You Deserve Each Other(70)

“Enjoy your Thanksgiving!” he calls over his shoulder.

“You two are assholes!” she calls back. “You deserve each other.”

I send her a thumbs-up. “Thanks!”

We’re barely out the door when we can’t hold our laughter in anymore. We throw our stuff in the car and tumble inside, peeling out like we’re fugitives making a getaway. I give him a high-five. “You. Were. Awesome.”

“Thank you, thank you.” He grins. “You were, too.”

“I’m so glad I don’t have to hang out with her anymore.”

He glances sideways at me. “She is right about Seth, though. I’m really tired of defending him. I feel … I don’t know. I’ve never broken up with a friend before.”

I’m not exactly a fan of Seth. He’s nice half the time, but for the other half he builds himself up by tearing Nicholas down. “You’re allowed to defend yourself when people hurt your feelings. You deserve to be around people who are good to you.” Coming from me of all people, this statement is so outrageous I half-expect a lightning bolt to shoot down from the sky and strike me dead. I’m right, though: he deserves friends who actually act like friends. And so do I, for that matter. “You know that, right? Give yourself permission to put yourself first.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“I’ll help. And if Seth doesn’t clean up his act, I still have the number for those movers. I’ll set you up with them. We’ll put you in some ripped jeans and … ta-da! BFFs in no time.”

He smiles.

“Whatever you want to do about Seth is your choice,” I say, “but if you ever need backup, I’m your girl. Say the word and I’ll scare him so bad, he’ll never step out of line again.”

He picks up my hand. Kisses my knuckles. “Thank you,” he murmurs.



All good things must come to an end.

It’s the solemn decree ringing in my head as we sit down to Deborah and Harold’s table. A feast spans before us, which should encourage some measure of happiness, but it doesn’t because we’re all about to have our legs trapped under a wooden slab together for the duration of an extra-long meal, and that means extra-long conversation.

I know what the topic’s going to be. It’s Deborah’s favorite one. Nicholas and I have been doing a fine job of avoiding it when we’re alone, as evidenced by our chickening out in the wedding décor aisle.

“Have you sent out the invitations yet?” Deborah launches right in, piecing bits of dark turkey onto her husband’s plate. He’s not permitted to make his own plate because he’s “bad at portion control.” The diet she’s got him on now forbids stuffing, white meat, and potatoes, and he looks like he might cry. “It’s nearly December.” Her eyes flick to Nicholas, then me. There’s accusation in them, clear as day. She thinks it’s my fault the invitations haven’t gone out.

Nicholas does exactly what I would do. He pretends he doesn’t hear her. Then, when she repeats the question, he pretends he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

“Invitations?” Like it’s a foreign word he doesn’t understand.

I shovel gobs of mashed potatoes in my mouth. I’m a lady. I have manners. No one can expect me to talk with my mouth full.

Deborah appraises Nicholas over her wineglass, eyes shrewd. “Your wedding invitations, darling. We still haven’t gotten ours.”

“Do you need an official one?” he asks faintly. “You already know the date and venue.”

“I need three invitations: one for my memory book, one for your baby book, and one for the family records. Besides, everybody else needs theirs as well. All your aunts and uncles. Every day, it seems, I’m getting a call. Where’s my invitation? Am I not invited? The men at your father’s club, and all their wives, are in an uproar! They feel personally slighted. You can’t leave anyone out, Nicky. It’s rude.”

I don’t know any of those people she’s referring to. Nicholas doesn’t know most of them, and the ones he knows, he doesn’t like. I don’t think there’s actually an uproar; more like Deborah’s trying to gauge what’s going on here, so she’s making shit up.

“Frankly, you’re putting me in a bad position,” she goes on. “People know I’m orchestrating this whole operation, and when you neglect your duties it reflects poorly on me.” She touches her necklace. It’s a heart with four birthstones to represent everyone in her family. “So if you’re not going to behave responsibly for your sakes, do so for mine.”

Nicholas withers. It’s not a visible withering—for all outward appearances, he’s fine. His face is calm, his tone bland. But I feel it like a sixth sense: he’s hating this. We’ve just sat down and he wishes he could run out the door, but he can’t. He’s stuck being Nicholas Rose, Perfect Son, and after all these years the role is wearing him down.

“Harold,” Deborah barks when he tries to steal a roll. “You know you can’t eat that.”

“You gave me too many green beans,” he whines. “There isn’t even any seasoning on them.”

“Seasoning makes your bowels disagree with you.” She turns curtly from him and says to Nicholas, “You’ll come over sometime this week with the invitations. I’ll help you address the envelopes myself, if no one else will.” Nice little dig at me. “You’ve got to get those out if you expect your RSVPs in time. Some guests have to make room in their work schedules to be able to travel here for the wedding, and you waiting until the last minute to supply this information is extremely inconsiderate. I wouldn’t be surprised if my friend Diana from college can’t make it, now that there’s barely any time left to prepare.”