Page 13 of Conspiracies and Chemistry

Four men lounged in the living room, roaring at the football game. One propped his feet on the coffee table. Another wore a backward baseball cap and a mulish expression. A third clicked through his phone like he was wishing he were anywhere else. The one facing me jumped when he saw my expression and dropped his bowl of popcorn, spilling kernels across the carpet.

A woman perched on an armchair halfway between the guys in front of the television and the kitchen. She was younger, in her early 30s, with long brown hair curled into waves. She wore a silk dress the color of rust, heels, and a string of pearls like she’d somehow ended up at the wrong party. When she saw me, hope blazed on her face.

I shrugged. I wasn’t here to save her. I strode into the kitchen. Savannah had her back to me as she aggressively buzzed an electric knife into the golden-brown turkey.

“Dinner’s almost ready, Jason,” she said. “Could you turn off?—”

“Savannah,” I interrupted her, loudly enough to be heard over the drone of the knife.

When she startled, the knife rumbled against a bone. She flipped it off and wiped her hands on a towel. “Tessa! You shouldn’t have come. I’m fine.” Then, lower, she mumbled, “I was only venting.”

I tilted my head. “It sounded like a cry for help to me.”

“I—”

“Who the hell’re you?” a male voice slurred behind me.

It was Backward Baseball Cap. I asked, “Are you Jason?”

“This is my house, and I ask the questions,” he said, louder.

“Jason.” The girlfriend put a hand on his shoulder.

“Do you?” I said. “I’ve got some questions of my own. What gives you the right to think Savannah wants you and your friends here at all? This is her house too. Shouldn’t she be consulted on the guest list? And finally, if she’s graciously offered to cook, isn’t it only polite that you help?”

“Help?” he snarled. “It’s her job. I bought this house. I keep the lights on. I support her.”

Anger flashed through me like lightning. “Maybe that was your arrangement while she was having her emotional needs met, if that was ever true, but now you’re two people sharing space. She owes you nothing.”

“Screw that. Tell’er, Savannah. You wanted to host Thanksgiving. And I can invite who I want to my house.”

“I…” My friend’s eyes looked ready to pop out of her face.

“Come on, Savannah. Pack a bag. Let’s go.” I waited, half hoping she’d fight me, fight him, do anything but cave again.

She ducked her head, refusing to meet either of our stares. “Okay.” Leaving the half-carved turkey and the greasy knife on the counter, she washed her hands and walked up the stairs.

“Maybe you two would like to take over here?” Glaring at Jason and his plus-one, I gestured at the half-carved turkey, flesh still clinging to its ribs on one side.

The woman grimaced. “I’m gonna go.”

“Baby, don’t—” He swayed toward her.

Their drama was interesting, but my priority was my friend. I jogged up the stairs after her.

The front door slammed.

A few seconds later, I heard footsteps behind me on the hallway carpet. “Hey! What about dinner?”

I wheeled and Jason’s momentum carried him almost into my chest. We were the same height, and I stared him in his bloodshot eyes. “You’re a grown man. Are you incapable of feeding yourself?”

“No, but I…what about the kids?”

“Kids?” I glanced over my shoulder. Wherewereher kids?

“I’ll say goodbye to the boys,” she said from behind me, her voice low. “Abby’s at her boyfriend’s. I’ll text her from the car.”

That made me even more furious. Her kids had left her alone with her soon-to-be-ex and his girlfriend? What kind of children had she raised? If I had the kind of dad who’d make Thanksgiving dinner, I would’ve stood at his side. I’d have even listened to his screed about the Thanksgiving Industrial Complex.

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