Page 18

Chapter 18

Emilie

I’d be lying if I hadn’t been thinking about Zack much more than one should when it comes to a fake boyfriend. It was the way he went to bat for me with my family and did it without question or issue. He treated me with such kindness; not that he hasn’t before, but this was different.

It was the way he told me about the best first date I’ve never been on. He had a story lined up, quick and convincing. If he’d asked me out on that date, it would’ve been hard to say no.

Plus, Zack can hold his own with them. I know enough that his family is probably lovely; full of love and adoration for one another, instead of the transactional relationship I'm used to. Part of me is embarrassed he knows where I came from.

I feel like Zack has seen a lot of me, but the part that’s reserved for the energy my family takes is different. Obviously, I love them. But they require significant boundaries. It’s not like one day something changed and I was then second best. Over time, I became too vocal, too loud, and wanted to do things other than what they’d planned. All the while, Eliza never told them no. She fit into the perfect mold they dreamed up for a daughter. There’s not much room for the woman who still wants to hold hands with her family at twenty-five.

For fuck’s sake, she got them to up and move to New York—my dad’s practice and all—for a college she ended up dropping out of. The real kicker? They talk about Eliza’s NYU acceptance like it’s this massive accomplishment .

Eliza is smarter than she lets on and that infuriates me. We’ve never been close as adults. One day she was my kid sister, who needed help cutting the tops off her strawberries and mixing the milk and butter for the Mac and cheese after school. Then in the next moment, she was her own human who didn’t need me anymore.

I’ve not shut the door on us having a better relationship, but her marrying Mitch will always be something that stings.

Mitch. God. He is two years older than me and stuck his hooks in when I was a junior in high school. He went to our rival high school and loved to come around with his buddies to work up whoever he could. We didn’t date until I was a senior—I was the girl with the college boyfriend, probably another reason my so-called-friends flocked to me. He had all the connections for the things we were too young for.

Things seemed fine until I was in my fourth year of college. I was living in a house off-campus; really it was a glorified closet, but rent was the cheapest I could find and I got along with everyone. I felt safe.

Mitch hated where I lived. He’d drive over in his shiny silver BMW, and talk down to me and everyone else, like he knew better. He especially didn’t like that other guys lived in this house, not that I’d ever done anything to make him question my loyalty. This was also the year that Mitch got the internship with my dad’s firm, and that’s when I knew it was over.

He had signed up for a life I for sure didn’t want. I’d seen it play out. My parents arguing, loud and aggressive, until one day there was no more arguing. They move around each other like two acquaintances out in public—smiles that are kind enough and minimal conversation.

I wanted someone who loved me, and I always wondered if Mitch was dating me to get close to my dad but chalked that up to watching too many movies. And really, the question I should’ve asked was maybe he was trying to get close to my sister .

I’ll never forget that Thanksgiving. It was the last one we had in my family home, before they sold it and moved to New York. I thought I was going to be stuck at my internship, but when I still had time to make dinner, I thought I’d surprise my family.

Mitch and I had broken up six months before. It was my decision, and for a while he kept in touch, acting like nothing had changed. He told me that I’d make a mistake and I’d be crawling back before I knew it.

I walk up to the door of my childhood home, excitement seeping into my bones. It’d been too long since I’d been home last, work and classes getting in the way. I turned twenty-one a month ago, and my parents sent flowers and a bottle of champagne—not able to make the trip to see me.

None of that mattered, because I was going to be able to spend one of my favorite days with my family. They were never the warmest of parents, but something about the holidays seemed to thaw them a bit.

I’m greeted with the smell of rosemary and freshly baked bread—a recipe from my grandma that’s only ever made for special occasions—and hang my heavy winter coat on the door. Late November in Michigan is always a gamble, but this year it’s brutally cold. My mom walks to the foyer, probably after hearing the door shut.

“Surprise!” I say, a little more enthusiastic than I know she likes, but hell, I’m excited.

Instead of hugging me, she puts her hands on her hips. “Emilie, I thought you couldn’t make it.” Her brows scrunch in confusion.

I step in wrapping her in a hug, kissing her on the cheek. “I made it work. Ugh, it smells so good in here. Hopefully I didn’t miss dinner.” I’m walking into the dining room, my mom following me.

“I really wish you would’ve called,” she says, something on the edge of her voice that I just can’t place.

“I mean, do I need an invite to come home?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at her.

“Well, it’s just…”

I don’t hear what she says next. I’m one foot in the dining room when I see them: Eliza and Mitch. Eliza leans into him, and he’s playing with the end of her perfectly straight strawberry blonde hair.

Mitch? Eliza. Mitch and Eliza. No. How? What?

My stomach flips, and I feel like I might throw up.

Their eyes are bigger than the dinner plates set in front of them. Eliza slowly gets herself upright, locking eyes with me for a single second before looking back to Mitch.

She doesn’t say anything.

“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice like something that’s been run over and pressed into the gravel.

Mitch clicks his tongue before shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t think you’d be here. Listen, we wanted to tell you, but it’s still new and—”

“Not that new. You’re at my house. For Thanksgiving.” I look around the dining room which has housed some of my happiest memories.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I was going to call you.”

“To convince me that us breaking up was a mistake or to tell me you were dating my sister? Two conflicting ideas there,” I say and try to catch my breath. I want to cry but I absolutely will not give this man any more of myself.

“I’m sorry,” h e replies in a way that feels for show, as he stands at his hands in his lap. There isn’t a single emotion behind it, kind of like a kid who is being told to apologize but doesn’t know what they’re apologizing for.

“What about you?” I look at Eliza. Flawless Eliza. She couldn’t look more unbothered.

“It’s not like it was planned,” is all she says before getting up and sauntering to the kitchen. She doesn’t tell me she’s sorry. She doesn’t do anything .

“Perfect timing, Emilie. Dinner time,” my dad chimes in, walking into the dining room, holding the platter of turkey.

“I don’t know if I should stay.” My voice is quiet, and I hate it.

My mom puts her hands on my shoulders, not to console me but to lead me toward a place at the table that she’s set while I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this whole thing. “Emilie, this is your home. Sit down. Eat.”

And that was it. We didn’t have any more conversations about the fact that my sister was dating my ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t that surprising, considering my parents are terrible communicators and would rather avoid than address.

There have been many small shifts over the years but sitting here, at a time that’s supposed to be full of connection and joy, I know this is going to be major. I’ve worked on allowing myself to take up space, in almost every avenue of my life, but I don’t think I have it in me to do it here. There truly isn’t any space for me.

I spend the last Thanksgiving, in the only home I’d ever known, fighting back tears.

My phone buzzes, a message from Keegan.

Keegan

disaster at the store currently

need to raincheck our cooking class

Me

noooooo

What am I going to do? You can’t go to a two-person cooking class alone—it’s quite literally designed for people to cook together.

don’t go alone and don’t cancel

invite your new mans

I roll my eyes but it is my best bet on short notice. Zack should be wrapping up practice any minute. It’s a Tuesday night, and I know tomorrow is his day off—this is kind of perfect.

Since it’s time sensitive, I hit call next to his name, which he’s edited to add a blue heart and the sweating emojis. He had the eggplant at the end and that’s the only one I removed. As soon as Zack answers the phone, I ask, “Hey, do you have plans tonight?”

I can hear the wind whip outside; he’s probably walking to his car as he says, “No plans. Unless it’s dinner with your family, and then I am very busy. With things. Important things I could never reschedule.”

I let out a real laugh and put my hand over my mouth.

“No, not dinner with my family. How do you feel about a cooking class?”

“What a perfect way to celebrate our one month anniversary!” he says on the other line but I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

We walk into the cooking space, and the reactions are perfect. This is the last class of three, and people typically come with their partner. Keegan and I signed up for this long before Zack and I were… whatever we are, and people expect me to walk in with her, not Zack Andersen, golden boy from the Upstate Cosmos.

I point him to our station where everything we need for tonight’s dish is ready and waiting. Zack makes it a point to introduce himself to the six other couples before settling next to me. A wave of pride washes over me with each handshake, each selfie he takes, and every person he makes smile. Zack is like a ray of sunshine wherever he is.

Our Chef, Beau, who currently cooks at a Michelin restaurant in the city, is French and walks in like Zack may as well be Keegan and claps his hand—bringing the room to attention.

“Yes, Chef,” the room calls back, and Beau laughs. It’s definitely a joke but it never gets old. Zack looks at me, like I didn’t let him in on a critical piece of information. I give him a smirk and a side-eye, as he stands razor straight, his entire focus on Beau.

“Today, we’re conquering cacio e pepe. Yes, it’s an Italian dish, but so many people in America get it wrong, the Italians will not be offended by this Frenchman teaching you to get it right.” He rubs his hands together.

“We’ll start with a generous pour of Chablis, the purest of the Chardonnays. Now, you may be thinking, Chef, is there wine in the pasta sauce? And I’d say, cheese-us Christ, the wine is for drinking!” He picks up his glass, some of the white wine sloshing up the rim, and the room laughs. “Forgive the pun, I couldn’t help myself. Cacio e pepe translates into cheese and pepper. The wine is for pairing and enjoying yourself while cooking today.”

Zack follows suit and opens the bottle of wine waiting for us, pouring each of us a glass.

“Cheers,” he says, handing me a glass before clinking his into mine. When he wraps his arm around me, I hold my breath. His hand rests on my hip, and I melt into him as Chef Beau goes through an overview of the recipe.

My cheeks feel like they’d be hot to the touch, being this close to Zack. No matter how many times it happens, I’m always a little nervous. Kind of like when you first start dating someone, and you’re testing out the PDA waters .

Zack dips down slowly and whispers, “This is way better than our last date.” He puts a period on the sentence in the form of a kiss on my cheek. His lips are full and like velvet on my skin.

Now I'm back in the hallway at the bar when he told me “the first time I kiss you won’t be in front of any of your old fuck friends.” Like it was inevitable.

My stomach flips as I think about what it’d be like to have those lips on mine. On other parts of my body. Would he kiss me slowly and leisurely, or would it be delectable chaos?

Emilie, quit that.

I take a long drink of wine to try and cool the flames in my belly.