Chapter 29 #2
Poppy barely had time to take a breath before she was conscripted into the assembly line of passing green beans, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, macaroni and cheese, dinner rolls, cornbread, turkey, and ham.
By the time she had filled her own plate, she was nearly too exhausted to eat.
There was a clinking of glass, and Frankie stood and welcomed everyone to her and Liam’s home.
As she toasted to the first of many holidays, Poppy was doing her best to pay attention, but she was feeling a little woozy.
All the stress she’d felt about the occasion had kept her from sleeping, and it caught up with her.
She was only vaguely aware when she heard Frankie say, “Yamas!”
“Yamas!” the table parroted.
Poppy grabbed the glass of water in front of her and drank.
“Oh, sweetie, you don’t have a drink, let me get you one.” Poppy’s mom twisted in her chair.
She put her hand on her mom’s forearm to stop her from moving. “No, I’m good. I just want water.”
“Sweetie, it’s no problem, I’ve got it.”
“No, I’m good, really,” Poppy insisted, making sure to be very clear that she did not want a drink. “I just want water.”
But her mother, basking in the glow of vintage merlot and Thanksgiving cheer, chose that moment to escalate. “Well, honey, you’ve got to at least try this. It’s so good, and it’s not even a full glass.” She shoved her spiced merlot sangria towards Poppy’s mouth.
“I’m good, thanks.” Poppy ducked her head.
Her mom, who Poppy would venture a guess was on at least her fourth glass, chased Poppy’s mouth with the rim as the volume of her voice increased. “Just a little sip, you will love it.”
Poppy had to push the glass away as she quietly insisted, “No, Mom, I don’t want any.”
“Why not?! Are you pregnant?!” her mom asked loudly at the exact moment the table’s attention turned to Poppy and her mom because of her mom’s behavior.
Poppy felt every eye in the room on her as a loud hush enveloped the space. Even the kid’s table was quiet. The kid’s table was never quiet.
This was not how she’d wanted the news to break, but she only had herself to blame. She should have told her mom in private, alone. Now she had an audience for something she’d been putting off.
Her eyes immediately went to Liam’s. For the past eight years he’d been the father, brother, cousin, basically the only stable man she’d ever had in her life. He stared at her now with a look of, she couldn’t tell, was it disappointment, happiness, worry…
She looked down and then back to her mom. “Yes, I am—”
The table exploded with reactions.
“Oh my god!”
“Congratulations!”
“That’s amazing!”
“When did this happen?”
“Did you know?!”
“No, did you know?!”
“No one knew.” Poppy set the record straight, so her sisters didn’t think there was any favoritism. “I wanted to keep it to myself until I was farther along. I wasn’t ready to talk about it.”
“How far along are—” Phoebe must have been elbowed by Lina, their sister, who was seated beside her, because she winced and turned towards her. “What?!”
“You don’t have to say,” Lina assured her. “You don’t owe anyone, anything.”
“It’s fine. I’m about three and a half months.”
There was a chorus of ‘ohs’ and ‘aws’ accompanied by confused expressions. That was typically out of the danger zone for most pregnancies.
Her sisters and mom knew the tip of the iceberg of her fertility issues, but the rest of the table was totally in the dark.
“I have some pre-existing health conditions that make things a little…complicated, so it’s not exactly straightforward.
So, yeah, that’s it. We can talk about something else now. ”
There was about a ten-second silence before the conversation picked back up at a low hum. It was obvious people were doing their best at faking talking points.
As the conversation migrated to local news and the upcoming holiday events, Poppy did her best to stay invisible, to blend into the background noise of clattering silverware and refilled gravy boats.
But her mother’s energy never wavered. She could feel it, pulsing to her left, building with the pressure of unsaid things, just as she could feel AJ’s from across the table. She was doing her best to ignore both.
When the conversation turned to a new movie that was going to be filming in town, her mom placed her hand on her forearm as she leaned closer to her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, whisper-quiet but loaded.
Poppy stared at the hand, then at her mother’s face, and found herself tongue-tied. There were a hundred answers, all of them jagged, none of them safe for holiday consumption.
“Let’s talk about it later.”
Her mother persisted, voice honeyed but laced with steel. “I want to be there for you. You don’t need to go through things alone, Poppy. Not ever.”
Poppy felt the familiar clench in her stomach, equal parts love and resentment, memory and reflex.
She hadn’t told her mom she was pregnant because she didn’t feel safe with her. Not deep down. Since her dad died, things had been different, but before then, her mom chose him. She always chose him.
AJ had never put much stock in the traditions of Thanksgiving, especially not at someone else’s dining room table, wedged between strangers and people who only pretended not to be.
Still, he understood the power of ritual, the pull of the group meal, and how food and communal proximity could, at least in theory, knit people together.
He’d read more than one social psych article on the topic.
But as he sat in Liam and Frankie’s home, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the overlapping buzz of three simultaneous conversations, all AJ could think about was the way Poppy had not spared him a glance, and he was directly in front of her.
She also hadn’t spoken to him since they’d walked in. Not once. Not when he’d passed her the gravy, or when her phone buzzed, prompting every woman under forty at the table to reach for their own in Pavlovian expectation, and it fell to the floor, and he handed it to her.
He’d tried, after the initial news bomb, to catch her eye and offer the soft landing of support—his version of it, at least—by reaching across the table.
She’d flinched, just a half a second’s hesitation, before she withdrew her hand and pretended to adjust her knife.
He wasn’t sure if anyone else had noticed. But he had.
After finding out her plan to tell her family at Thanksgiving, he’d spent the week preparing for this dinner, reorganizing his internal files, practicing conversations in his head, and calculating the probability of awkward silences versus outbursts, normal or otherwise.
He liked being prepared for these sorts of things.
But he hadn’t anticipated her shutting him out.
Across the twenty-foot table, which Frankie had decorated with a mortifying abundance, the conversation ping-ponged from football to movies. Next to him, Zion was carving up his ham with the single-minded focus of a two-star chef.
“How are things in the private sector? Is it what you expected?” he asked, not looking up from his plate.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He wouldn’t be starting until after the first of the year.
Zion looked up at him, surprised. “You don’t have a job lined up.”
“I do.”
“What is it?”
“I’m going to work with Adam Dorsey.”
“Dorsey?” Zion’s brows furrowed. “Is he related to the guy who owns the bar?”
“It’s his cousin.”
Zion let out a huff of laughter. “Sometimes it feels like everyone in the town is either related by blood or marriage.”
AJ glanced over at Deacon to see if he had any response to Zion’s statement. He was speaking to Phoebe’s husband, Roger, so he may not have heard the comment, or he may have pretended not to hear.
Just that morning AJ received the report he’d requested over a month ago after Deacon showed up at Poppy’s door when she hurt her head.
AJ knew something was up with the man, and his suspicion had been correct.
He could have easily found out anything he wanted to know within an hour on his own, but that felt wrong, and AJ lived by his own strict moral code.
So he asked a friend, Alex, who owned a cybersecurity firm in San Francisco, to look into him, which might still be wrong, but it felt less personal that way.
He told him to only let him know if there was anything that would affect Poppy.
The voicemail he received put him both at ease and on edge.
“Hey, sorry, man. I meant to get this done weeks ago, but I had two big jobs come up. I’m getting on a plane now and will be out of the country until after the New Year.
I’m sending over the full report, but I just wanted to let you know that St. Claire’s clean as far as business, finance, and his personal life go.
He’s respected in his field. He donates more than he earns to charities, and he does it anonymously.
He set up scholarships for foster kids in his late wife’s name.
He has after-school programs and food programs in his daughter’s name.
He’s paid off millions in medical debts, student loans, and mortgages for individuals, single parents, and families, again, all anonymously.
He volunteers his time with no fan fair.
He refuses to speak to news outlets about his philanthropy.
None of the recipients of his generosity have ever known he is the benefactor.
He was faithful to his wife. He’s dated a few people since she passed, they all have only nice things to say about him.
I thought I was going to come back with nothing until I got to his medical records, that’s when things got interesting.
He’s still a great guy, but not exactly who he said he is.
Although, if I had his money, I’m not sure I would go around advertising it either.
I’ll call you when I get back stateside, now that you’re just a few hours away, I’d love to see you. ”
When AJ saw the report, he understood what Alex was talking about.
Beside Poppy, Yaya suddenly stood and banged her fork against her glass. The room went quiet except for the collective gasp when Mr. Santino reflexively caught the steak knife Yaya sent spinning midair. Everything Yaya did had a dramatic flair. The entire crowd applauded.
“Yes, yes, yes, clap for my Arthur, he catch knife and also has ask me to be bride…”
There were more gasps, which AJ knew Yaya was eating up.
“And I say yes!” Yaya lifted her hand, revealing a gorgeous antique diamond ring glittering in the candlelight.
The room erupted into more applause.
Speaking of men who had secret identities. AJ needed to make sure Yaya knew exactly who she was marrying.
Neurotypical people often accused AJ of being secretive and mysterious.
They said he made it impossible to get to know the real person, to know who he was.
They said he had walls up, and he kept people at arm’s length.
But out of everyone seated around this table, he was aware of three people keeping huge secrets from people who they were supposed to love.
He would never understand neurotypical people.