Page 88 of Last Summer

“I’m sorry,” she said, hoarse. She’d ruined the romantic meal he’d planned.

“Don’t be.” He handed her a towel. She blotted her face. “Did you eat something earlier?”

He thought she had food poisoning. She shook her head. “I don’t like turkey.”

He smiled. “That’s quite a reaction for something you don’t like. Sure you aren’t allergic? I’ve heard that the smell of something can be strong enough to—”

She shook her head. She wasn’t allergic to turkey, but she owed Damien an explanation. The smell of turkey was a powerful reminder of the worst day of Ella’s life. She hadn’t eaten turkey since she was six. She hadn’t celebrated Thanksgiving since then either.

“My parents died on Thanksgiving.”

“God, El, I’m sorry. I wish I’d known.”

Damien knew her parents had died when she was a kid, but she hadn’t gone into details. She hadn’t seen a point. Damien was estranged from his parents and hers were gone. They just didn’t talk about them.

But she now owed him an explanation as to why she despised the holiday, especially if they were going to spend the rest of them together. That dinner hadn’t been cheap, and she felt awful that she’d ruined his plans.

He handed her a glass of water.

“Thanks,” she said after swishing and spitting into the sink. “I hate Thanksgiving.”

“I gathered that,” he said on a laugh. “Wait here, then we’ll talk.”

Damien left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Ella heard the clang of dishes, the squeak of wheels, and the hotel room door open and shut. He returned a moment later, holding out a hand for hers. He led her into the room and Ella noticed the cart was gone. The window was also cracked and the heater circulating, diffusing the smell. Tears beaded in the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry.” She felt stupid and silly. She couldn’t believe she threw up. It had been years since she’d had such a strong reaction to the smell.

“Don’t be. We’ll order steaks later. Feel up to having a glass of wine?” She nodded and he uncorked the bottle, pouring their glasses. Giving her one, he raised his in a toast. “Happy Un-Thanksgiving.”

Watery laughter bubbled from Ella. “Happy Un-Thanksgiving.”

Damien settled onto the love seat and patted the cushion for her to join him. He draped a blanket over their laps and his arm around her shoulders. For a short time, they drank their wine and watched the snow fall. She knew he was waiting for her to tell him why they’d never celebrate Thanksgiving, and she loved him even more for not pushing her. But she was ready to talk.

“I don’t remember much about my parents, mostly what Aunt Kathy told me. But I do remember that they argued, a lot. Well, Mom argued. Dad just took it. Aunt Kathy said he loved my mom above anyone else and that he tried hard to keep her happy. Anyway, Mom got pregnant with me in high school. Her parents wanted her to get an abortion and threatened to donate the college tuition they’d saved for her to a charity.”

“I take it some random charity received a hefty donation since you’re here with me.” Damien gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“It did. And Mom made the situation worse by marrying my dad. My grandparents disowned her.”

“Ouch.”

“Aunt Kathy felt my mom was better off without them. They weren’t nice people. But my mom took it hard. I think she loved my dad at one time, but she definitely came to resent him.

“I was six and Andrew four when we went to Aunt Kathy’s for Thanksgiving that year. We’d go every year. She practically raised my dad after his parents died. But that year, my parents drank all day, and so did my aunt. She passed out before we left that night; otherwise, I’d like to think she would have told my parents to spend the night.

“We spent the day playing games and my parents at least acted civilly toward each other. I remember the five of us playing charades. That was fun. But the more they drank, the more Mom bickered. By the time we got into the car, they were both smashed and my mom was spewing such hateful things at my dad.”

“He drove drunk with two kids in the car?” Damien asked, aghast.

Ella nodded. “It wasn’t the first time, but that night I think he just wanted to get home and pass out so that he didn’t have to listen to my mom anymore.” She paused and gulped her wine. Liquid courage.

Damien rubbed her back. She offered him a weak smile. “This isn’t easy.”

“You don’t have to tell me everything. We can wait.”

She shook her head. “No, I want to.” She sipped more wine, then set down the glass. “My mom was so mean to him, but I think my dad believed she still loved him. Either that, or he hoped that she would again one day. But—and I remember this vividly—while we were driving home, my mom shouted that she wanted a divorce. Then she said that she never did love him, even in the beginning, and that she only married him to piss off her parents. Whether it was that specifically or a culmination of her abuse, she broke him. He started crying and the car started swerving. Andrew and I were screaming. There was construction on the freeway, and to this day, I don’t know if it was an accident or if it was intentional, but he drove the car straight into the back of a parked flatbed truck. The last thing I remember is the crunch of metal and glass shattering. And the pipes on the flatbed. I remember those. They cut into the car and punched into my parents.”

Damien looked at her, stunned. “Fuck me.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up.”

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