Page 47 of The Tattered Gloves
But this place?
This had quickly become home, and I liked how isolated it felt.
Just Addy and me.
It felt safe that way.
“Just the two of us, promise,” she replied, quelling any nerves I had.
“Then, why so much food?” I asked, watching yet another dish go into the oven. I’d lost count at this point.
“It’s Thanksgiving!” she replied. “It’s our duty as Americans to stuff ourselves until we can’t breathe and then feast on the leftovers for the entire weekend. Some say, there’s some nonsense about football in that tradition, but for me, it’s all about the food.”
I smiled, watching my aunt check on the turkey for the hundredth time.
I knew what she was doing.
It had started a week ago when I was finishing the research for my project. Even though the conversations between Sam and I had ended, they had only continued and flourished at home.
Over the last several weeks, I’d found myself discovering more about the Fairchild family than I’d ever thought possible. Some facts were utterly fascinating while others… well, let’s just say Addy was right.
Not everything I’d learned was easy to face.
But, by and by, with each late-night talk Addy and I’d shared, something had started to grow between us. Soon, it wasn’t just family stories she shared, but also things about her own past — how she’d worked her way through cosmetology school and ended up in Sugar Tree.
It was truly unique — the crazy life she’d led.
And, soon, it was me opening up to her. It was little things to start — school, friends, and work — and then eventually even a little more.
That was how we had gotten to the giant Thanksgiving feast for two.
“Your mother never cooked for you, did she?” Addy asked after a long pause.
I didn’t like talking about my life in DC much, but I knew she was curious.
Curious about her sister and the life we’d had there.
Even if there wasn’t much to tell.
“No,” I finally admitted. “Mom doesn’t really do more than cereal and milk… and peanut butter. She loved peanut butter.”
“What did you do for holidays?” Addy asked, knowing she was treading on dangerous ground.
The last time she’d asked me personal questions like this, I’d bolted, faking tiredness and going straight to bed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want her to know. I was sure she could guess most of it on her own just based on my usual habits and the state in which I’d arrived that rainy night in September.
But it was the talking about it that hurt.
It would bring everything back.
The cold nights, the never-ending hunger pains that had ultimately led to the worst decision of my life. But, even beyond that horrifying night, I’d remember it all.
The lonely, endless hours as a child when all I’d wanted in the world was someone to love me. When a simple hug would have erased every horrible thing my mother had done.
If she’d only loved me, none of it would have mattered.
The men, the lifestyle… I would have defended it all.
If she’d only loved me.
