“So…” My mom picks up right where Dad left off, and I stiffen in my seat, Brody’s hand gently patting at my knee twice before going back to his own personal space.

  “Brody, I didn’t get a chance to really talk to you before,” she says, the Mother of Lies. I call bullshit, but I’m not going to call her out in front of everyone. “How’s your leg?”

  I feel Brody tighten up next to me, like he’s slowly but surely stitching himself together, stuffing all the parts that hurt, wrapping himself around them so no one can really see. I turn to look at him, try to give him a reassuring smile even though it feels wobbly on my face.

  “Uh, well…”

  I want to yell at my mom for bringing it up, but it’s not like I discussed any of this with her, and I’m sure she and Emily have been talking (if Emily chose to share), but still, still…in front of everyone, really?

  “I’m getting better, slowly but surely. My flexibility is slowly coming back to my knee and my hip, so that’s good.”

  And my Uncle Isaac, bless him, is not picking up what Brody’s putting down. “So what about your chances of returning to the PLL?” Uncle Isaac’s blue eyes are wide now, leaning forward onto the table, a look of dawning horror crossing his face.

  It hurts, the way Brody glances at me, his eyes shuttered, everything he’s feeling tucked away behind the thick skin he’s had to build over time, but his hand reaches for mine underneath the table, and he locks our fingers together, holding on tightly.

  My heart erupts in my chest, and January isn’t that far away, and these dumb feelings (the dumbest) have been around forever, and yeah, Brody Kane was the one that got away, but he came back, he came back, and that has to count for something. Right?

  I turn to Uncle Isaac, lick my lips. “It doesn’t look like it,” I say vaguely.

  Uncle Isaac drops his head as if he’s the one in mourning, grieving for a career lost, a drifting raft in the wide ocean without a sense of direction, stuck without a paddle.

  “Oh,” Mom breathes, a hand going to her mouth. “I’m sorry to hear that, Brody. So sorry to hear that.”

  Brody just nods, saying nothing, somewhere in my peripheral vision, our hands locked together underneath the table, out of sight, but definitely all I’m going to be thinking about for the next little while for sure.

  His grip burns against my hand, and my heart trips up in my chest, not knowing whether to beat too fast, or slow it down and let myself enjoy it.

  “Yeah…” I say, wanting to push the conversation towards another topic, any other topic when Izzy snorts louder than a pig and I’m able to witness the truly amazing feat of wine coming out of her nose.

  Evie starts cackling, too, and before we all know it, the tension is broken and the entire table is laughing now, Izzy crying-laughing, mopping at her shirt with bright red wine stains that her mom is trying to wrangle her into going into the kitchen and dousing herself in club soda, but Izzy just keeps making those noises, clutching at her nose, going, “It burns, it burns!”

  Vick has thrown her head back, laughing hysterically at the ceiling, and Max is rocking back and forth on her chair, arms wrapped around her middle, howling with laughter and trying to stop herself because her abs are starting to kill her, whining about the pain to the table at large.

  Brody keeps my hand in his hold the entire time, the back of my hand resting on his thigh, his other hand coming to cradle mine underneath his own, holding it like some sort of precious treasure.

  I ignore the stab of pain in the back of my throat, the tightening of same, as my heart starts to beat erratically in my chest, the kind of nerves that have only been reserved for meeting new patients and taking my exams.

  The plates are eventually carted back into the kitchen where Evie and Vick are in charge of clean-up, but Max, Izzy and I always join in while the aunts and my mom always bring in the dessert to the dining table and start the coffee brewing, all while gossiping.

  This year’s different though, with Brody washing some of the dishes by hand, standing in front of the sink. He insisted, using the logical argument that he has no idea where things are (which is still accurate since my aunt never made him wash dishes back in the day, but times, they have changed).

  Max and Vick are drying dishes and pans by hand, all waiting around for Brody to finish washing one item or another, waiting to pounce on their chance to grill him.

  I just stand there, completely helpless.

  “So when you left and decided to become a big shot, did you miss Amber at all? More importantly…” Max holds up both of her hands, and Vick looks at her expectantly.

  Oh, holy shit. Holy shit! She’s going in for the kill right away?!

  “Who did you miss more, me or Vick, here? Be honest. Maybe you should whisper it to me though, so you don’t hurt Vick’s feeling, yeah?”

  “You ass, stop dicking around,” Vick swats at Max’s shoulder, making her yelp like she’s dying instead of the slight sting. I don’t know, though, Vick has an obsession with expensive-ass chunky-as-hell rings that seem to adorn every finger, so yeah, it could’ve hurt a lot more, I guess.

  “Brody clearly likes me better anyway; we’ve bonded over Sky Castle.”

  “Your point? We’re basically best friends now since we’re both Flyers fans, all right? What’s stronger? The bond between two people who happen to “play” the same game, or the eternal love and frustration both Brody and I feel when it comes to the Philadelphia Flyers? Answer me this. Go ahead, I’ll wait,” Max says, wiping down a particular wet plate, frowning when the sodden dishcloth does nothing at all to mop up all the excess moisture.

  I snort, trapping my mouth behind my hands while everyone in the room looks at me.

  Izzy is practically inside the mudroom sink at this point, foregoing the logical step in going upstairs and borrowing a t-shirt, a trash bag, whatever, and Evie’s wasting an entire two-liter bottle of club soda in trying to get out the wine blotches all over Izzy’s shirt.

  Brody chuckles, still concentrating on washing the dishes, while Vick and Max take turns grabbing things from him, drying them with their sodden dish towels and putting things away, while I start putting leftovers in glass containers and stuffing them in the fridge, making a pile of what needs to go to the second fridge downstairs and what will eventually be given away.

  “I like Amber best,” he says with finality, and I nearly drop the leaning tower of containers in my arms when I swing around to look at him.

  He flashes me a grin that somehow I feel everywhere, and I turn on my heel and head downstairs, struggling to catch my breath.

  Is Brody Kane insanely attractive? Yeah.

  Do I care that he’s basically lost his career and needs to find out what he wants to do again at our ripe old age? No, I don’t.

  Do I love how well he gets on with my cousins? Absolutely.

  Does it freak me out a little how much he seems to get along with everyone in the family, like we’re back to ten years ago when I was utterly smitten and clingy and super affectionate like I’ve never been with anyone else? Yeah, a hell of a lot.

  But January’s coming, a whole six weeks away, and maybe it isn’t a good idea to be feeling this way right now. He can still leave me behind at the nearest opportunity.

  I’m eternally grateful what he’s done for me these past few weeks, and the familiarity I seem to have with him has never left, and it’s kind of terrifying, terrifying that I’m going to let myself get hurt again—especially when he’s explicitly told me he’s leaving in the beginning of the new year.

  Am I dumb? Probably.

  Does my heart still want what it wants? Yeah, unfortunately.

  Holding hands is more than all right, I can deal with that. It’s just handholding, totally not a big deal, at all. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

  No more kissing Brody Kane. I mean it!

  I head back upstairs after completing my mission down in the basement, Brody finishing up washing the trays that I’ve recently liberated of food, his hands all sudsy (he’s not wearing gloves). When he glances over to me, though, it’s like he hasn’t seen me in years instead of what would have been only minutes.

  My heart does some sort of flipping acrobatic routine in my chest, and I end up holding my breath as he gives me a wink, and my knees go weak.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I bite at my bottom lip, forcing myself to move forward, act all casual, all calm, definitely not the way I’m feeling on the inside right now.

  Max and Vick’s eyes are leaping with mischief, and I don’t want to hear it, not right now.

  Brody smirks at me when I lean in close and snatch the last plate from him and dry it, handing it off to Max who huffs, and who hands it off to Vick who raps her chunky rings against the plate, so it tinkles with chimes.

  “I’m sorry about my family asking you about your leg, about your future,” I say, keeping my voice low, knowing we have an audience. “It’s none of their business.”

  Brody shrugs, working his shoulders free of tension before he washes his hands and dries them on the towel I hand over to him. “It’s fine.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not. I just want you to know that you don’t owe them anything.”

  “Amber, I know. Trust me, I know.”

  I frown at him. “They already love you; you don’t have to tell them everything.”

  It’s different ’cause they’ve known Brody forever, but it still feels intrusive to me, even if Brody doesn’t actively see it.

  “Amber, I know,” he says, voice soft, leaning down to place a kiss on my forehead that makes an explosion of fireworks erupt in my belly.

  Forget about butterflies, I’ve got an entire show of pyrotechnics going on.

  “Don’t worry about it. Come on, let’s go get some pie.”

  I don’t think pumpkin pie’s going to solve this.

  SIXTEEN

  Brody gives me half of his pie slice, which makes me squint at him and want to question his sanity, but on the other hand, it’s Aunt Lisa’s world-renowned pumpkin pie and I’m not going to ask questions.

  I stuff myself full of pie and delicious whipped cream with my strong, bitter coffee, enjoying every bite, frowning at Vick and Evie who are picking at their pie like they don’t really wanna eat it. Vick finds me staring, shrugs.

  “I’ve been eating it all week, every single time I’ve come over. Mom’s been tweaking the recipe, and then finally went back to the good old tried-and-true, so I’m kinda sick of pumpkin pie right now. Hey, don’t look at me like that, you can’t have this piece, too. Nope, not Evie’s either, okay? Take it home or something. Shit, give some to Brody.” Vick waves me off while my gaze stays pinned to her plate, even though I had one-and-a-half pieces and I’m practically bursting at the seams, but it doesn’t matter.

  There’s pie to be had, and I just need an hour to get the food to go down, and I’ll be good to go—good to go.

  The conversation at the table ebbs and flows, no one wanting to touch the subject of Brody’s accident and hence injury with a ten-foot pole, but it lingers in the air, miasmic, stinking up the place so that I can’t seem to settle.

  Or that could be because I ate my literal weight in pumpkin pie and Brody’s going to have to roll me on out of here and somehow get me back inside my house.

  I’m not going to be able to negotiate any kind of stairs right now, and I surreptitiously pop the button of my jeans after undoing my belt, fluffing out my shirt so nobody sees, but of course Vick clocks me, pointing to the point of her nose, booping herself, then pointing down to her own jeans, where she’s popped the button, too.

  Sisters before misters, or so the saying goes.

  There’s more talking as us kids clean up the table (again, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles), with me this time on dish duty since I didn’t really do anything after we had the main meal. Brody’s right next to me, helping plate everything, alternatively sipping at his coffee (the third one he’s had, and I guess it takes a lot of caffeine to put a dent in all that body mass).

  Evie and Izzy leave the kitchen, and I know they’re going to go hang out in the basement and start a movie (I don’t know which one since they’ve got questionable movie taste—honestly, who doesn’t enjoy the original Jumanji through and through?), while Brody and my cousins and I finish up in here.

  Brody goes in and out of the dining room to top up everyone’s coffee or wine while the adults (which is also me and everyone in this house, really, but it’s always been this way and why change a good thing?) talk amongst themselves.

  Aunt Lisa smiles tiredly at everyone, coming into the kitchen to grab yet another bottle of wine (this time a white one) and I’m startled to find that it gets worse every year, how much it drains her doing the holiday—she’s been doing it for almost thirty years but I’m also afraid of broaching the subject. I’ll leave that to my Uncle Tristan.

  Yeah, he can get his head bitten off.

  Yeah.

  After washing up and finally setting the dishwasher to do one final run, the four of us go down to the basement with me moving like a slowpoke, taking my time as I nurse a bottle of sparkling water to help with digestion. If I could ask someone, I’d demand some chewing gum, but I’m afraid to open my mouth in case I yak.

  I overdo it every year, and this only the second Thanksgiving. There’s still Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, and Boxing Day shopping with Vick and Max where we eat like shit anyway, and then there’s New Year’s Eve.

  I gotta cut it back somehow or I’m going to die before my thirtieth birthday.

  “I don’t know if you want me to touch you or not, or if I should give you your space,” Brody comments, taking a seat a few more cushions away from me, and I wave him off, drinking some more sparkling water once I waddle towards the couch and take the corner seat, contained in the cushions so I won’t be jostled around too much.

  I shake my head and concentrate on taking small sips, small sips, while I focus on digesting.

  “Shit,” I sigh after the sparkling water starts doing its thing, soothing my full-to-bursting stomach. “Never doing that again.”

  Vick laughs, taking a seat right next to me, being too close, but I can’t force myself to move and get her away from me. I whine though, unintelligibly, not making a whole lot of sense.

  “It’s your own fault—who told you to eat so much?”

  I pretend to look down at my non-existent watch since I’m definitely not going to fish in my back pocket for my phone. “Gimme half an hour,” I say, trying to stifle a burp. “And I’ll destroy that pie.”

  No, I won’t, but I gotta save face, you know?

  “I think I need to lie down,” I say, taking in deep, deep breaths, not really sure if it’s working on helping me digest.

  Brody comes swooping to my rescue, stuffing a pillow on top of his thigh, and while I look at his leg underneath it too long, positioning myself in my head to make sure that it’s not the worst of the two, I let myself scoot down, put my head on the pillow and feel instantly better.

  Which is totally because I’m lying down and not for any other reason whatsoever.

  It does not have to do with Brody sacrificing his leg and movement while I help my body come down from abusing it by overeating.

  I don’t know how long I’m actually lying down on top of him, how long before he asks me if I want for him to play with my hair (my one true weakness), and I give him a sleepy nod and then a thumbs up to confirm before his giant mitt of a hand starts playing with my hair.

  He’s all gentle-gentle, his fingers applying just enough pressure on my scalp that I feel my entire body go boneless, and I take the first real, deep breath since I came downstairs.

  I don’t really see the rest of the movie (A Cinderella Story of all things, harkening me back to my teenage years when Brody was such a big part of my life). Instead my eyes drifting closed at the lulling sensation of Brody’s fingers along my scalp then gently dragging down my hair, being careful of any knots that have formed from the overeating sweats.

  I didn’t even really know that I fell asleep until I’m being (kinda gently) slapped awake. I whine high in my nose, lazily trying to push away the offensive hands and Max’s signature giggle (too high for any given moment) bringing me into wakefulness as she keeps smacking at my cheeks.

  “Okay, guys, she’s awake, she’s awake,” Max states for the room at large, but I haven’t even opened my eyes yet.

  “Noooo, this is the last time she’s going to let herself fall asleep in front of me, I’ve gotta take my chance and damn the consequences.” Max resumes smacking at my cheek, right on top of the hand that’s now placed there, the heat of my cheek leaping up towards Brody’s protective palm.

  I blink my eyes open, the TV going blurry as characters move along, talk with each other, and I take my time sitting upright, thinking hard about how my stomach is feeling until I’m sitting up, wiping at any potential drool (there’s none).

  I rub gently at my face, thanking all the Setting Spray Gods that my makeup’s not going to budge after all that sweating and a post-eating nap.

  “What? What’s going on?” I murmur, pushing my hair back, then settling it behind my ears. “What’s the problem?”

  Vick snickers, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your parents are leaving, and they told me to come get you. Not you, Brody, but I guess you gotta say goodbye, too.”

  “Maybe we should get going, too?” I turn to look at him, find him nodding. “It’s settled. We’re leaving, too.” I force myself to stand up, pleased that my stomach doesn’t hurt so much anymore, and excuse myself to use the washroom upstairs, and to check on my makeup and hair.

  When I come out, it’s to find Brody holding onto my coat and purse, his own bomber jacket pulled on, not zipped, and he looks like every dream I’ve ever had, a smile on his face dipped in fondness that makes my heart twist.

  I put on my coat first, taking it from him, and then push my purse onto my shoulder, the two of us heading to the living room to find it empty. Everyone has instead crowded at the entranceway of my aunt’s house, where we are all apparently saying our goodbyes for the night.