The Powell family home looks like a Thanksgiving card from the outside—white clapboard, black shutters, a wreath on the front door that probably cost twelve dollars at Target. Inside, it's a museum of small-town aspirations. Fake flowers in glass vases. Family photos where everyone's smiling too hard. The smell of potpourri and something that might be lasagna cooking.
Connor parks our rental in the gravel driveway and squeezes my hand. 'You ready for this?'
I squeeze back. 'Born ready.'
We're greeted at the door by a symphony of voices. Connor's aunts, uncles, cousins—they swarm him like he's a returning war hero. There's back-slapping and 'how's the city treating you' and 'you look so handsome.' I stand slightly behind him, the way I've learned to do, and watch his face light up with the kind of easy joy I've never seen when he talks about his family.
Then his mother appears. Mavis Powell is fifty-nine and carries herself like a woman who's never apologized for anything. She's wearing a cable-knit sweater that probably cost more than my monthly gym membership, and her hair is the kind of blonde that comes from a bottle labeled 'Ash.'
'Connie!' She throws her arms around his neck and holds on for a long time. I watch his face over her shoulder. He looks like a little boy.
When she finally lets go, her eyes land on me. They're the same blue as Connor's, but colder. Sharper.
'Karter.' She says my name like she's trying to place it. 'You made it.'
'I did.' I step forward and let her hug me. Her perfume is expensive and suffocating. 'Happy almost Thanksgiving, Mavis.'
She pulls back and looks me over. Her gaze lingers on my face, my hair, my boots. 'You look tired, dear. Are you getting enough sleep?'
I smile. 'Just the usual pre-holiday stress.'
'Well, you should take better care of yourself. All that city living.' She pats my arm once, firmly, like she's sealing a package. 'Come in, come in. Everyone's in the kitchen.'
The kitchen is a chaos of activity. Connor's father—I can't remember his name, only that he left when Connor was nine—isn't here. Instead, there are three women at the counter, all talking over each other while they chop vegetables. A man in his fifties sits at the table, reading a newspaper and ignoring everyone.
'Mom, Aunt Jean, Aunt Carol,' Connor says, 'you remember Karter.'
They all turn and smile. The smiles don't reach their eyes.
'Of course we do,' says the one who must be Jean. She has the same sharp chin as Mavis. 'How's the advertising world, dear?'
'Marketing,' I correct gently. 'And it's good. Busy.'
'That's nice.' She turns back to her cutting board.
I let it slide. I've learned to let a lot of things slide with Connor's family. Instead, I look around the kitchen. It's cluttered but clean. There are at least four coffee mugs on the counter, three of them half-full. A calendar on the fridge is covered in notes and reminders. This is a house that lives loud.
'Can I help?' I ask.
'Oh, no need,' Mavis says. 'You relax. This is our domain.'
I nod and step back. I'm used to being told to relax in kitchens. It's fine.
But as I stand there, watching them work, I start to notice things. The way they talk to each other. The shorthand they use. The inside jokes I don't get. Connor fits right in, teasing his aunts and asking about family gossip. I stand there like a tourist at a museum, watching a culture I don't belong to.
Three hours pass. Connor's cousin Ryan shows up with his wife and their screaming toddler. More aunts arrive. The house gets louder and warmer and more suffocating. I find myself a glass of wine and retreat to the living room, where I can at least pretend to be interested in the family photos on the mantel.
Then the front door opens again.
The noise in the house shifts. It doesn't stop—it shifts. Like a key change in music. I turn toward the sound.
Demi Ramirez walks through the door like she owns the place.
She's wearing a dress that should be illegal in a house of worship. Red, low-cut, tight enough to show every curve. Her hair is styled, her makeup is perfect, and she's carrying a bottle of wine like she's making a statement.
'Hey, everyone!' Her voice is bright and warm and somehow familiar, like she's been here a hundred times before.
The family erupts. 'Demi!' 'Oh, Demi, you made it!' 'Look at you, so pretty!'
Connor emerges from the kitchen, and I watch his face transform. His eyes light up. His smile gets wider. He moves toward her with the kind of loose, easy confidence I've only seen in glimpses.
She walks right up to him and hugs him with both arms, pressing herself against his chest. She whispers something in his ear, and he laughs—a real laugh, not the polite one he uses when his mother tells a joke.
Mavis appears beside them. 'Demi, sweetheart! You look absolutely stunning.'
Demi beams. 'Thanks, Mavis! I brought wine!'
'Oh, you shouldn't have! But I'm so glad you did! Come in, come in!'
I stand in the living room, still holding my glass of wine, and watch the performance unfold. Demi is greeted like a long-lost daughter. Connor can't take his eyes off her. Mavis is practically glowing with pride.
And I realize, with the kind of crystal clarity that cuts like glass, that I am the only one who doesn't know the script.
