Page 188 of Dream On

A moment later, Joplin and Chrissy join us with a stack of brown ceramic plates, silverware, and a platter of appetizers. I immediately stand, offering my seat to their mother, while Joplin takes the rocking chair and Stevie and I collapse on the rug.

Bill turns on the record player, and Pink Floyd serenades us as we pluck appetizers off the serving platter and slap them onto our fancy plates. My shoulder brushes Stevie’s when I lean back on one hand, catching a whiff of her coconut body mist.

This isn’t like any Thanksgiving I’ve ever had before—from overworked production sets to hostile family dinners with my parents and extended family to lonely holidays alone in my condo with a delivery order of cold burgers and french fries.

This is different—simple and strangely perfect.

Chrissy leans forward on the couch, eyeing me with affection. A smile blooms, but I don’t know what to say, so I just look over at Stevie, and she tangles our fingers together.

Joplin shoves a cucumber sandwich into her mouth, moving the chair back and forth with her turkey slippers. “Did Stevie tell you about my new cat? An absolute weapon.”

Stevie nibbles on a chunk of cheddar cheese. “Oddly, it never came up.”

“You guys should get a cat. Or a guard dog. You never know when another weirdo might strike again, armed with a hot coffee instead of iced.”

My smile fades at the memory—at the thought of going back to Hollywood with Stevie and reopening that door. I glance down at my crossed legs. “I’ve actually been thinking about it.”

“Really?” Stevie nudges me with her shoulder, her eyes lighting up. “Maybe a cow?”

I chuckle. “I was on the fence with my travel schedule, but I kind of want a dog. There was this old basset hound I bonded with on set when I was filming that sitcom years back. Winnebago. He used to sit by the craft services table and steal sandwiches when no one was looking.” My thoughts filter through the kinder memories, recalling all the animals I’d run around with on set and the young costars who played my siblings. The ones I lost touch with over the years. I wonder how they’re doing now. “I’d always take the blame when food went missing, and it was almost like he knew I was covering for him. I’d find little scraps left by my trailer—bits of sandwich crust or a stray potato chip, like he was thanking me for having his back.” I laugh, almost sadly. “Being a child actor was kind of lonely, so those memories stand out. Those were the highlights for me.”

The mood grows heavier.

When I lift my eyes, everyone is looking at me with a glimmer of softness.

Stevie gives my hand a squeeze. “I love basset hounds. They have those droopy eyes, like they’re in a constant state of deep, brooding thought.” She smiles before turning to look at her parents. “Speaking of highlights…should we start?”

Chrissy snuggles up to Bill, swiping a dollop of tzatziki sauce from her upper lip. “Who wants to go first?”

I glance at Stevie with a confused frown. “What are we starting?”

“We have this thing. At dinnertime, we go around the table and reveal the best part of our day. The highlight.”

“You do this every night?”

“Yep,” Joplin confirms. “I’ll go first and state the obvious: there’s a freakin’ A-list celebrity sitting in our tiny-ass living room, eating miniature hot dogs on the dirty carpet.” She pivots to face me. “Dude. I can’t hold back anymore. I literally watched every episode ofWhispering Tailswhen I was seven and am unashamed to be fangirling right now. Stevie, you’re great and all, but Lexington Hall is two feet away from me, and he smells like freshly cut cedar and a hint of leather. A walking cologne ad for every human being’s fantasy.”

A record scratches from somewhere in the distance.

“Joplin!” Chrissy scolds.

“Un-a-shamed.” She emphasizes each syllable.

“I hate you so much.” Stevie shakes her head, cheeks flaming.

Ducking my head, I mutter a small, “Thanks.”

Their mom goes next.

But I don’t hear a word she says.

Voices fade out, bleeding into one another, as I turn to look at Stevie, staring at her profile, at the smattering of freckles on her nose and the rouge on her cheeks. Her mouth moves, offering a glimpse into her highlight. A song. The lyrics. Something so simple, a quiet beat tucked inside a symphony of chaos. And I realize it’s those fleeting snippets of joy, the underwhelming moments, that stitch our days together and carry the biggest weight.

Light-green eyes sparkle against the flickering fireplace, burning brighter when she looks at me. “Your turn,” Stevie whispers.

I don’t have a grand spiel.

Just a single word.