Chapter 15 #4
Richard was at the head of the table, holding court with two men from his foundation board and a woman who kept calling me “the football one” like I was a breed of horse.
Everett sat across from us, calm and blonde and smug in a navy jacket.
Beckett lounged beside him with his chair angled toward Isa like the rest of us were just furniture in his way.
“So,” one of Richard’s friends said, looking at me over his wineglass. “Master’s degree next year?”
“I’m in my junior year,” I said.
Richard answered before I could add anything else.
“Drew has one more year of eligibility, assuming he chooses to use it. Possibly two with the new rules rumored to include a 5th year based on a Master’s Degree.”
There it was.
Chooses.
Like football was a bad habit I could quit if I had enough discipline.
Isa’s hand slid under the table and found my knee.
One light touch.
Barely there.
I breathed through my nose.
The woman beside Richard smiled. “And will you? Use it?”
I looked at my father.
He looked back.
This was the thing about Richard Montgomery. He didn’t have to raise his voice. He didn’t have to threaten. He just created rooms where everyone understood the correct answer before the question finished breathing.
“I haven’t decided,” I said.
Isa’s fingers tightened on mine beneath the table.
Richard’s smile cooled by one degree. “Drew has options. Stanford has been excellent for him. Discipline. Network. Exposure to people who think beyond the next game.”
Beckett’s mouth curved. “Shame about all those touchdowns getting in the way of personal growth.”
Everett laughed softly.
I smiled at my water glass.
Isa leaned forward slightly. “I’m sorry, I must have missed the part where being one of the best wide receivers in the conference was a character flaw.”
The table went quiet.
My heart did something stupid.
Richard turned his attention to her, amused. “You’re protective.”
“I’m observant.”
Beckett’s eyes lit. “Dangerous combination.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
Isa’s hand pressed harder into my knee under the table.
The meal came out in courses so small they felt like threats. Some carved turkey arranged in careful slices. A spoonful of cranberry reduction. Two green beans crossed like they were trying to form a legal objection. Potatoes whipped into a decorative smear.
I stared at the plate.
Isa stared at hers.
Then she looked at me.
I saw it happen.
The shift.
Her eyes softened, then sharpened. Her mouth curved, not in the polite way. In the secret way. The one I was starting to think belonged to me.
She leaned close, her shoulder brushing mine.
“Want to get out of here?”
I turned my head.
“What?”
Her smile stayed pretty for the table. Her voice stayed low for me.
“Do you want to leave?”
For one second, I forgot how to answer.
Because no one in this world ever asked me that.
They told me where to sit. What to wear. Which version of myself reflected best. Richard summoned. Everett judged. Beckett provoked.
Isa asked.
Do you want to leave?
“Yeah,” I said.
It came out rough.
Her fingers squeezed my knee once.
Then she lifted her water glass, took a sip, and turned to my father with a smile so flawless it should’ve come with a warning label.
“Richard, I’m so sorry. My leg is starting to stiffen from the flight and the sitting. Drew promised me he’d help me walk it out before it gets bad.”
Richard looked from her to me.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
The old man didn’t miss exits. He’d spent his whole life blocking them.
“How unfortunate,” he said.
“It is,” Isa agreed sweetly. “The hamstring is very inconsiderate.”
Everett’s mouth twitched.
Beckett looked entertained. “Need assistance?”
“No,” I said.
Isa smiled at him without warmth. “Drew has me.”
I stood before anyone else could speak.
The chair scraped louder than it needed to.
Richard’s eyes moved over me once. “Don’t be long. We have guests coming back to the house later.”
“Wouldn’t dream of missing it,” I said.
Isa took my hand.
And we walked out.
Together.
I didn’t breathe right until we were in the car.
The second the doors shut, Isa leaned back against the seat and groaned.
“God. Rich people Thanksgiving is a cry for help.”
I barked out a laugh.
I couldn’t help it.
She looked over at me, pleased. “That turkey looked like it had given up before it died.”
“It was reduction.”
“It was sadness with garnish.”
I laughed harder.
Something cracked open in my chest.
Not pain.
Relief.
I looked at her across the dark back seat, country club lights flashing over her face as the driver pulled us away from the entrance.
“You hungry?” I asked.
“Starving.”
“Good. Me too.”
Her brows lifted. “You ate three decorative molecules and a potato smear.”
“I was pacing myself.”
“For what?”
I leaned forward and told the driver, “Find the closest Publix that’s still open.”
Isa turned slowly toward me.
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then that smile came back.
Real this time.
“Oh,” she said. “We’re doing this?”
“We’re doing Thanksgiving.”
Her eyes lit.
Like I’d handed her a crown no one else could see.
“Then we need butter,” she said.
I stared at her.
“A lot of butter.”
Publix on Thanksgiving night was mostly empty except for a few exhausted-looking parents, one man buying only beer and batteries, and two employees who clearly wanted every customer dead by sundown.
Isa grabbed a cart like she had been waiting her whole life for this moment.
“Turkey?” I asked.
She gave me a look. “At this hour? Baby, we’re getting a turkey breast if we’re lucky and a rotisserie chicken if God hates us.”
“Baby,” I repeated.
She ignored me and marched toward the meat section.
I followed with the cart because apparently that was my job now and I was weirdly happy about it.
She moved through the store like a general.
Butter. Heavy cream. Potatoes. Green beans. Cranberry sauce. Rolls. Stuffing mix, because, as she informed me, “I’m not making homemade stuffing this late in the day like someone’s pioneer wife.” Brown sugar. Sweet potatoes. Marshmallows. Pie. Whipped cream. More butter.
I tried to put protein bars in the cart.
She removed them without breaking stride.
“Those are not Thanksgiving.”
“They’re food.”
“They are gym sadness.”
“They’re efficient.”
“You are not bringing efficiency into my holiday meal.”
“My holiday meal?”
“Our holiday meal,” she corrected automatically.
Then froze.
So did I.
For half a second, the fluorescent grocery store lights hummed around us. Our cart sat between the green beans and canned gravy. Her hand rested on a bag of potatoes. Mine gripped the cart handle.
Ours.
She cleared her throat. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“I was enjoying it quietly.”
“That’s worse.”
I smiled.
She turned away, but not before I saw her cheeks go pink.
I bought the whole cart.
Everything.
Even the ridiculous jar of gravy she insisted was a backup plan and the tiny cinnamon broom she said would make the house smell less like emotional repression.
When we got back, the house was mostly empty.
Richard and the brothers were still at the club or wherever rich people went to pretend holidays weren’t just group projects in inherited dysfunction.
Staff had cleared the kitchen from whatever catered nonsense had been prepped earlier.
The counters gleamed. The expensive appliances looked untouched.
Isa stood in the middle of it with two Publix bags in each hand and looked around.
“Okay,” she said. “Where are your pans?”
“I know where plates are.”
Her head turned slowly. “Drew.”
“I live on takeout and controlled nutrition when I visit.”
“You own a house full of massage oil and recovery sleeves, but you don’t know where the roasting pan is?”
“This is not my house never my home.”
Her expression changed.
Then she set the bags down and said gently, “Then we’ll find it.”
And we did.
We found the roasting pan in a lower cabinet that had probably never been opened by a Montgomery man in the history of the bloodline. We found mixing bowls. A potato peeler. A baster still in plastic. Three different kinds of salt. A drawer full of knives sharp enough to make Richard proud.
Isa tied her hair up.
Rolled her sleeves.
Pointed at me.
“Wash your hands.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes flashed. “Careful. I like obedience in the kitchen.”
My entire body reacted.
She saw it.
Smiled.
Then handed me potatoes.
“Peel.”
For the next hour, we made a mess.
A real one.
Potato skins in the sink. Butter wrappers on the counter. Flour dusting the edge of her sweater because she claimed the rolls needed “doctoring up” and then refused to elaborate. She put me on basting duty and acted like I was one wrong spoonful from ruining Thanksgiving forever.
“You’re hovering,” I said.
“You’re under-basting.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is tonight.”
I basted the turkey breast again.
“Happy?”
“I’ll let you know in thirty minutes.”
The oven warmed the whole kitchen. Music played from my phone on the counter, some holiday playlist Isa picked and then pretended she didn’t like. The cinnamon broom sat by the sink, making the room smell like spice and sugar and something close to peace.
At one point, she tasted the mashed potatoes, frowned, added more butter, tasted again, and closed her eyes like she had communed with the universe.
“Perfect,” she said.
I watched her.
Barefoot. Hair messy. Face flushed from the oven. My hoodie tied around her waist. Cream sweater sleeves pushed up. Concentrating like this mattered.
Like making something warm in my father’s cold kitchen mattered.
My chest went tight.
“Thank you,” I said.
She glanced over. “For what?”
“This.” I looked around the kitchen, at the mess, at the turkey, at her. “I needed this.”
Her face softened.
Not pity.
Understanding.