Page 60 of Someone Just Like You

“Nice. He can have my sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce.”

My hopes soared. “Maybe all isn’t lost.”

Jude raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

I elbowed him. “Separated and divorced are not the same thing.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

According to Jude, homemade sauce made from boiled cranberries and sugar was only marginally less disgusting than jellied cranberry sauce from a can. I wildly disagreed—both were delicious and perfectly tart. This was why, when I handed my contribution to the Stark Thanksgiving dinner to his mother—homemade cranberry sauce—I grinned evilly over my shoulder at him. From a few feet away where he stood in his childhood kitchen, he saw my snark and raised it with a sneer of his own, mouthing, “Foul.”

To anyone observing, it was the same hateful exchange we’d been having for years, but major eye screwing was in play beneath the antagonistic masks we wore. No one would think to look beyond the surface, since no one knew about us yet. With both of my parents in attendance, and their separation now common knowledge, we hoped the announcement of our coupling would replace any tension or awkwardness with joy—or at least shock and stupefaction. Only Nani, who had opted to spend the holiday with Aunt Arlene this year, would have to wait a little longer for the news.

A few minutes later, after we’d both greeted our families, we waited for the right moment in the Starks’ open-concept kitchen–living room–dining room. Guests milled about, either standing or sitting on the white leather sectional couch, armchair, or charcoal-and-white counter stools. The grandchildren from both families played together on an oversize “Grandchildren Spoiled Here” floormat set off to the side.

I noted with dread that my parents were on opposite sides of the room. Dad was on the couch watching football while Mom hovered over the buffet that had been set up on the dining room table. But I had a plan, and it was time to execute it.

When I caught Dad’s eye, I gestured for him to come over. Then I foolishly called out, “Mom,” earning the attention of five-plus mothers in the room except, of course, my own.Let’s try this again.“Stacey!”

Mom turned from the food table and joined us. With narrowed eyes, she said, “We’re on a first-name basis now, are we?” She glanced between me and Dad. “What’s up?”

I gauged their body language, searching for any sign to suggest their flame hadn’t burned out completely. I couldn’t find one.

“Did you want something, Squirrel?”

I snapped to attention and removed the folded check from the pocket of my high-waisted gray pleated skirt and held it out. “This is for you guys.” Venmo would have worked fine, but I wanted to witness the stress leave their faces when I gave them the tangible money. “It’s essentially my most recent commission check. A thank-you for continuing to pay most of my law school loans even though I’m not practicing anymore.” I lifted my chin proudly.

Mom wrinkled her brow. “We appreciate the gesture, but it’s unnecessary.”

“Can you even spare it?” Dad asked.

“Yes!” I clapped my hands. “I’ve closed a few deals lately, and this would otherwise go into my savings.” I pushed it toward Mom. “I thought it might help you guys.” I swallowed hard. “You know…ease your burden.” My heart did a nervous flutter.

My parents exchanged bemused looks, neither touching the check. “Help us how?” Dad asked.

“What burden?” Mom said.

I frowned. “In case you’re having any financial problems of your own.”For example, the marriage-ending kind.

They wore matching faces of amusement mixed with concern. “Are you okay, Molly?”

I held back a tut-tut. The entire point of the gift was tolessentheir worries, not cause more. “What part of excess funds makes you think something’s wrong?” My cheeks stretched into the most genuine smile I could fake.

“We’re not having financial problems.Ptu,ptu,ptu.” The spitting sounds were Mom’s attempt to ward off the evil eye.

“Your mother’s right.” Dad curled my fingers over the check in my palm. “Why don’t you send this directly to Sallie Mae yourself? Make a dent on your portion of those loans. Sound good, Squirrel?” He squeezed my shoulder and returned to the couch. Conversation over.

Mom’s cheeks brightened as she glanced over my shoulder. “Mini quiches!” With a tap on my head, she returned to the buffet.

Before I could bemoan the epic failure of my plan, Nicole and her husband, Dean, waved me over to where they stood by the Starks’ wooden bar cabinet.

Nicole handed me a glass of red wine. “How did you get here?”

It was a reasonable question given I usually caught a ride with them when commuting from Manhattan to our childhood home in the suburban town of New City, New York.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip of wine. “Jude drove me.”

Her mouth opened and closed.

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