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Instead, with a devious smile, Kassandra said, “Delia, you bad girl.”
“Stop,” I whined, as a small laugh came out of me without my permission. I rolled my eyes and continued on with my plight, “Plus, he already has an older daughter. What if he doesn’t want to raise a child all over again?Andhe’s Jeremy’s best friend. And all the other reasons you just said. I don’t know if I should tell him. What if I’m ruining his life with this?”
“Dee, he gets to decide that, not you. I don’t understand why you’d want this for yourself, but if you do – and it sounds like you do – you should be honest with him.”
“That’s your advice? Be honest?” I asked shrilly. That advice was childish. There were too many moving parts for it to be so simple.
“That’s my advice,” she shrugged.
I sighed, resting my head against her shoulder as the weight of her words settled over me. Be honest.
It sounded so simple when she said it, but the idea of telling Robert—of saying those words out loud and facing his reaction—felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. What if he looked at me the way he had after we slept together? Distant. Conflicted. What if he turned his back on me completely?
Kassandra reached over and gave my knee a reassuring squeeze, her face softening. “Look, Delia, you don’t have to do it today. Or tomorrow. But if you’re serious about wanting to figure this out, you’re going to have to talk to him eventually. And you’re going to have to figure out how you feel about him. Not Jeremy, not anyone else. Just him.”
“I know,” I whispered, my voice shaky.
“You’ve got time,” she smiled gently. “But for now, let’s focus on surviving Thanksgiving, okay?”
I nodded, letting her words sink in. Thanksgiving. The turkey. The brine. My mother. For the moment, those were enough to keep me grounded.
Kassandra stood and stretched, offering me a hand. “Come on, let’s get this turkey brined so you know how to do it for Thanksgiving. You know how your mom is. She doesn’t cook, but she’ll still judge your cooking.”
I laughed, weakly, and let her pull me to my feet. As we walked back to the kitchen, I felt the weight in my chest loosen slightly.
The pregnancy tests still sat on the bathroom counter, a silent reminder of the choice I’d eventually have to make.
But for now, I could pretend everything was normal.
At least for one more day.
twenty-two
Robert
I brought my daughter to the food bank luncheon before I went in for the special pre-Thanksgiving Day self-defense class dinner.
It was more important than ever around the holidays to make sure that the women who attended my classes had a sense of community around them. Holidays could be hell for victims of domestic violence. I made sure they had a place to go to safely, a place that they could escape to and ask for help and resources. Or just a place to remind them about the strength they had within.
The noise in the food bank’s main hall was as familiar as it was humbling. Forks clattered on plates, bursts of laughter rang out, and the warm scent of roasted turkey filled the air. The tables, lined with families and individuals, glowed with orange and gold centerpieces.
“Dad, what should we do next?” Corinne asked, tugging on my sleeve. She was holding the handle of the wagon that held all of our pastries, her face glowing with the excitement of being part of something important.
“Let’s drop these off first,” I said, gesturing toward the dessert station. “Then we’ll see if they need help at the drink table.”
Her eyes darted down toward the desserts she had in tow. “Do you think we’ll get to eat some later?”
“Only if you earn it,” I teased, nudging her shoulder with my hand to get her to move toward the dessert table.
She grinned at me as she hurried toward it, the creaky wheel loudly alerting everyone of her presence.
Being here felt right. Every year, I made sure we spent time giving back, especially during the holidays. But standing in this room—surrounded by people who were struggling while I had everything I could ever need—always left a knot in my stomach. It wasn’t enough to just show up and volunteer.
The guilt lingered, heavy and constant, reminding me how unfair life could be. Most of these people were veterans, just like me, but somehow, it had ended in homelessness for them while I was more than comfortable.
“Wow, these look amazing,” one of the volunteers, wearing a nametag that said Charlie, said, as Corinne started to lift the pastries up out of the wagon and set them on the tabletop.
“She made them herself,” I said, glancing down at her and winking. She hid a laugh behind her hand as she continued to set them out.