33. Miller
Becca
How was day two?
Better, sort of. Matthew really liked the pictures I showed him of the goat.
That’s my girl.
And I’m glad someone likes that damn goat.
* * *
I sent a baby home today! They were just here for a fever, and it turned out they had a cold, but their parents were so happy. I feel like I fixed someone.
You’re my favorite doctor, Becs.
Not a doctor yet.
Semantics.
* * *
How’s your buddy? Still holding strong?
Yeah, he’s in the middle of his chemo. I wish I could introduce his family to you and Jordan. Show them there’s life on the other side.
The updates are getting more positive as Becca settles into the outpatient side of her rotation, and mine are, too. At Becca’s suggestion, I looked into volunteering for the Special Olympics, and I’ve been helping with their events for the last couple of weeks. It’s made me more certain that I want to become a special ed teacher one of these days, but it’s giving me something to look forward to.
I felt bad at first, spending so much time telling Becca about all the people I was meeting and working with, but she lights up when I talk about it, too.
Becca
You working over Thanksgiving?
No, they deem us med students “nonessential workers,” so we get a few days off. Why?
Want to come to my mom’s house for Thanksgiving? She’s a mediocre cook at best, but she’s dynamite with a corkscrew. And you can meet Jordan. I’ve told him so much about you, and he’s begging to meet you.
It wouldn’t be imposing? I don’t want to intrude on your family gathering.
Having you there would make it better.
* * *
November
“Any updates on the girl?” Mom asks from the other side of the kitchen. She twists the handle of the can opener, the main step in her preparation of the cranberry sauce.
“I mean, other than the fact that she’s coming to visit for Thanksgiving? Not really.” I hand her a dish to hold the can-shaped gel. “How come you don’t do, like, real cranberry sauce? Maddox’s mom does all sorts of shit from scratch.”
She scoffs, pushing her short blonde hair out of her face with the edge of her hand. “Go to Judy’s house if you want her cranberry sauce so bad.”
I snicker. Mom knows I like the weird cranberry gel, just like I enjoy the mashed potatoes from a box. Her cooking may not be fancy, but I love it. Almost as much as I love giving her shit about her lack of cooking skills.
“Did you check on the wine supply? We have an extra person, so we might need extra. Maybe you should run to the store to pick up a few extra bottles.” Mom takes a sip from the glass she’s been nursing since 11 a.m., leaving another lipstick remnant on the rim.
I give her a look of disbelief. “You bought a case. I think we’re good for a month.”
Mom shrugs. “Well, you’ve never brought home a lady friend before. I want to make sure we present ourselves well.”
“As alcoholics?” I ask, snagging a cube of bread.
She rolls her eyes. “As whatever. Now, get out of my kitchen. The stuffing is the one thing that doesn’t come from a box. I can’t fuck this up.” Mom focuses on chopping up celery to add to the bread that Jordan and I cut into cubes last night.
As kids, the one job she gave us was to take the stale bread and cut it into pieces for the stuffing. We’ve grown up, but our kitchen responsibilities haven’t graduated beyond that one task. If I’m being honest, it’s probably for good reason.
Or many good reasons, like the fact that Jordan and I cut up most of the bread and then started chucking pieces of it at one another. I spy a cube of bread under the table and pick it up to throw away.
“When is Becca coming?” Jordan asks, joining us in the kitchen and nabbing his own piece of bread.
Mom smacks his hand. “Both of you boys, get out of my kitchen. I hate you both.”
Jordan and I laugh as we head to the living room together. Walking through the hallway, I look at the pictures on the wall: framed candid shots of Jordan and I at all different ages. My favorite thing about coming home might be the house itself. It’s a reflection of Mom, all cozy and comfortable. Nothing fancy or brand-new.
“She’s coming, right?” he asks again as we settle on our favorite couch. He’s been excited to meet Becca since I told him about her.
I nod and toss a worn throw pillow to the carpet to make more space. “She promised she’ll be here by one or so. God, I’m starving. Think we can get Mom to serve dinner any earlier this year?” I glance back at the kitchen.
“Nah. Mom won’t do that.” Jordan is right. Thanksgiving dinner has been at 4 p.m. on the dot ever since we were little.
“Want to play Mario Kart?” I ask him, nodding toward the gaming system. If we’re not allowed in the kitchen, we may as well amuse ourselves until Becca gets here.
Jordan frowns, his brows pulling together. It’s not an expression I’m used to seeing on his face, especially when we’re talking about Nintendo games. “What if she doesn’t like me?”
“Aww.” I sling my arm around his shoulders. “Then I don’t like her. Bros before hoes, right?”
“Mom says you shouldn’t say that,” he points out.
“Anyway. I know she’ll love you, and if she doesn’t, you’re my family, Jordan. Becca’s just a…” Girlfriend seems too generic for what we have. I search for another word, something that could describe the connection we have.
“I think you like her.” Jordan raises his eyebrows at me. “When you talk about her, you get a mushy look on your face.”
I pick the pillow up off the floor and chuck it towards him.
* * *
Jordan has beaten me in four square rounds of Mario Kart, and now he’s disparaging my favorite driver, Princess Peach. Who, for the record, is the best character.
“Why would you choose a girl? Girls are bad drivers,” he says, laughing as he tosses out a bomb.
“Dude. That’s sexist.” I avoid his obstacles on the screen. I’m almost caught up to—
Ding dong.
She’s here.
My heartrate picks up, my excitement rising in my chest at the thought of seeing Becca in person after so long.
“Good game,” I say, abandoning Princess Peach and hopping off the couch in a flurry. “You’re on your own.”
Jordan ignores me and keeps playing, maneuvering Yoshi across the finish line as I head for the front hallway. As excited as he is to meet Becca, he won’t stop in the middle of a game.
I won’t say I’m unhappy about the fact that I get to greet her, to spend a few minutes alone with her before Mom and Jordan descend on her.
I pull the door open, and there she is, right there on my mom’s doorstep. The same package of curves and sass and wit that I’ve missed for the last few months. Her dark hair is down around her shoulders, cascading in smooth waves. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized sweater and God, she looks sexy as fuck as the sweater slips the tiniest bit off one shoulder.
“Get over here,” I say. I pull her into a hug and hold her tight, soaking in the feel of her curves against my body. How long has it been since I had her in my arms? Too fucking long, that’s for sure.
“Hi, Miller,” she murmurs against my chest. “I brought wine.”
I finally release her and take the bottle she’s holding out to the side, protecting it from our embrace. “Cabernet. Awesome. My mom will love you.”
Becca raises an eyebrow while her lips quirk to the side. “I thought you said she’d love me no matter what.”
“Lies. She only likes people who bring alcohol. We were almost running low. Only a case or two left for the four of us.” I carry the wine into the kitchen, Becca trailing behind me. “I’ve got more booze,” I announce, holding up the bottle as Mom looks up from where she’s using her hands to mix the stuffing ingredients together.
“And me,” Becca adds. “Almost as important, right?” She gives me a gentle shove.
“Becca!” Mom cries, blowing past me and the wine to wrap her arms around Becca, a few pieces of stuffing falling to the floor. The two of them embrace, and for what’s probably the first time in my life, I’m jealous of my mom. Because she has Becca in her arms, and Becca is relaxing against her, hugging her back.
After a few seconds too many, I clear my throat. “You two need a room?”
Becca looks at me with a smirk on her face. “We might. You have a spare one we can use?”
“I like her,” my mom announces with a grin.
Yeah, that’s cause you’re wearing off on her already, Mom.
And that makes two of us. Now that she’s in front of me, it’s even stronger. I want to take her in my arms and never let her go.
Mom gives me a not-so-gentle push. “Miller, go play with Jordan. Becca and I will finish making dinner.” With that, she waves me out the kitchen.
What?
I don’t like this plan.
In fact, I object wholeheartedly to this plan. Becca is here to see me. Me. Not Lori Quinlan and her jellied cranberry sauce and whatever gossip Mom is planning to share. She loves bringing up embarrassing stories from when I was little.
I open my mouth to protest.
“Have fun,” Becca says, dismissing me before I can get a word out.
I slink back to the family room, shoulders low, where Jordan is busy beating the computer as Luigi. He glances at me as I slump onto the sofa.
“I’ll play you the next round.”
* * *
“What did you guys talk about?” I whisper to Becca as we sit at the table.
I double check that my prank is set. Each place setting is as perfect as my mom laid it out, with one key exception. I hold in my chuckles. It’s all about the timing.
She sits next to me and fills her glass with crimson wine, then reaches over and fills mine. “You, mostly.”
“Really?” My eyes widen at this admission. Not that I’m surprised. I figured they’d just gossip about me.
Becca grins as she hands the bottle off to Mom. “Maybe. What did you do while Lori and I slaved away to make this epic meal?”
I look at the spread. Jellied cranberry sauce, microwaved butternut squash soup, frozen green beans. “You outdid yourselves. And Jordan and I played Mario Kart.”
Becca’s eyes go wide in excitement. “Oh, I forgot you guys like to play that! I love that game. Can I play after dinner?”
Jordan studies her, considering. “What player do you want?”
Becca shrugs. “I like Princess Peach, but really, any of them that can beat you.”
Jordan looks at her with admiration. My mother practically flutters her eyelashes at Becca.
And suddenly I’m the least popular person in my own family. But looking over at Becca, I don’t mind at all.
My mom looks down at her place setting, her brow creasing as she tries to figure out what’s changed.
I press my lips into a thin line to hold back my amusement, waiting for her to work it out herself.
It only takes a few seconds before realization snaps into her features, and she points at me as I roar with laughter. “What happened to all the spoons?”
* * *
True to their plans, Becca and Jordan settle into the family room after we finish the pumpkin pie—thank you, Marie Callendar’s—and buckle down for a serious matchup.
I just refill my glass of wine every few times one of them wins and they start again, agreeing on “nine out of seventeen” or something equally ridiculous. At this rate, they’re going to be here all night and I’m just going to be drunk.
“What do you do when you’re not a camp counselor?” Jordan asks, his gaze focused on the game.
Becca’s character crashes on screen. “I go to med school. I’m going to be a doctor someday.”
“That’s cool.” Jordan’s hands work the controller. “What kind of doctor?”
“No idea,” Becca says with a shrug. “What do you think I should do?”
Jordan thinks for a minute while he keeps playing. “You could do what my doctor does. He gets to keep seeing kids even when they grow up.”
He might be on to something. Becca has mentioned she doesn’t want to work in a hospital a few times now. Jordan’s doctor was mine, too, when I was growing up, and he still sees my mom. Dr. Chen. He does family medicine and has a specialty clinic where he sees a lot of patients with Down Syndrome, which is how we wound up in his office in the first place.
As they finish round eighteen—tied at nine wins each—Becca checks her watch and lets out a gasp. “Oh! It’s 10:30. I think it’s time to take a break.”
Jordan shuts down the game and starts to put the controllers away.
“You weren’t planning on heading back to your place tonight, were you?” I ask. I hope she’s not leaving so soon. Between my mom and brother, they’ve commandeered all of her time since she’s gotten here. We haven’t really even had a chance to talk.
And talking is at the very bottom of the list of things I want to do with Becca.
Becca shakes her head as she stands from where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Jordan. “I mean, I don’t want to assume that I can just stay here. I don’t want to impose. It’s not a problem to find a hotel if you want. I just don’t feel like I can drive all the way home after those glasses of wine.”
My mom steps into the family room from where she was clearly eavesdropping in the hallway. “You’re more than welcome to stay here tonight, Becca. I figured you might want to, so I put an extra toothbrush and some supplies in the bathroom.”
“Oh. Thank you, Lori,” Becca says. She looks back to me. “Miller, you sure that’s okay?”
“You can stay with Miller. He has a queen-size bed,” Mom pipes up, perhaps a bit too eagerly.
“Mom!” There were many times when I was a teenager that I wanted to murder my mom. And if not murder, then at least tie up and put in the shed out back temporarily, so she couldn’t embarrass me in front of girls.
I thought we’d gotten past that point, but apparently not.
She smiles and shrugs unabashedly. “Anything you need is in the bathroom. Holler if you need me.” She breezes out of the living room and up the stairs to her bedroom in one swift movement.
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”
Becca shrugs, smiling, and turns toward the stairs.
I catch her hand before she can get too far in the wrong direction. “This way. Jordan and I shared a room as kids, but it’s his room now. I get the guest room.”
“Not upstairs?”
I shake my head. “Basement. More privacy that way.”