Page 34 of Please Don't Leave Me

Lou

Makes sense. Don't you get super full eating two Thanksgiving meals in one day?

Sam

Yes. Now that I'm not a teenager though, I've gotten better at not overindulging during the first meal. I still typically end up passed out with my brothers on the couch at the end of the day.

Lou

I love that for you.

Sam

What are your Thanksgivings usually like?

Lou

Nothing too crazy ever happens, but there's always something going on. I'll keep you updated if anything interesting starts happening.

Sam

I would love that. My dad's place is usually pretty boring, so I would love to hear about what's going on at your place.

Lou

Consider me your personal Thanksgiving entertainment.

SAM

Quinn and I decided to carpool today because the odds of both of us being able to stay sober through this are slim. We have an unspoken rule that whoever is getting targeted by Joel the worst gets to get drunk, and the other one drives, and if it's pretty even, we play rock paper scissors.

Jacob's car is already here when we pull into the driveway, and I wonder how long he's had to endure our dad without us.

Quinn inclines his head toward a car next to Jacob's that I don't recognize. "How old do we think Joel's girlfriend is this year?"

"Who knows. My bet is 35." I know that's wishful thinking.

Our dad tends to attract women who are significantly younger than him. He always swears it's not because of his money, but that's hard to believe when they're half his age and wearing designer clothing that they clearly can't afford with their waitressing job.

I'm not judging the women, good on them. If my dad is desperate enough to shell out that much money for pussy, then that's his choice. I just don't like when he expects us to take their relationship seriously and treat her like she's going to be our new stepmom. That's a little hard to do when they flirt with me at the dinner table.

I knock on the door and wait. My dad answers with his new toy at his side.

"Boys, you know you don't have to knock. This is your home, too. Just come in next time."

"Mmmmk, Joel." Quinn can't help himself; he just has to poke the bear.

He steps aside and welcomes us in. Recently, we've been showing up empty-handed because any time we try to be helpful and bring something, it's always the wrong brand, or he has a better one, or it's too cold. He always has an excuse to throw it in the trash when we're not looking, and sometimes, he's not even that considerate.

I take off my coat, and Denise, our dad's housekeeper, takes it out of my hands. Denise is a 50-year-old Colombian woman who barely spoke English when she started here. Either he pays her a lot of money, or she's desperate, because she's been working for him for 15 years now, despite him treating her like shit. At first, he tried to hide it, but over time, the facade went away. "I can hang up my own coat, Denise; you don't have to."

"That's what she's paid to do, son."

Prick.

Denise grabs Quinn's coat too, and before heading off to the coat closet, she reassures us, "I don't mind, sir."

I hate when she calls me that. I don't want her to think of me like my dad, and that's what she calls him. "Sam, please call me Sam. We've known each other long enough."

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