Left Drowning(37)

I’m honestly not sure what to say, but it hits me that while I am motherless, so is James. Lisa has done a shitty job not even trying to fill that role, and it’s something that I should do. That I can do. James is only nineteen years old, God damn it, and he’s still a kid really.

“No, it’s not going to suck. It’s going to be the best Christmas we’ve had since …” I suck it up and say it. “Since they died. I’ll take us out to get a tree, we’ll pull the old decorations out from the attic, and I’ll cook up a storm. Santa is going to fill our stockings until they’re spilling out onto the floor, and we’ll have cocoa and … and … and I don’t know. I’ll make weird reindeer appetizers out of marshmallows and pretzel sticks. It can’t be how it used to be, so we shouldn’t expect it to be. But we’ll have something new that is yours and mine. Okay, James? I promise you that it’s going to be great.”

“I don’t know.” He sounds so sad. “I’m not sure that I can do it.”

“You don’t have to do anything. I’m going to take care of it, and I’m going to make up for the lame job that Lisa has done on every holiday we’ve spent with her. Now we get to do things our way.”

“If you say so.” James is skeptical, but I can still hear the teeniest hint of excitement.

There’s a knock at my door as it swings open. Chris sees that I’m on the phone, and he waves furiously for me to come with him. He’s got flour on his sweatshirt, and the poor guy looks beyond frazzled.

“Help!” he mouths.

“James, I have to run. There seems to be a pie emergency.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll talk to you soon.” I go to hang up, but he stops me.

“Hey, Blythe?”

“Yeah?”

“Have a good Thanksgiving.”

“You, too, James. Watch out for the bag of guts.”

“Will do, sis.”

I toss the phone on my bed and head off to bake pies with Chris. I am outrageously happy.

It’s 11:30 p.m. before we have successfully made all of our assigned desserts. Well, maybe successfully isn’t exactly the right word. “These look revolting.” Chris has his hands on his hips and an extremely dissatisfied look on his face as he surveys our dessert spread. It’s true that each pie is either lopsided, slightly charred, or rather grotesquely discolored. The pumpkin pie appears to be all three. “Eric is going to kill us.”

“Tough shit. He was asking a lot of two inexperienced bakers working in a bare-bones dorm kitchen.” I look down at the food-stained recipe printouts in my hands. “And then tomorrow we’re supposed to make four side dishes? I can’t even read what these are!”

“Puréed squash, cranberry sauce, sautéed Brussels sprouts, and scalloped potatoes with three cheeses and heavy cream,” Chris recites.

I lower the recipes and watch as he continues to glare at the pies. He’s just listed the exact four side dishes that my mom used to make at every Thanksgiving. I smile as I realize that Eric is behind this; we’d discussed holiday food last month during one of our study sessions.

“Here’s the deal,” Chris says. “We’ll just dim the lights really low while we eat dessert so no one sees what these look like. It’ll be fine.”

“It’s going to be perfect,” I say. “Chris?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is it weird not to go home for holidays?”

He turns to me. “No. It’s wonderful.”

I hate this answer from him. It breaks my heart.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s smart to end relationships that are poisonous. It’s a good thing. Sometimes you have to cut people out of your life to make things better. So you can move forward. Being here, with my brothers and sister, and you and Zach? This is exactly the kind of Thanksgiving that I’d dreamed of.”

Maybe he’s right. I certainly feel happier being here than being at Lisa’s.

“What about you?” he asks. “You’re not going to be with your family. Are you okay?”

“Except for James, I don’t have a family.”

He steps toward me and swipes a floured finger across my nose. “You do now.”

I can’t begin to think how to respond to this, so I don’t. “You helped plan all of this, too, then? The dinner and stuff?”

“Yeah.” He smiles and leans in, putting his hands on my knees, making white handprints on my jeans. “Just because I’m not gay doesn’t mean that I can’t party plan.” Then he kisses me quickly on the forehead.

Nope, he’s definitely not gay. Something I’m happy to attest to.

“I still can’t believe Sabin and Estelle got out of helping,” I say. “But Estelle went out somewhere tonight, and I know that Sabin is at the bars.” I take Chris’s face in my hands and grin. “I know this because he was relentless in trying to get me to go out with him, but I repeatedly declined because I took my pie-partnership duties with you very seriously.”

He reaches over and turns up the volume on the portable speaker that has been blasting his playlist all night.

“Poor baby. Has it been that awful?”