Chapter 31
By Thanksgiving week, my new tattoo has healed. I catch myself tracing it with my thumb whenever I’m lost in thoughts of court filings, traffic, or the drag of Monday morning meetings.
The weeks since my birthday bleed together, just one workday into the next.
I spend my days buried in research and document drafting, and my nights watching reruns.
I haven’t seen Nash outside of work, and even there, we’ve still been keeping our distance like either one of us could detonate if we get too close.
James is even more of a ghost. Some days, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing with both of them.
But this week, we are all back in each other’s orbit. At least briefly.
The annual Thanksgiving potluck at Bishop, Hollis, & Sterling is a mandatory show of “firm culture” with a spread that would put most wedding caterers to shame. The fifteenth floor conference room hosts a combination of smells, some savory and some sweet.
Teresa oversees the place settings. The partners at the head, then the senior associates, then the rest of us, down to the interns. Nash and I are on opposite sides of the table, two names apart, and I’m grateful for the buffer.
He’s wearing a plaid button-down, open at the throat. His hair is longer, curls falling into his eyes as he forks stuffing onto his plate. I watch him for a while, pretending to listen to the conversation on my left, and he doesn’t look up. Not once.
James is even further, at the far end of the table, next to his father. Both men in nearly identical suits.
He looks flawless, and I hate him for it.
I try to lose myself in small talk: Teresa’s kids, the merits of canned cranberry versus fresh, whether anyone’s flying out for the holiday. Kevin shows me pictures of his kids in matching turkey hats, and I laugh, though it feels forced.
I am exactly where I wanted to be this time last year, but the feeling is not what I expected. Instead of pride, all I feel is isolation.
Halfway through the meal, Nash excuses himself and disappears toward the back hallway. I don’t follow, but when I stand to refill my water, I find him at the end of the hall, leaning against the window. His arms are crossed, head bowed.
He doesn’t look up until I’m almost beside him. The sunlight paints his face in a hard, angled line, and I realize how much I miss his smile.
“Hey,” I say so quietly I almost doubt I said it.
He glances over, mouth quirking. “Hey, doll.”
My breath hitches at the use of the nickname he gave me. We stand there for a moment, the air too thin to breathe.
“Potluck’s a real party, huh?” I manage, hating myself for not being able to come up with anything better to talk about.
Nash snorts. “Always is.”
I look at him and see how tired he is. “You doing okay?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Yeah. No, but it’s whatever.” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes fixed on me. “Listen, I know things got fucked up. I was a dick. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
I shake my head. “You weren’t wrong.”
“That’s not the point. I just…I was hurt, but I didn’t want you out of my life. I just needed some time. I don’t want to not talk to you, Ave. I fucking miss you.”
The confession sits heavy in my chest. “I miss you, too,” I say, honestly.
He grins, small and lopsided. “Good.”
We stand in silence a while longer, the hum of the air conditioning and the conversation from the conference room filtering in. Nash shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. “If you ever want to grab a drink or something, you know, I’m around.”
I want to say yes, but this feels dangerous. Like a slippery slope. Instead, I smile and nod. “Maybe after the holidays.”
His eyes crinkle. “Yeah. Cool.”
He pushes off the wall, shoulders a little straighter. As he walks back, I watch the set of his spine, the way he glances over to see if I’m following. For a second, I think about trailing him, but I stay rooted to the spot for an extra moment.
By the time I return to the table, the partners are standing, glasses raised for a toast. James is front and center, his voice carrying over the crowd, smooth and practiced.
“I want to thank everyone for their hard work this year,” he says, “and for making Bishop, Hollis, & Sterling the family it is. We’ve had our share of challenges.
” His eyes flicker over the room, landing on me for a heartbeat before moving on.
“But we’ve also had some remarkable victories.
I hope you all take time to recharge, to be with the people you care about.
And when we’re back, let’s celebrate properly at the holiday gala next weekend. ”
There’s a round of applause. I catch the barest glance from James, a signal just for me, but it’s gone as quickly as it arrives. He disappears into the sea of employees, his presence already fading.
After the meal, people linger, nursing drinks, gossiping, packing leftovers.
Eventually, I gather my things and slip out.
***
My parents’ house is exactly as I remember it: white Hardy board, black shutters, immaculate hedges their HOA can be proud of. The front door is already open when I park on the street, and my mother’s silhouette waits in the entry, arms folded tight across her chest.
“Avery!” she calls before I can even close the car door.
I brace for the onslaught, the collision of perfume and inquiry that is my mother in her natural habitat. She hugs me as if I am returning from war, not from a city thirty miles away.
“Oh, honey, look at you! You’re so thin. Are you not eating?”
I say nothing about my freezer full of Lean Cuisines, or my refusal to eat lunch half the time.
“I’m fine, Mom. You look great.”
Her hair is blown out, makeup perfect, even her sweater has that just-purchased crispness.
She ushers me into the foyer, where my father waits. “Kiddo!” He gives me a brisk, one-armed hug. “How’s the new job going?”
I nod, noncommittal. “Not so new anymore, Dad. But it’s going well. Lots of work, but, you know.”
He winks. “I’m sure you’re their star attorney.”
He turns back to the living room, where the fireplace glows with a gas flame, and the TV is muted to a football game. Salem would have a field day in here, but he’s banned from the premises after a single, catastrophic incident with my mother’s favorite armchair.
Dinner smells of sage and butter, and the kitchen is fogged with steam. My mother chases me around the kitchen with a glass of wine and a running commentary about the turkey my dad chose at the grocery store. She sighs, checking the oven for the fifth time.
“Did you bring anyone? A friend? I told you to bring someone if you didn’t want to be bored to death by the two of us.”
“I came alone,” I say, and immediately regret it.
She pivots, wine sloshing in her glass. “Why? What about Mina? Or, I don’t know, perhaps a boyfriend?”
“I’m not seeing anyone, Mom.”
She looks at me, head tilted, disappointment obvious.
“I just worry,” she says. “You’re not getting any younger. And it would be nice to have a son-in-law. Or grandchildren.”
My father wanders in, eyeing the rolls cooling on a rack. “What’s this about grandchildren?” he says, grinning.
“Your daughter,” my mother says, “is determined to be the last single woman in America.”
“Nothing wrong with focusing on your career,” my father says, but his eyes flick to me, hopeful. “Still, we’d like to see you happy, kiddo. That’s all.”
I want to say that I am happy, or that not everyone’s goal in life is to become the sequel to their parents. But I say nothing.
She sighs, reaching for the oven mitts. “So what’s new at work? Any big cases? Are you still working with the, uh, what’s his name? The boss?”
I almost say James, but bite it back. “Yes. He’s nice. It’s mostly boring stuff, lots of paperwork.”
My mother makes a noise, half skepticism, half envy. “I wish someone would pay me just for paperwork.”
I want to retreat to the guest room and nap for twelve years, but I open another bottle of wine and pour my mother a glass, then myself. We circle around the kitchen, moving in silence, letting the conversation run aground before it can get dangerous.
At dinner, the interrogation resumes, but with more subtlety. My father asks about my friends. My mother asks if I’ve thought about moving closer to home.
I deflect, redirect. I let my mind wander to the last time I saw Nash, to the hallway outside the conference room, and the way his voice broke when he said he missed me.
I think of James, of the way he looked at me during the toast, of the impossible current between us.
I imagine a universe where I bring one of them to Thanksgiving, introducing them as more than a coworker or my boss.
But that’s not this universe. Here, I am just the daughter who works too much, who comes home alone, who never calls enough.
After dinner, my mother packs leftovers into containers. “Take these home, please,” she says. “You need to eat more.”
I nod, tucking them into my bag. She follows me to the door, pausing as I pull on my coat.
“We just want you to be happy, honey,” she says again. “You deserve it.”
I force a smile. “I know, Mom. Thanks.”
She hugs me, and for a second, I feel like a child again, small and breakable. I let her hold me, let the moment stretch, then break away.
The drive home is silent but for the hum of the heater as I navigate the dark, icy streets.
When I get home, I unlock my door, let Salem wind around my ankles, and watch the lights outside my window.
In the kitchen, the containers from my mother sit stacked on the counter. I open one, and fork out a cold bite.
I stare at the tattoo on my wrist, at the scales forever tilting, and wonder if there’s a world where I get what I want. Or if wanting is all I’ll ever have.