You Deserve Each Other(74)

“I’m invited to the wedding,” Deborah declares while her husband is still struggling to suck air into his lungs. “Of course I am. Don’t even say that.”

“I’m not saying it, I’m threatening it.”

“No!” Harold cries, interrupting his son. Deborah’s trying to yank the cake away from him. “You don’t let me have anything that makes me happy! I might as well be dead. I’ve sacrificed so much. I let you have Beatrice, now you can let me have a piece of cake or so help me god I will jump off the roof of this house!”

She lets him have the cake.

“Who’s Beatrice?” I ask. This is the most bizarre dinner I’ve ever been to.

“A dog she had when I was growing up,” Nicholas murmurs in my ear.

“How can you bring up Beatrice?” Deborah wails, eyes welling with tears. “You know what it does to me, especially at this time of year.”

“Should have punted her into a lake.” Harold picks up the cake in both hands and eats it like a barbarian. This is nuts. There’s no way these people can try to angle themselves as being better than me ever again. “Fifteen years! Fifteen years, I wasn’t allowed to sleep in my own bed because of that dog.”

“She was my child!” Deborah yells.

“And I was your husband, unfortunately! Had to sleep in the guest bedroom! In my own house!” He leans toward me. “My ex-wife didn’t like dogs. Magnolia.” His eyes acquire a dreamy cast. “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”

“I’m not staying for this,” Nicholas says. “I’m so sorry, Naomi.” To our collective astonishment, he turns his back on the table and takes me with him.

“Nicky!” Deborah cries. “Don’t leave just because of your father. You didn’t finish your dessert.”

“We’re going. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Are you coming over on Wednesday, then? With the invitations?” Her voice is like a slap in the face, it’s so unreal.

Nicholas is furious. I can hardly keep up with his power-walk, but I’m loving this. It’s the sort of scenario I’ve dreamed about—him essentially telling his mother to fuck off and whisking me away. I’m still offended over Deborah trying to cram me into Slender Man’s measurements, but it’s rapidly being overshadowed by how wonderful it feels to have Nicholas stand up for me.

We duck outside without responding to her, and the head rush is giving me tunnel vision. Nicholas and I fly across the dark lawn, hand in hand. For the second time today, we’re fleeing the scene of the crime and it’s never been like this before with Nicholas and me remaining on the same side of it.

When we get to the Jeep, he braces a hand on the passenger door before I can open it and brackets me against the cold metal with his body. His eyes are intense as they peer down at me, so close I can taste his breath. He takes my face between his palms and says, “Don’t listen to my mother. You are perfect.”

I look away, swallowing. “Thank you.” I offer him a small smile. “We made a good team back there.”

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” he says. He watches me for a moment, seeming to debate something. Then he closes in before I can wonder what he’s thinking, and his mouth is on mine.

I turn to water, knocking back against the door. I barely have time to throw my arms around his neck before he lifts me off the ground, hands wrapped around my thighs. He kisses me fiercely, the sweetest candy, my body crushed between him and the car. Just as the words oh my float up into my consciousness, the front door opens and there stands Deborah, gawking at us.

I tip my head back and roar with laughter. Nicholas grins, eyes shining, and he laughs, too. I think he can’t believe himself.

I don’t know what’s gotten into us, but I like it. From Deborah’s view, Nicholas’s hands have disappeared up the hem of my skirt, and the notion of shocking her like this almost makes me feel sorry for her. Almost.

When Nicholas lets me go, I have to make an admission to myself:

I have no idea what’s happening anymore. It’s terrifying.



I’m still hungry, and miracle of miracles: Jackie’s is open.

“On Thanksgiving?” I exclaim to Nicholas after he climbs back into the car with a greasy paper sack.

“They’re always open.”

I look sideways at him. We grabbed so many meals from Jackie’s the first year we dated, before we got engaged and moved in together and I lost my hardware store job all at once. “You still come here a lot, then?”

“Oh, you know …” He shrugs. But I don’t rip my gaze from his face, and he eventually spills the truth. “Sometimes when things aren’t going so great at home, I do. If I’m worried you’re about to say something … uh … that I don’t want to hear, I get in the car and leave. I’ll say I’m going to Mom and Dad’s, but most of the time I just drive around or I come here. Look.” He opens the glove box, where a huge stack of extra-large napkins from Jackie’s is crammed.

“You’re worried I’ll say something you don’t want to hear?” I repeat, accepting a carton of fries from him. “Like what?”

He shrugs again, then starts to drive home.