Page 17 of Stuffing My Obsession
But my chest tightens. I keep driving the truck because it’s the only thing left to remind me of Tonia. And even if Mom doesn’t say it, we both feel the weight of grief hanging between us. I paste on a smile before it drags me under.
Dad’s slower coming down the steps, but the second I see him, my heart warms. His salt-and-pepper hair is thinning at the top, his glasses sliding down his nose, and that same easy grin spreads across his face. “There’s my girl,” he says, wrapping me in a hug that smells like aftershave and sawdust.
“I missed you, Dad.”
“I missed you too, kiddo.” He pulls back, and for the first time notices the man standing just behind me. His brows rise slightly, curiosity sparking in his brown eyes.
Mom’s gaze darts to Myles, then back to me, and I can see the wheels turning before she smiles slyly. “And you brought company.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Uh—”
“Boyfriend?” Dad guesses, extending a hand toward Myles.
I should correct them. I should tell them the truth. But the word “bodyguard” feels wrong on my tongue. That’s not what Myles is anymore. And I know he agreed to be my fake boyfriend, but nothing about what we have feels fake. I don’t know what to call him, what I can say that won’t open a door to questions I don’t want to answer.
So I don’t say anything.
Myles takes Dad’s hand in his big, scarred one. “Myles Carter,” he says simply, his deep voice smooth, steady.
Dad nods in approval. Mom beams like she’s just won a bet. I force myself to smile, even as my pulse kicks up.
“Come inside,” Mom says, clapping her hands together. “Dinner’s almost ready. Everyone’s waiting.”
“Everyone?” I repeat, unease prickling at the back of my neck.
And then I see him.
Sitting at the table in the dining room when we walk in—Danny Meyers. Older, broader, his boyish features replaced with something rougher. His once-bright green eyes are dimmer now, a little too sharp, a little too calculating. The easy smile I remember is gone, replaced with a smirk that feels…off.
“Paris.” His voice is deeper too, but the way he says my name makes my skin crawl. “Been a long time.”
I freeze for half a second, but then I feel Myles’s hand brushing lightly against my back, grounding me. Just that small touch is enough to steady me.
“Danny,” I manage, sliding into a chair across from him. Myles takes the seat beside me, and I swear the air shifts around us.
Mom bustles around with the turkey, Dad opens a bottle of wine, and the table fills with mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce—the works. Thanksgiving, in all its glory.
Danny leans forward, elbows on the table. “Your mom didn’t mention you were bringing someone home. Didn’t think you’dever settle down.” His gaze flicks to Myles, sizing him up. “Guess miracles happen.”
I stiffen, but Myles doesn’t so much as blink. He carves into the turkey like Danny’s not even there.
Mom clears her throat. “Danny doesn’t have family in town anymore, so we thought we’d invite him to join us. Nobody should be alone on Thanksgiving.”
“Of course,” I say quickly, forcing my lips into a smile. But I can feel Danny’s eyes lingering too long, his smirk widening every time I shift in my seat.
Myles notices. I know he does, because his hand finds mine under the table, his grip firm, possessive. My heart skips, and I squeeze back, grateful.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of chatter; Dad telling stories, Mom fussing over everyone’s plates, Danny cracking crude jokes that make my skin prickle. Myles’s steady presence keeps me anchored through it all. Every time Danny pushes, Myles’s thumb strokes my palm, reminding me I’m not alone.
When the clink of silverware dies down, and the last crumbs of pumpkin pie are cleared away, Mom claps her hands lightly. “Alright, everyone. Into the living room. Fire’s waiting.”
We shuffle away from the table, Danny dragging his feet behind us. The fire crackles, throwing shadows across the walls as we all settle into the couches and armchairs. Dad pours coffee, Mom curls up with her tea, and for a moment it feels…good. Normal.
Then Mom leans forward with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Tradition time. Who wants to start us off?”
Dad clears his throat, ever the steady one. “I’ll go first. I’m thankful for another year with my family, for good health, and for the roof over our heads.” He pats Mom’s knee, smiling. “And for your sweet potato casserole, hon. Best one yet.”
Mom beams, her cheeks pink. “Oh, stop. Alright, my turn. I’m thankful for…all of you.” Her voice wavers, eyes glistening as she looks toward the old truck parked outside. “And for the memories of the ones who couldn’t be here tonight.”
