“Mom always says you take it too seriously.”
I smiled at the wine glasses instead of him.
“Does she?”
“She just means you don’t have to stress. Thanksgiving happens whether the napkins match or not.”
“Hmm.”
He waited for me to laugh. I didn’t.
After a moment, he pushed off the doorframe.
“I’m gonna grab a beer. You want anything?”
“I’m good.”
When he was gone, I stood alone under the soft yellow light and let the silence settle. I thought about all the years I’d bitten my tongue at this table. I thought about the year Diane rewrote my seating chart on a paper napkin.
I thought about the summer I’d reached into her purse for a stick of gum and found a spare copy of my house key, still bright at the edges, and she’d laughed and said, “Oh, Harley had one made for me, don’t be dramatic.”
I had slipped it out of her purse and into my pocket.
It had been in my dresser drawer ever since.
I had asked Harley about it once. He’d shrugged and acted like it wasn’t a big deal. I had never brought it up again.
I had told myself it was fine. I had told myself a lot of things were fine.
