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Dylan picks up his glass and raises it to his brother, but looks at me. “We have this little tradition.” His gaze on me still. “Tommy, you’re first. What are you thankful for?”

Tommy picks up his glass. “I’m thankful for all this food, and for my new friend Becca.”

Dylan laughs. “He’s always thankful for food. Your turn. What are you thankful for, Becca?”

The way he says my name makes my heart jittery. I haven’t had many things to be thankful for. But I’m thankful for this. For now.

“Here. Right now. I’m thankful for this moment.” I raise my glass.

We wait for Dylan’s response. “I’m thankful for …” He looks at me like a bear looks at honey. “For possibilities and what the future holds.” He clinks his glass to mine first, and then Tommy’s. “Dig in!”

Possibilities? And the way he looked at me … what does it mean? Tommy doesn’t seem to think any of it was odd, but then again, he’s more concerned about eating than paying attention to gratitude declarations. Dishes get passed back and forth, and then I’m holding the cranberry sauce, Dylan’s fingers brushing mine.

“I think you liked this one. Have more.” His voice is husky.

Is he flirting with me? Or am I imagining this pull between us? His gaze dips to my lips and back to my eyes again. No. Definitely not imagining it. This is crazy, right?

“You guys done playing tug-of-war with the sauce?” Tommy’s eyebrows wiggle unevenly, one at a time like drunken caterpillars.

“Manners, Tommy. Guests first.”

My face heats, I quickly scoop sauce on top of my stuffing and give the dish to Tommy. His plate piled so full I don’t know how he will fit anything else in.

He makes a well in the middle of the mashed potatoes, and I have my answer.

Dylan shakes his head. “It’s like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.”

I swallow a delicious bite of stuffing. “Oh, he’s eating all right. He raided my snacks yesterday. Left me with crumbs.”

Dylan’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before smoothing over again.

Is he mad about Tommy coming to my dorm? He can’t possibly still think I’m sleeping with his brother. Not after all this raw … lust? Attraction? Connection? Whatever this is, I think it goes both ways.

“This food is fantastic. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Dylan takes a sip of water before answering. “Cooking shows and the internet mainly. There’s only so much mac and cheese from a box and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches one can eat. Can you cook?”

Between my mother’s neglect, not having enough food around for most of my life, and living in a dorm the last four years, I’ve never had much of a chance to learn. “No, not really. I can't cook in the dorms.”

“How about when you go home?” Dylan’s question is so innocent, and yet alarm bells go off in my head.

I don’t want to lie. But I can’t tell him the truth either. “I don’t go home much.” Not a lie. Not the full truth. I never go home.

“No? Why not?” Tommy jumps into the conversation. Half of his plate is already cleared. Where did he put all that food?

I shove a big bite of potatoes into my mouth to buy time. Chew, swallow, get a drink of water.

“You know, the same old story. I don’t get along with my mother. It’s best to stay away.” The truth this time.

Tommy is silent, hurt tinges his gaze, and in this moment I understand his pain. He lost his parents. He’d give anything to be with them again, and he can’t understand me giving that chance up when he has no choice.

He swallows. “How about your dad? You don’t go to see him either?”

“My parents were never married. But I get to see my dad this weekend.” Jesus! Why am I babbling my business all over the place? I glance at Dylan. He’s stopped eating and is watching me with keen interest and intelligent eyes. I’m an insect being dissected. Take off a wing, see what she does. I hate being seen like this. But I brought it on to myself.

A different kind of heat bubbles up in my chest. The therapist’s words come to me. Find someone you can trust and talk to them. I’m not about to tell them my whole sordid story. But I can do a test drive on this trust thing. Talk about crap that doesn’t give away all my secrets. Lots of people don’t get along with their families. That’s normal. Expected even. Aren’t Thanksgiving dinners famous for getting families into fights?Breathe, Becca.

I grasp my fork harder, acknowledge the turmoil inside, and let it go. I don’t need the anger right now. There’s no threat here. I take another sip of water.