69. Happy Thanksgiving
Happy Thanksgiving
November moves like wet cement, slow, heavy and unrelenting.
The clinic’s a blur of fluorescent lights and exhaustion.
Half the partners are away visiting family, so the rest of us pick up the slack.
The patient load doubled overnight. Conrad looks like he hasn’t slept in three days, muttering to himself as he flips through charts.
My days blur into long corridors and eye exams, difficult cases stacked one after another. People don’t realize how draining kindness can be, how much it takes to keep smiling when you want to lie down on the floor and stop existing. When I get home, I barely remember who I’ve spoken to.
By the time Thanksgiving comes, I’ve convinced myself I’ll make it through the day fine.
Aga’s glowing, her belly round beneath a soft sweater.
She’s reached the phase where Piotr hovers like a human force field, constantly refilling her water glass or rearranging the chair cushions.
Kacper’s almost walking, wobbling between furniture with determination that has the entire family cheering every few steps.
“When he’s running, we’ll never sleep again,” Piotr says, mock-dramatic.
Natalia’s taking photos of everything, the food, the table, her own reflection in the window. “Perfect for my followers,” she says. “Food porn at its peak. Oh, and I got a sponsorship from that vitamin company, great for seasonal depression. You should try some.”
“Gee, thanks,” I mutter, stabbing at the stuffing.
Dinner turns into its usual beautiful chaos, laughter, bickering, too much vodka.
Piotr’s loud and sentimental, making toasts to Aga, eyes adoring her and the baby she’s carrying, promising he’ll drink her share since she can’t.
Everyone groans and clinks glasses. For a while, it feels almost normal again.
Until the playlist changes songs. The first few notes freeze me, that familiar, aching piano.
His voice, low and raw, the one I know better than my own pulse.
My breath catches. The cover that started everything.
Before I can move, Piotr’s already on it, lunging for the phone, muttering, “Next,” as he switches songs.
The room exhales in a collective groan. Everyone loves that song.
But it’s too late. I’m gone. It all floods back, the taste of his kiss against the ice machine, the sound of his laugh echoing off the marble at the Connaught, the heat of his lips against the small of my back, his dimple showing when he handed me my helmet.
My chest aches so hard it feels like something’s breaking again.
I excuse myself, ignoring the looks that pass between them.
They all pretend not to notice, but they do.
In the bathroom, the mirror is too honest. I stare at myself, tired, brittle, pretending.
I pick up my phone before I can stop myself.
Maybe he’s over me by now, under some boring supermodel as he put it once. Maybe he’s happy. Maybe it’s nothing to him anymore. I wonder if he’s in Seattle for Thanksgiving. The thought alone is dangerous. I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Happy Thanksgiving.
I stare at the words, thumb hovering. It’s pathetic.
It’s stupid. He’ll probably ignore it. But I hit send anyway.
When I walk back out, the conversation has shifted, someone’s complaining about how the parade “just isn’t as good this year.
” Piotr’s waiting for me with two shot glasses and that soft, knowing look he gets when he’s worried but pretending not to be.
He hands me one. “Na zdrowie, siostra.”
I down it in one swallow. The burn is clean, merciful.
He pats my back. “That’s how it’s done. Let the vodka do its work until the heart catches up.”
I nod, my throat too tight for words. Inside, the house fills with laughter and warmth. But it’s all noise against the silence of my phone sitting in my pocket, the screen still dark.
Rafe
Rithy’s halfway through a story about a disastrous date with a drummer from some underground metal band when I realize I haven’t heard a word of it. His voice fills the space anyway, bright, animated, dramatic enough for both of us. He’s good at that, pretending his noise can drown out my quiet.
The restaurant’s loud and polished, some L.A. place where the menus are QR codes and everyone talks like they’re auditioning for something. Rithy loves it. I don’t. He’s on his second cocktail, waving his hands as he reenacts how he accidentally sent a goodnight handsome text to the wrong person.
“And he answered,” he says, eyes wide, grin pointed. “Like—‘you too, beautiful.’”
I manage a weak laugh. “Maybe he meant it.”
“Oh, he didn’t.” He rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I blocked both of them and ordered ramen.”
He takes another sip, studies me. “You know, it’s not healthy to sit in silence all the time. This is good. This is necessary, you need to leave your hotel room and stop sulking for five minutes. Say thank you, Rithy.”
“Thank you, Rithy.”
“Enthusiasm, Ashton. I’m your emotional-support gay. You could at least pretend to be grateful.”
“I am.”
He grins, satisfied, but I catch the flicker behind it, the same one I’ve seen in Ronan and Kiri too.
They’re all worried, but none of them say it outright.
I tell him I’m glad he stayed. He said he didn’t want to go home anyway.
Safer here. That his parents would probably be busy fighting but that Kiri, the dutiful, straight son with short hair, who doesn’t kiss men on stage, would be there to endure the bigotry for both of them.
“Better to spend it with you,” he’d said earlier, “You’re sad, but you tip well.”
I laugh now, soft, genuine. “You didn’t have to babysit me, you know.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s mutual codependency. The band would kill me if I left you alone too long.”
It’s what this feels like sometimes, a rotating watch. Who gets Rafe-duty tonight? I try to shake it off, thank him again for dinner, for staying, for trying.
He waves it away, dramatic. “Go on. Brood in peace. Call me if you feel the need to smash another mirror.”
I leave him there, smiling, and head back to the hotel.
I kick off my shoes, sit on the bed, and stare at the ceiling.
I’d made my excuses with my parents, told them I’d come by for Christmas if I could, that work was too busy, but the truth is I couldn’t stand the idea of being there.
Of being in Seattle, in the city that holds her.
The cabin. The rain. Her laugh echoing down the hallway of my apartment. Every corner of that place is her. I know if I went back, I’d drive straight to her door before I could stop myself.
The weeks were supposed to make it easier, but they haven’t.
It doesn’t feel easier, it just feels further away.
The pain hasn’t dulled; it’s just spread.
Not one clean bullet wound now, but a thousand cuts that never stop bleeding.
Everything I do reminds me of her somehow, songs, scents, the way someone walks in front of me that moves like her or a laugh that's almost hers but not quite. I roll onto my back, exhale into the dark, and that’s when I feel it.
The buzz of my phone against the nightstand. I grab it, expecting a message from management or maybe one of the guys, but then I see the name and the world stops. Kasia. I don’t even breathe as I open it.
Happy Thanksgiving.
It’s ridiculous really, two words, polite, harmless. But I know her. I know how hard it is for her to reach out. What it means when she does. My chest tightens, the kind of ache that’s both pain and relief. For me, it’s everything. I type fast, before I can second-guess it:
Happy Thanksgiving.
I hover, think maybe I should wait, pretend I don’t care.
But fuck that. I’ve run from enough things in my life.
I hit send. The reply window stays empty.
The seconds stretch. I close my eyes, press the heel of my hand to my face, and feel it, one single tear slipping free.
But it’s not the kind that comes from grief this time.
It’s the kind that comes when something inside you stirs again.
A pulse. A spark. A reminder that maybe she’s still out there, somewhere, thinking of me too. The silence after doesn’t feel empty. It feels alive.
Kasia
As the screen door swings open, then closed again, the smell of cool night air mingles with some leftover pie Mama is wrapping up.
I sit on the top step, the one that creaks, rolling my phone in my hand while the last of the cousins clatter down the stairs with tin-foil-wrapped leftovers.
Someone’s cackling, drunk on vodka. Someone else is being dragged toward a car, slurring about how they’re fine to drive.
Tata mutters something in Polish about saints and stupidity, and I smile, watching him herd people like it’s a second profession.
The air’s cold enough to bite, but I don’t move. I’ve been holding onto his reply for an hour now, turning it over like a stone in my pocket.
Happy Thanksgiving.
He’d answered instantly. Like he was waiting for me, still. I thought maybe, if I just waited long enough, the need to respond would fade. It doesn’t. All that polite conversation, all that restraint, it’s gone. I just don’t want the line between us to close yet.
Finally, I type:
Have a nice day?
He replies before I can even put the phone down.
not really.
Rith took me to a terrible restaurant in L.A.
very his scene not mine.
you?
I can see it, the exasperated smirk, the little shrug. It makes me smile even as something in my chest caves in.
It was good, loud as usual.
So busy with the album you didn’t come home?
My heart sinks after I send it. Maybe some part of me, some wild, stupid, selfish part, wanted the possibility of seeing him again. The impulse to drive to his apartment and make a terrible mistake.
His reply comes:
couldn't.
didn’t trust myself in the same city as you.
If you were here, I wouldn’t trust myself either.
now I regret everything.
You should watch a Lynch film if you’re in the mood for poor choices.
I’d watch nothing but Lynch for the rest of my life if that’s what it took to have you in my arms tonight.
I close my eyes, sighing. The spark is flickering to life, that dangerous pull that’s always existed between us.
My mind floods with memories: late-night calls, laughter through phone static, the sound of his voice lowering when he'd say my name, making my stomach flip. The way he looked at me when we were together, like he’d been searching the world for the exact light that fell on my face.
Rafe… we can’t do this.
I love you, but I can’t.
We can’t.
don’t.
please.
just keep talking to me Kas.
I stare at the screen until it blurs.
It’s not fair to either of us. Get some sleep.
I love you.
Don't wait. Be happy, Rafe.
I hit send and feel the sob building before it reaches my throat.
I can’t cry here, not on the porch, not in front of anyone.
I stand, call into the kitchen that I’m heading home, ignore Mama’s question about leftovers, and run for my car.
The night air is freezing, but it’s nothing compared to the cold settling inside my chest.