Page 5 of Holiday Hopefuls
“Are you bringing anyone?”
“Like who, the guy who mows the neighborhood lawns?”
My mother purses thin lips. “Anyone of significance,” she clarifies.
The laughter that bubbles out isn’t familiar to my ears. Incredulity and embarrassment with a hint of annoyance. “I’d have to be seeing someone in order for them to come toThanksgiving,” I snort. Not to mention, I’d have to be insane to bring anyone I care about around my family of vultures.
Except Connie.
“What about Ian Fairchild?” my dad asks from across the room.
“Definitely not.”
“Aaron?”
I don’t miss the way Connie tenses. So subtle that anyone not watching her would miss it entirely. “One hundred percent no,” I answer.
“Okay,” Mom sighs, as if my lack of a love life has brought on a bout of extreme melancholia. “Then I guess we’ll see you on Thanksgiving.”
“Consider yourself warned,” I mutter before I hightail it out the door.
2
Oliver
Glasses clink together at each table I pass, barely heard over tonight’s crowd. Friday night in the sleepy town of Serenvale Springs never fails to disappoint in Theo’s Place, and tonight is no exception thanks to the constant stream of musical talent they keep lined up.
Blythe would have loved tonight’s selection—a female folk duo. But as we left our parents’ house tonight, my little sister refused to hear about anything other than taking a hot bubble bath and climbing into bed.
Slipping past one, two and three more people, I make it to my destination with only one almost-stain on my burgundy sweater. Hanging my coat on an empty chair and dumping my work satchel beside it, I drop into the seat across from John.
“You look great,” he comments, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Dressed in gym clothes, the man throws back a big gulp of the ice water resting beside his main drink.
While he had the opportunity to get in a workout after the last client of the day, I had time for a lovely family dinner complete with plenty of love and guilt.
My answer is a pull of the too dark beer he ordered and had waiting for me.
“How were Mom and Pop Rhodes tonight?” John, my best friend since junior high and business partner, is the only one who could get away with calling my parents such juvenile names.
Especially to their faces.
But John and his older sister, Rindy, made themselves at home within my family the day they moved to our neighborhood. Going out with them in tow was always a riot—everyone assumed they were adopted since their appearance is our exact opposite. Where my sister and I are blond with fairly tanned skin, the McNalley siblings flaunt raven hair with skin nearly as deep.
And while their parents still live states away, John and Rindy have both made a home for themselves in Serenvale Springs.
John pops a chip into his waiting mouth. “Did they bring up marriage again?”
“They waited until dessert, at least.”
“I’m telling you, man, they’re getting antsy for some grandbabies.” John pushes the pizza dip toward me, and I impolitely help myself.
“I guess Nacho isn’t good enough for them. Poor girl.”
“Guess not,” he grins.
Speaking of kids, “Where’s Cici tonight?” John’s five-year-old daughter and all her spunk are nowhere to be seen.
Not that she usually joins us for beers on a Friday night. But thanks to her constant chatter around the office, I usually have an idea where she’ll be on any given day.
