Page 134 of Play Fake
Caroline’s parents are the sweet, talkative type—his grandmother immediately comments on my sweater, while his grandfather shakes my hand with a twinkle in his eye like he’s already decided I pass some unspoken test.
Then Beck’s mom’s parents arrive, older but kind-eyed, and there’s something in the way they greet Beck—a mix of prideand softness—that makes me all warm and tingly. They greet me like I’m not just some girl he’s dating, but someone who matters.
Beck’s uncle appears next, handing out drinks and teasing Beck about “finally bringing someone who can put up with him.” Beck just rolls his eyes, slinging an arm around my shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, Alyssa grabs my hand again to drag me toward the table to show me the turkey-shaped place cards she made herself, and Joey keeps chiming in with random fun facts about the last time they played football in the backyard.
At one point, I catch Beck leaning against the doorway, watching me with thatlook—the soft one, like he can’t quite believe I’m here but he’s really glad I am.
I give him a small smile across the room, and he returns it, just a little crooked, like always.
And right then, surrounded by the chatter and warmth and kids tugging at my hands, it hits me: this isn’t just Beck’s family. This isBeck’s world.
And he invited me into it with open arms. He trusted me enough to share these incredible people with me.
The table, or rather,tables, are packed.
It’s the kind of Thanksgiving spread you see in commercials: turkey at the center, surrounded by platters and bowls of every shape and size. Steam rises, butter glistens, and the smell of cinnamon and roasted herbs fills the room. Beck’s family squeezes in on all sides—grandparents, uncle, kids, cousins—all talking over each other like this is the best kind of organized chaos.
Beck sits on my left, arm draped loosely across the back of my chair, his knee brushing mine under the table. Every time I glance at him, he’s already looking at me.
As dishes start making their way around, Caroline lifts her voice over the chatter. “All right, Beck—same rules as last year. Don’t touch anything until I’ve told you it’s safe. If it’s questionable, don’t do it.”
Beck groans good-naturedly. “Caroline…”
She gives himthe look. “I’ve got separate butter, separate serving spoons, and your rolls are in their own basket on the corner. Youwill notspend the night sick because someone double-dipped in the gravy boat.”
Mark chuckles from across the table. “You’d think he’d have learned after the Great Pie Incident.”
A chorus of knowing laughter erupts, and Beck drops his head back with a dramatic groan. “One time. I misread a label one time.”
Caroline pats his shoulder sweetly. “And now I supervise.”
As the food continues around, I notice how seamless it all is. Caroline has clearly done this a hundred times, gently intercepting any well-meaning relative who tries to plop casserole onto his plate.
Beck doesn’t complain. He just builds his usual Thanksgiving plate: turkey, mashed potatoes, salad, a gluten-free roll, and some fruit and veggies from trays at the end of the table. It’s quiet and practiced, butsupported.
Something warm settles in my chest as I watch his family work together around it—not making a big deal, not pitying him, justloving him. It’s so different from what I grew up with, where pretending everything’s fine was the unspoken rule.
Beck catches me watching, mouth curving into that crooked grin. “Welcome to the circus,” he murmurs, his palm finding my knee and giving it a squeeze before coming to rest on my thigh.
Halfway through dinner, Beck’s grandfather looks down the table at me with a kind twinkle in his eye. “So, Sophie—tell us about yourself. What are you studying? What’s the big dream?”
I set down my fork, feeling all those friendly eyes turn toward me. “I’m studying social work,” I say. “I want to become an advocate for kids in the foster system. Eventually, I’d love to work as a child welfare social worker—helping kids find stable placements and supporting families through the process.”
The table quiets—not in that awkward way, but with genuine interest.
“That’s incredible,” Caroline says, her voice warm. “That kind of work takes a big heart.”
Beck’s dad nods. “Important work. Really important. We need more people like you in that field.”
My cheeks flush, but there’s a swell of pride in my chest. “Thank you. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I grew up seeing how broken parts of the system can be, and I just…want to help make it better, even if it’s in small ways.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Beck’s looking at me. There’s a softness there that makes my heart stutter, because hegets it. More than anyone else at this table, he understands what that means.
The rest of the meal is effortless, filled with teasing and stories. Mark tells the infamous running the wrong way after his first interception story again, Alyssa keeps sneaking extra bits of turkey onto Beck’s plate, and Caroline quietly slides him an extra gluten-free roll without him asking.
And through it all, I feel…included. Not like a guest. Like someone who’s supposed to be here.
