Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I walk downstairs in my bare feet, turning off all the lights before I start lighting any candle I can find. Wind blows through the windows, making the flames flicker, and everything smells like flowers and food. I almost feel like my head is floating. Or like heaven is hanging low today, and I can smell it.
“What’s this?” Army asks, looking around at the firelight as he enters the living room.
Dallas and Trace set food on the table.
“Kind of a tradition in my family,” I say. “We keep the lights off and light candles all day.” I pause, searching their faces. “Do you observe Thanksgiving?”
I saw turkey and assumed, but they’re part Seminole. I should’ve asked.
“Don’t worry,” Army says over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen. “We cook. It’s a good family day. And we are a little English.”
“And German,” Trace adds.
Followed by Dallas, “And French.”
“Definitely Spanish,” Liv chimes in, she and Clay walking past me.
There are piles of food on the table, and I look around as I set down my dish. “You guys eat pizza on Thanksgiving?” I ask, noticing one that’s half cheese and half old-world pepperoni.
“Everyone is allowed to make their favorites,” Trace tells me. “Like a giant potluck.”
“Cheese fries,” Liv holds up a plate, plucking one from the pile under melted cheddar.
There are burgers and hot dogs, black beans and rice, tamales, some kind of roast pork that I think Mariette made for them, and I know there are plantains somewhere on the table, because I can smell them. There’s also street corn, shrimp, and crab cakes. Army carries the turkey to the table.
I look toward the window, knowing Macon and Mars are still in the garage. Going to the freezer, I pull out some ice cream, grab a few toppings, and put it out for him.
The kids’ music channel that Paisleigh and Dex are listening to plays a rendition of “Shout,” and I start singing along as everyone sits and loads up their plates.
The kids laugh, Mars enters the kitchen and washes his hands, and I can’t hold back the smiles as I make Paisleigh’s plate.
“Oh,” she coos when I serve her an actual hot dog on Thanksgiving.
Army carves up the turkey, and I pause for a second, just enjoying the moment. It won’t last forever, just hopefully for today.
I grind my fingers in my fist, feeling the small cut I didn’t notice until this morning. Glass from my dad’s windshield must’ve hit me.
I’m a rabble-rouser, it seems.
No matter how Milo treated me and how I fought back, I’ve never thought of myself as a fighter. Until now.
Luckily, my dad doesn’t seem to be pressing charges. I haven’t heard anything yet.
Which means he doesn’t know it was me or … he knows it was me.
“‘Shout, shout, let it all out,’” I sing.
The music goes off, and I see Army with the remote in his hand. I fall quiet. They want to talk at the table, of course.
But then Macon strolls up. “Turn it back on,” he orders his brother.
Army looks at him but doesn’t argue. The music plays again, Macon sits, and I take the only seat left, slowly lowering myself into a chair at the foot of the table. I feel like I shouldn’t be sitting there, but I seem to get stuck with this seat a lot.
I lift my eyes over the food, to the other end, but Macon doesn’t look at me.
“To the first family of St. Carmen,” Clay calls out, holding up her glass. Everyone follows, and I take the Coke I poured myself. She looks around. “The traitors are at your disposal.”
Then our eyes meet, and I laugh. “Yeah, we are …”
“Woo-hoo!” Trace cheers.
Glasses clank, everyone tips back their glasses—Dallas and Trace with bourbon already—and we dig in, sampling everyone’s contributions to the table.
Paisleigh eats two bites of her hot dog and wastes no time in standing up in her chair, leaning over the table, and grabbing a slice of pizza.
“Paisleigh!” I chide, laughing at the same time.
But Trace holds out his plate, stuffing the insides of a tamale into his mouth with the other. “Yeah, pass me one, kid,” he mumbles over his food.
She doles him out a slice.
“Pepperoni for me,” Liv tells her, holding out her plate, too.
I shake my head and scoop some black beans and rice onto my plate. It’s amazing how quickly etiquette disappears around family. True family.
But she’ll remember this Thanksgiving.
The air outside sweeps through the house, making flames fight to cling to their wicks, and curtains blow like the trains of dresses. Music plays, Mars goes for a second ear of corn, and I find myself watching everyone more than I’m eating, because nothing lasts, no matter how tightly we hold. This table won’t look the same next year.
Just like, I’m sure, it doesn’t look the same this year with Iron gone. Maybe next year others will be, too. Liv will spend it with Clay’s family, or not come home at all, waiting until Christmas.