“I just never imagined you checkered,” I told him. Which was a massive understatement, actually. “Not even close.”
“I hide it well,” he said easily. Then he smiled at me. “Don’t you need to put in those pies?”
“Oh. Right.”
I turned around, opening the oven and sliding them onto the rack, side by side. As I stood back up, he said, “So what’s on your thankful list?”
“I haven’t exactly gotten it down yet,” I said, easing the oven shut. “Though, actually, you being checkered might make the top five.”
“Really,” he said.
“Oh, yeah. I thought I was the only misfit in the neighborhood. ”
“Not by a long shot.” He leaned back against the counter behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “What else?”
“Well,” I said slowly, picking up the key he’d taken off the ring, “to be honest, I have a lot to choose from. A lot of good things have happened since I came here.”
“I believe it,” he said.
“Like,” I said slowly, “I’m very thankful for heat and running water these days.”
“As we should all be.”
“And I’ve been really lucky with the people I’ve met,” I said. “I mean, Cora and Jamie, of course, for taking me in. Harriet, for giving me my job. And Olivia, for helping me out that day, and just, you know, being a friend.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Uh-huh.”
“And,” I continued, shifting the key in my hand, “there’s always Gervais.”
“Gervais,” he repeated, his voice flat.
“He’s almost totally stopped burping. I mean, it’s like a miracle. And if I can’t be thankful for that, what can I be thankful for?”
“Gee,” Nate said, cocking his head to the side, “I don’t know.”
“There might be something else,” I said slowly, turning the key in my palm, end over end. “But it’s escaping me right now.”
He stepped closer to me, his arm brushing, then staying against mine as he reached out, taking the key from my palm and sliding it back onto the table. “Well,” he said, “maybe it’ll come to you later.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Nate?” Mr. Cross called out. He was closer now, and Nate immediately stepped back, putting space between us just before he stuck his head around the corner. He glanced at me, giving a curt nod instead of a hello, then said, “What happened to five minutes?”
“I’m leaving right now,” Nate told him.
“Then let’s go,” Mr. Cross said, ducking back out. A nearby door slammed and I heard his car start up, the engine rumbling.
“I better hit it,” Nate said, grabbing up the stack of papers and the key ring. “Enjoy your dinner.”
“You, too,” I said. He squeezed my shoulder as he passed behind me, quickening his steps as he headed out into the hallway. Then the door banged behind him, and the house was quiet.
I checked on the pies again, then washed my hands and left the kitchen, turning off the light behind me. As I walked to the door that led out onto the patio, I saw another one at the end of the hallway. It was open just enough to make out a bed, the same USWIM sweatshirt Nate had lent me that day folded on top of it.
I don’t know what I was expecting, as it wasn’t like I’d been in a lot of guys’ rooms. A mess, maybe. Some pinup in a bikini on the wall. Perhaps a shot of Heather in a frame, a mirror lined with ticket stubs and sports ribbons, stacks of CDs and magazines. Instead, as I pushed the door open, I saw none of these things. In fact, even full of furniture, it felt . . . empty.
There was a bed, made, and a bureau with a bowlful of change on it, as well as a couple of root beer bottle caps. His backpack was thrown over the chair of a nearby desk, where a laptop was plugged in, the battery light blinking. But there were no framed pictures, and none of the bits and pieces I’d expected, like Marla’s fridge collage, or even Sabrina’s tons of cats. If anything, it looked more like the last apartment he’d taken me to, almost sterile, with few if any clues as to who slept, lived, and breathed there.
I stood looking for a moment, surprised, before backing out and returning the door to exactly how it had been. All the way back home, though, I kept thinking about his room, trying to figure out what it was about it that was so unsettling. It wasn’t until I got back to Cora’s that I realized the reason: it looked just like mine. Hardly lived in, barely touched. Like it, too, belonged to someone who had just gotten there and still wasn’t sure how long they’d be sticking around.
“Can I have your attention, please. Hello?”
At first, the plinking noise was barely audible. But as people began to quiet down, and then quieted those around them, it became louder, until finally it was all you could hear.
“Thanks,” Jamie said, putting down the fork he’d been using to tap his wineglass. “First, I want to thank all of you for coming. It means a lot to us to have you here for our first holiday meal in our new place.”
“Hear, hear!” someone in the back said, and there was a pattering of applause. The Hunters were effusive people, or so I’d noticed while letting them in and taking their coats. His mom, Elinor, was soft-spoken with a kind face; his dad, Roger, had grabbed me in a big hug, ruffling my hair like I was ten. All three of his sisters shared Jamie’s dark coloring and outspokenness, whether it was about the pond (which they admired, loudly) or the recent elections (about which they disagreed, also loudly, albeit good-naturedly). And then there were children, and brothers-in-law, various uncles and cousins—so many names and relationships to remember that I’d already decided to give up trying and was just smiling a lot, hoping that compensated. It would have to.