Chapter 8
8
TESSA
“I’m thankful for my family, both old and new. It’s wonderful to have the Duprees here at the table with us to celebrate together.” I raised my eyebrows as I finished the well-rehearsed statement. “What do you think?” I asked Emily, who was sitting on the edge of her childhood bed. Though Emily’s room had undergone the same makeover as Claire’s and mine after she’d moved out, Mom had placed two twin beds in this room, as if perhaps we needed a physical reminder of how much she wanted grandchildren.
“I think if I have to give my thanks first, I’m going to steal it,” Em replied as I sat down on the other bed. “Except I’ll change it to “It’s wonderful to have Agatha and Alex here at the table. Richard is a man’s man, Ethan is a man-child, and Grant is a man-whore.”
“Em,” I groaned. If she had any idea I was the one Grant had been having sex with at the wedding, she would’ve been horrified. “They’re not that bad, and Alexandra isn’t coming. She’s staying up at school this year because of an internship, I think.”
“That sucks. She’s the most likable of the Dupree children.”
I laid down, looking at the ceiling and letting out a sigh that came out as more of an irritated raspberry. If Emily noticed, she must’ve assumed I was also lamenting having to spend Thanksgiving dinner with the Duprees. Not that she was far off. My stomach was in knots, and not just out of dread. I was a jumbled mess of worry, hesitation, excitement, and fear.
First on my list of fears was that either Hudson or Grant himself would out me. So far, no one had figured out I was, to quote Emily, “Dr. Dupree’s Mystery Whore.” Grant had taken plenty of heat without ever giving up my name, so it was safe to assume he wouldn’t say anything tonight. Hudson worried me more. I hardly knew the man, but he seemed to be the nice, fair type, and that was the last thing I needed. If he saw my sisters treat Grant like shit, would he let the world know my secret?
And that question begged a second question, which was: What sort of monster would I be to let Grant take the heat? I sat up abruptly. “The Duprees are family now. We have to be nice.”
Emily shrugged. “To Richard and Ethan. Grant isn’t family.”
“Em,” I scolded.
“Oh my God, why do you even care? It’s okay to not like people sometimes. You’re a pushover, Tessa.” How many times had I heard that in my life? More than I could count. Perhaps people thought of the Davis sisters as the smart one, the pretty one, the fun one, and the pushover. Emily pushed herself up to standing with a sigh. “We should probably get downstairs and help Mom or we’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Probably,” I agreed, sitting up, but not standing. “When are Claire and Hudson getting here?”
I stood, stretching my arms over my head as Emily looked down at her watch. “They stayed over at Hudson’s parents place last night, but I think they were going to be here by four. Claire said to start eating without them if we wanted.”
I chuckled dryly. “She’s just avoiding the Duprees.”
“Probably,” Emily said. “But we don’t have that luxury, so let’s get going.”
Emily walked out the door and I followed her, stopping momentarily in front of the mirror to look at myself. Because even if Grant and I had agreed it was best to avoid each other completely, that didn’t mean I had to look like a slob.
Downstairs, Emily was relegated to peeling potatoes, as usual, while Agatha and Mom fussed over the turkey. “It looks beautiful, Jules,” Agatha said, and Mom beamed as she basted, then they both bent as Mom slid the turkey back into the oven. “Oh! Tessa,” Agatha said as she stood again, turning to face me. “I didn’t see you there. Happy Thanksgiving. You look beautiful, darling.”
I glanced down at myself, hating that I was trying to see myself through Grant’s eyes. Would he think I looked beautiful, or would the magic that had existed the night of the wedding—and more and more I feared that magic was booze—have dissipated, leaving Grant aware once more of how much more beautiful any of my sisters were than I was? “Thanks,” I replied quickly, realizing I’d been lost in thought and had completely failed to reply to her compliment. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.”
Mom pulled two bags of green beans out of the fridge, holding them up. “What do you think, should we steam them or make a green bean casserole? Do your boys like green bean casserole, Agatha?”
Agatha looked at the green beans thoughtfully. “I’m not sure, but I think I like it better steamed than in a casserole. What are you thinking?”
Mom’s lips twisted, a sure sign she was waiting for someone to vote casserole. I wasn’t sure if Agatha didn’t know or didn’t care. “Em,” Mom said, “what do you think? Steamed or casserole?”
“I hate green beans,” Emily replied. “You know that.”
“Charles!” Mom called out, her eagle eyes catching my father walking past the kitchen. His shoulders sagged as he walked into the kitchen, in case anyone might mistakenly think he’d rather be helping prepare the food than watching football. “Should we steam the green beans or make a casserole?”
Dad shrugged, clearly not caring. “I like a casserole,” he replied noncommittally.
“I thought someone liked a casserole,” Mom said to herself, satisfied now that she’d found someone to support her obvious desire to make the stupid casserole. I wished it surprised me that she’d never made her way to me to ask, but it didn’t anymore.
“I’m gonna…” Dad hooked a thumb toward the living room and Mom rolled her eyes. “Richard is waiting,” he reminded her, as if his rush to get back had anything to do with being a good host.
My eyes followed him as he left, then I picked up one of Emily’s potatoes and made quick work of peeling it.
“Hello!” The sing-song greeting was instantly recognizable as Nora, and both Mom and Agatha smiled widely as their children walked through the foyer and into the kitchen. I stood to give the obligatory hugs, but froze when I realized Grant was trailing behind the couple.
“Grant,” Mom said pleasantly, “I didn’t realize you were coming along with Ethan and Nora. So nice to see you.”
Emily wasn’t subtle, her expression suggesting she smelled something foul.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Nora said as she leaned in to hug me. Apparently if you freeze and don’t walk up to give hugs, the hugs get delivered directly to you.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I replied—and then again, when Ethan leaned in for a hug— “Happy Thanksgiving.”
There was one moment of hesitation as Ethan stepped past me and Grant filled the space. His blue eyes blinked once, twice, then he said, “Happy Thanksgiving, Tess,” and leaned down to embrace me.
The traditional and appropriate hug between people who are kind of related but not related at all is the Friend Hug, a hug which requires each person to go high with their right arm and low with their left, but Grant didn’t give me the Friend Hug. Grant went high with both arms in what could only be described as the Little Buddy Hug. Both arms came over my shoulders and pulled me into his chest, leaving me no choice but to hug around his middle while he held my head in place against his beating heart. If it sounds romantic, it wasn’t, but I still enjoyed the feel of his muscled chest under my ear.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I replied timidly as he let me go and walked past me to Emily. From my periphery I saw a stiff Friend Hug occur between the two.
In the two weeks since I’d last seen Grant, he’d grown a beard and mustache, and while I’d never identified myself as a beard-and-mustache kind of girl, I was deeply in favor of this combo on his face. It was jet black in color, thick over his chin and upper lip, but thinning out across his jaw and trimmed down low enough to keep his beard line neat over his jaw. It was a nice contrast to his tight fade, which was always impeccable, and I wanted to drag my fingers against it to feel the scrape, then bury my hands in the long hair at the top of his head. I wanted him to be absolutely disheveled.
“Tessa, can you make the salad?” Mom asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Sure,” I replied quickly.
“Ethan, Grant, your dad and Charles are in the living room, if you’d like to watch some football,” Mom added.
Grant smiled his too-big smile that had made women all over town swoon. I wasn’t sure why it affected everyone so much. It was clearly fake. He made so many smaller, more amazing smiles, if you paid attention.
Which I did not.
“Are you sure you don’t need help in here, Juliet? I can peel potatoes or chop things for the salad, although my talents truly lie in rolling the crescent rolls.”
Mom laughed as if he’d told a funny joke, a reaction that earned her a much more genuine crooked smile from Grant—not that I was looking. “Tessa, do you need help with the salad?” she asked, glancing back at me.
“I—” I stuttered, caught off-guard by this landmine question. Obviously I did need help, because she’d given me a whole damn garden to clean, chop, and add to this salad, but requesting help from Grant seemed like a bad idea. “Lettuce?” I said finally—a single word, and it came out as a question. “You can wash and spin the lettuce if you want, while I’m cutting the rest.”
“Perfect,” he said, accepting an armful of lettuce and a spinner from me. Mom’s kitchen wasn’t a fraction as big as Agatha’s and the only open workspace was next to Emily, so he took his assortment over to her. She didn’t look up from her potatoes.
I, on the other hand, snuck my fair share of glances at Grant, each disguised as an impatient check on the lettuce my salad required. I’d expected him to be peeking back at me, but he was giving all of his attention to the salad spinner, spinning aggressively and then looking triumphant when he poured out murky water.
Finally, he held a bowlful of lettuce up toward me, and I smirked. “I can cut it if you need,” I offered, knowing Grant would understand the gentle ribbing for what it was. He didn’t disappoint.
“I can cut the damn lettuce,” he grumbled, too low to be overheard by anyone except Emily, who raised a brow in distaste at his tone. She looked down to pick up her last potato, and I could see the corner of Grant’s lips twitch into a smile as he turned his attention back to the task.
The big bowl was by him, so I brought all the toppings I’d chopped to the spot where he worked, shaking them over the lettuce as he added it. After he cut the last of the leaves and I’d shaken out every bowl, I handed the tongs to him. “Stir it up one more time,” I instructed. He did just that, flipping through the assortment.
“Grant, that looks lovely,” Mom said as she walked by. “You’ve done such great work.”
“It was mostly Tess—” he tried to say, but my name was drowned out by Mom.
“Tessa, if you’re not doing anything, help your sister cut the potatoes. We’ll never get this meal on the table unless everyone helps.”
My face flamed red as I picked up a potato and began to chop.
“Tessa basically made the whole salad,” Grant protested, frowning. My blush deepened impossibly.
“Good,” Mom said sharply, and I knew that tone. It meant, At least she’s doing something.
“It’s fine,” I murmured, knowing Mom would only get less kind the more Grant pursued it. It wasn’t that Mom was an unkind person, she just had no patience for us being anything but extraordinary, and I felt like I missed the mark more often than not.
Grant was frowning, exposing the deep line between his eyebrows. I liked that line, even when it came with a fierce-looking glower. I chopped the potatoes with a speed and efficiency Emily couldn’t match, probably because she tended to get distracted with the conversations going on around her.
“Nora,” Mom said, holding up her bowl of green beans, “Steamed or green bean casserole?” she asked.
“Ethan likes casserole,” she replied, and Mom smiled widely.
“I thought someone really liked green bean casserole,” Mom said. “I’m glad I asked. She handed the beans to Nora along with an old notecard I assumed held a recipe. “Here, you go, honey. You can start the beans for Ethan.”
I finished chopping the last of the potatoes in front of me and considered helping with the pile in front of Em, but it was small and I needed a break from Mom and Grant and Thanksgiving in general. “I’ll be right back,” I said quietly, slipping out the rear door of the kitchen and looping back around to the front, crossing my arms against the late fall chill.
I pulled my sweater tight around myself, breathing in the cold air. I loved my family, but holidays were always hard. Most days, I was the only one still around Bridgeport. Nora was in and out—she’d been at college until last year, but when she’d come home her focus had been wholly on her wedding. Now that was done, and she was busy planning her trip around the country in a van with Ethan. Both Emily and Claire had been living in the city for years.
When it was just me, Mom was perfectly delightful, but introduce my sisters into the equation, particularly my older sisters, and I never felt good enough. Whether it was Mom’s fault or my own insecurities, I didn’t know.
“You okay?” His voice was deep and low and although I hadn’t expected him to appear out here, his presence warmed me.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
We stood shoulder to shoulder and he crossed his arms over his chest, his feet posted shoulderwidth apart as if he’d been hired as the Thanksgiving bouncer.
“Is this what it’s like not being friends with you?” I asked.
“Turns out avoiding you is a skill I haven’t honed yet.”
I looked up at him, one brow arched high. “No offense, but you’re not exactly practicing.”
“You have suggestions?” he asked.
“It’s actually pretty easy. I literally haven’t seen your dad today, and I’ve been here since ten this morning.”
“Football,” Grant said, nodding.
“Correct. Where there’s football, there is no Tessa. That’s a standing rule, so if you ever want to avoid me?—”
He finished my sentence for me. “Just go where the football is.” Then he rocked back on his heels, looking down at me seriously. “What will I do during the other two seasons?”
I shrugged. “Grant Dupree, you have all of football season to practice. Just get better at avoiding me now, and you won’t have to worry.”
“Does that mean you want me to go in?” he asked.
I stared at a little Virgin Mary statue in a garden across the street. It had been there for as long as I could remember, but her robes were still vivid blue. I wondered if the O’Briens painted her each year. “You know I don’t,” I replied quietly. I glanced down at my watch, noting that ten minutes had passed, and they were going to notice I was gone. “But I should get back inside.”
“And I guess I should watch football,” he said.