents’ once-a-month Sunday dinners, until I decided last year that I couldn’t stomach them anymore.
I’m not proud to say that since then, my relationship with my sister—and her kids—relies mostly on video calls and the cards I put in the mail.
An idea lands. “Hey, obviously, I’m heading into the busy season at work, but I do have Tuesday mornings off.
What if I hopped the train up to Connecticut late one Monday night?
We could have a sister sleepover, hang out for breakfast and early lunch the next day, then I can catch the 12:58 and still be back in Manhattan in time for my Tuesday afternoon shift. ”
“That sounds insane, Penn.”
“Nah.” I smile. “It would be worth it to see my favorite sister. And my niece and nephew. Not to mention my nibling-to-be! You’re gonna pop any day now, right?”
“Consider me officially popped.” Banks backs away from the phone and gives me a full view of her pregnant belly. “But what the heck is a nibling?”
“Gender neutral niece or nephew?” I say. “Someone taught me the term the other day.”
Someone I’m trying very hard not to think about.
“Nibling. Yuck.” Her nose scrunches. “Sounds edible. Like I’m some primal mother who eats her young.” She rubs her belly.
“I really think you should get checked for that word aversion thing,” I say. “What’s it called again? Loogie misha?”
“Logomisia,” she corrects. “Please don’t say loogieagain.” She makes a retching sound.
“You look awesome by the way,” I say, changing the subject. “No matter what nonsense Mom spews tonight.”
“Ugh. Spews.”
“Sorry.”
“Whatever. You know I don’t let Mom’s comments get to me.”
I sigh. “You’re a stronger woman than I.”
“I don’t know about that,” Banks says. “I’m certainly a less sensitive one, though.”
“Says the woman who can’t hear the word crevice without dry heaving.”
“Touché.” She transfers her mashed potatoes from the mixing bowl to a baking pan. “I’m sorry, sister. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean your sensitivity is a bad thing. If anything, I should be more sensitive and—”
“Banksy?” I hold up a hand. “Don’t worry. If being labeled ‘sensitive’ is the price for standing up to bullies, I’m cool with it.” My computer dings with a new email from an important seller. “I really do have to go now. But I promise to visit soon.”
“Maybe you’ll make it home for Whitaker Wonderland?” Her voice pitches up with hope.
“Man, they’re still doing that?”
Whitaker Wonderland is Mom and Dad’s annual party, always held two Sundays before Christmas. “Everyone who’s anyone” in Connecticut is invited.
“Of course they are. It would mean a lot to me to have you there,” Banks singsongs. “And to Maddox and Maya, too.”
“I promise…” I start.
Banks squeals prematurely.
“…that I’ll think about it,” I finish.
She sighs. “Alright. Well, that’s something.”
A knock sounds on the office door, startling me. The store is closed today for the holiday, and I’m the only one working back here as far as I know. Though we open bright and early tomorrow for Black Friday.
“Who is it?” I call out.
The door slowly cracks open, and Matt pokes his head in.
What in the world is he doing here?
“Okay, Banks? I’m going now.”
“Yeah, yeah. Me too. This table isn’t going to set itself.”
I silently gesture for Matt to come in while I finish my call with my sister. “Don’t take any crap from her today, okay? And give me the play-by-play tomorrow?”
“You know I will.”
“Love you, sissy.” I blow a kiss to the screen.
“Love you too, boo.” She catches my kiss and blows one back just as Matt sidles into view. “Oooh, who is that?”
“Bye!” I slam my phone face down.
“I hope you have a screen protector on that thing.” He laughs. “Trying to keep me a secret?”
“Nothing to tell.” I wince. “Sorry, that was harsh. I—”
“All good,” he says, rounding my desk so he’s directly across from me.
I stare at him in silence.
What is he doing here?
“Hi,” he finally says.
“Hi?” I say back as a question.
I seize the opportunity to take Matt in.
Until now, I’ve only ever seen him in ridiculous spandex Santa getups or T-shirts and gym shorts.
But here he is wearing khaki pants, brown boots, and a light blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His sandy-colored hair, usually tied back into a questionable man bun, is loose and grazes his shoulders.
I hate to say it, but damn, he looks good.
“Your sister’s name is Banks?” he asks.
“Yeah. It is.”
“And yours is Penny? What, are your parents finance bros or something?” He chuckles.
“Dad is. Mom’s a former ballerina. Good catch, Barbera.”
Why did I call him Barbera? Am I flirting with him?
“I like that,” he rumbles. “You calling me by my last name.”
“I’ll be sure to stop then,” I sass.
Matt smiles, and for the first time, I spot the dimples he has on his upper lip.
How have I never seen them before?
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “Penny is a beautiful name, but why were you named after our country’s smallest financial increment possible, and your sister was named after the entire bank?”
“Favoritism, I guess?”
People don’t usually pick up on that. This guy continues to surprise me.
“Aren’t you, uh—aren’t you supposed to be at Eugene’s?” I ask.
“Eugene has a lot of siblings. His parents are cool as hell and eat early so they can all disperse to various in-law dinners.” It’s only then that I notice the stack of to-go containers he’s holding. He nods to them. “Thought you might be hungry.”
He brought me food? On Thanksgiving?
“Funny, I was just thinking about ordering in.”
“On Thanksgiving? At work? Alone!?” His usually deep voice gets all squeaky and weird.
I hold up a finger. “Slow your roll, sir. Do not pity me. Like I told you before, I have no problem whatsoever with eating—or being—alone on Thanksgiving.”
His face turns serious.
He places the containers down on my desk.
He leans close to me, so close I can smell his cologne. I didn’t think I liked cologne on guys. But I like whatever this is.
“Pity is the last thing I feel for you, Penny, believe me,” he rumbles.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that.
What does he feel for me?
“So you’re hungry then?” he asks.
“Starving, yes,” I say, my voice suddenly breathy and bizarre.
He winks and spreads the containers out on my desk. “Well, good. Because it’s time to feast, madam.”
Looks like I’m having Thanksgiving dinner after all.