Page 33 of The Very First Night

Thankfully, no one—not even Tanner—is dumb enough to ask how that happened. We all just accept that we’ll be having Friendsgiving sans turkey.

Well, not completely sans turkey. Marcus and Brendan are able to carve it in a way to avoid the side that landed against the kitchen floor.

We clear off the beer pong table set up in the dining room and spread a festive red tablecloth over it, atop which we arrange mismatched plates and silverware. Candles light up the otherwise dimly lit frat house. It is a warm and inviting scene, a welcome reprieve from the chaos of classes.

Almost no one reaches for the turkey. I can’t help but notice the sadness in Marcus’s eyes as he notices everyone’s aversion to it.

“Can I get some turkey, please?” I ask as I extend my plate toward Marcus.

His eyes widen in surprise, then crinkle with joy as he reaches for my plate. “Of course!” He grins from ear to ear, piling far more turkey than I need atop my plate.

The clock strikes 9:00 PM, and despite the fact that most of us would love nothing more than to keel over and slip into food comas, the guys offer to clear the table and do the dishes.

When he’s finished drying the dishes, Elijah asks, “Are you staying the night?”

I hadn’t thought so far ahead, but I nod.

A smile blooms on his lips. “Good,” he says before pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Head upstairs. I’ll be right up.”

“Okay.”

The moment my head hits the pillow, I know with certainty that nothing is happening between us tonight. If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure I could manage as I’m on the verge of busting at the seams anyway.

FIFTEEN

KAT

As I enter my mom’s house for Thanksgiving break, a wave of anxiety washes over me. I’m unsure what I expect, but my stomach instantly plummets when I see the note on the kitchen counter.

Katarina,

Had to go into work, there is a frozen lasagna in the freezer. Closing, won’t be home until late.

Love you,

Mom

PS: You have mail in the basket by the door.

I let out an exasperated sigh as I toss the crumpled note back onto the cluttered kitchen counter and make my way to the refrigerator. A quick glance reveals a sparse selection of food, but my eyes zero in on the half-empty six-pack of hard cider. With a groan, I grab a bottle and twist off the cap, letting the cool liquid soothe my parched throat.

It’s not like I expected her to greet me at the door, but tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I can’t imagine she plans on cooking if she’s not going to get home until the wee hours of the morning, but a “Hello” would be nice.

The basket of mail in the entryway is piled high with an assortment of bills, ads, and the occasional package of coupons from the local grocery store. I quickly spot a familiar name written in bold letters on top of a bundle held together by a rubber band—“Kat.”

Curiosity piqued, I reach for the stack and start sorting through the mail. Most of it is junk—credit card offers, local dealerships wanting me to come in for their “special financing,” a bill from the university, and…

A lump forms in my throat as my fingertips ghost over the last envelope in the stack with a “Return to Sender” stamp in bright red ink on the front.

I have no interest in having a relationship with my dad. The man left my mom when I wasn’t even a year old to be with the mistress he’d knocked up. The irony of that is not lost on me—leaving the child you have at home to be a father to the child you don’t know yet.

The sting still lingers almost twenty years later.

His address is printed in my handwriting, the same address he’s lived at since leaving us all those years ago. It’s where I’ve sent letters every fall since I was ten, hoping that he may be intrigued enough about my life to write back. The letters always go unanswered, but I liked to envision him sitting in front of the fireplace while he reads them, his shame holding him back from reaching out rather than an utter lack of interest.

The big red stamp of rejection stares back at me, a clear indicator that he didn’t think me important enough to give his new address.

I drop the envelope back onto the table, take a sip of my cider, pull my phone out, and begin scrolling through Instagram. Everyone is posting about their families and how thankful they are to be home for the holiday. A few people post about “Blackout Wednesday” from their local hometown bar. None of it brings me comfort.

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