She didn’t cook the mashed potatoes; Rosie used her recipe. And you really do love her recipe, but you were also hooked on potatoes in general. I never understood how you could eat an entire diner dinner of mashed potatoes, one baked potato, and French fries with a random green apple on the side. But you did it. You did it every time.
“Theo can’t make it, Grandma,” I say. “I’ll let him know he missed out on your mashed potatoes.”
“You’ll let him know?” Remy asks. “Oh brother.”
“Don’t,” Rosie warns.
Grandma is trying to ask me a question, but the younger cousins are shushing her; the little instigators want to see something go down. When I try getting up, Dad braces me and keeps me on the floor while Mom grabs my hand, squeezing it. Remy sniffs. “Come on, already. He dated the guy for what, a year?”
“I’ve known him for seven years,” I answer through my teeth, scratching the hell out of my free palm because I’m so nervous about the person he’s dragging out of me.
“You’re too obsessed. Get over him and do something for yourself.” Remy’s tone isn’t even confrontational. It’s as if he’s just simply stating this, like we’re the kind of friends who swap advice.
I rise, pushing my dad’s hand away, but he keeps a hold on me. “I’m not going to hit him,” I lie, shaking him and my mom off. Remy is six years older than me and I give a grand total of zero shits. I know you’re not about me getting into fights, and not just because I can’t fight, but you’re not here to calm me down or hold me back. “You don’t get it, you don’t—” I turn to everyone in the room, searching for someone who does get it, but no one here has been through this. “Everything I did for him I did for me, too, because it made me happy to see him happy. That’s not obsession, you dickhead, it’s love.”
He’s embarrassed, his cheeks flushed. Rosie looks pretty ashamed herself for creating such an asshole.
“Except he was dating someone else,” Remy says. “Get over it. He did.”
Theo, you’re about to have some company, and I’m sorry it’s not someone more worthy of you.
I lunge at the bastard—I hear the gasps of my mom and Rosie, some cheers from some younger cousins, screams from others—and my dad catches me before I can snuff him, dragging me back toward the kitchen while Remy laughs.
“We’re going home, Griffin, it’s going to be okay,” Dad says, no longer manhandling me because I’m pissed but hugging me because I’m crying.
Safe to say next Thanksgiving will be spent at home, or maybe at whatever college accepts a guy who plans on doing zero work for the rest of his senior year.
My parents are sitting in front of the living room TV, eating leftovers—does it count as leftovers if it’s food they never got to dig into in the first place?—and I’m back in my room. I’m stretched across my bed when my phone rings. I’m expecting it to be Wade, but it’s your mom. The last time she called was to tell me you died.
It’s close to eleven, which makes me even more nervous to pick up. “Hello?”
“Hi. It’s Ellen. I’m sorry to call so late.”
“It’s okay. How was your—” I’ll pass on asking about dinner. It’s probably one of the few nightmares she stands a chance at putting behind her. “How are you doing?”
“It’s impossible, Griffin. I am constantly . . . It’s lovely hearing your voice,” she says. “I’m getting ready to try and get some rest, actually. But I wanted to check in and see if you would be okay with me giving you Jackson’s number. He wanted to call you but I thought it would be better for you to reach out if you felt up to it.”
I almost ask her why Jackson wants to talk to me, but she’s already wasted enough time being a middleman. “That’s okay,” I say. “Is he up?”
“He’s wide-awake. West Coast time,” Ellen answers before a long pause. I’m wondering if she’s nervous about what will happen if Jackson and I talk.
“I’ll give him a call and let you get some rest. If there’s anything I can do, like watch Denise or go grocery shopping for you, I’m more than happy to,” I say.
“Thanks, Griffin. You’re sweet. I’ll let you know. Have a good night.”
“Good night.”
I hang up, and Ellen texts me Jackson’s info.
I stare at the seven numbers following Jackson’s California area code. I press call before reasoning can beat loneliness. This, this moment right here, is the sudden switch from same-old-same-old to crazy intensity. I sit up and press my hand to my heart, counting with its rhythm. “One, two. One, two. One, two. One, two. One, two . . .
“Hello?”
“. . . One, two,” I finish. He interrupted me at an odd count—we’re not off to a good start. “It’s Griffin.”
“Hey,” Jackson says. It’s quiet for a bit, and I can hear him breathing—short, quiet breaths you probably heard while he was sleeping. “Thanks for calling.”
I nod like he can see me. “Everything all right?”
“No,” Jackson says. “No point pretending anything is all right. No pressure, but are you doing anything tonight? I know this is a little weird. Yeah, it’s weird. But I wanted to throw it out there. I could really stand to get out of the house.”