Page 44 of Overdue

I toss the third shirt I’ve tried on across the bed. Are men supposed to get this stressed about what they wear on a first date? Pulling a deep-blue button-down out of my closet, I slide it on. I check in the mirror in the bathroom. Not too bad. Hopefully, Austen will like it. I should have come up with something other than dinner. She tends to throw food at me when she gets mad.

* * *

“Explain to me again why I have to wear this hideous sweater?” I ask Gran.

“Because we’re going to an ugly sweater Friendsgiving dinner.” What the fuck? I don’t say that out loud, though. I’ve already been grounded once for language.

“It’s still hot outside,” I argue.

“It’s fifty degrees outside. Practically Arctic.”

I roll my eyes, also out of eyesight. Gran’s cool enough, but I’m not taking chances. I’ve only lived here for a little over four months. The town isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. And the swelling finally went down in my eye. I kept my mouth shut about how I got it.

“Oh, don’t you look handsome,” Gran says, stepping into the hallway.

That’s impossible. Let me explain this atrocity I’m sporting. First, it’s shit brown. There’s a turkey on the front with the words “I’m here to get basted” on it. Okay, even I have to admit that’s kind of funny. Still, what fourteen-year-old wants to be caught in a sweater with a turkey on it?

At least I just have to walk to the other end of the block in it. Gran rings the doorbell, and the bane of my existence answers.

“Happy Friendsgiving,” Gran says.

“Welcome,” Austen answers, sweetly placing a kiss on Gran’s cheek. Suck up. “Jerk,” she adds when I follow Gran inside.

I do my best to ignore her. I already know whatever I came up with to say back would be all wrong. Seems when she broke my nose, she knocked something loose in my brain that controls my filter around her too.

“Perfect timing,” Mrs. Caraway says when we walk into the kitchen. “We’re just about to put everything on the table. Oh, I love your sweater, Reed.” I mumble a thank you and hand her the cranberry salad Gran made. “I think Eliot is fussing with the place cards, if you want to help her.”

I find Eliot in the dining room, frowning at one of the tables. The Caraways have filled their dining room and living room with tables to accommodate everyone on the block. There are Thanksgiving decorations everywhere. It’s like they just shot stuff out of a cannon and covered every square inch.

Eliot is an odd duck. She’s smart, organized, and as beautiful as the other two sisters. I know half a dozen guys that would date her in a heartbeat. Problem is, she doesn’t believe she’s dateable. We’ve become pretty good friends. Never, though, would I consider dating her.

“Help, Reed,” she says. “I have two more tables to do. The Robbinses are fighting with the Estes about who’s responsible for trimming the overgrown oleander that straddles their properties, so I can’t sit them next to each other.” What the hell is oleander? “Oh, and Mrs. White hits on whoever sits next to her. Mr. White just seems oblivious.”

I look into the other room at Mrs. White. Yep, braless again. “Let’s sit her between your mom and Gran. Harder to hit on them,” I suggest.

We finish organizing the tables just as Mrs. Caraway asks everyone to find their seats. I wander around the tables until I find my name. Eliot put it next to hers. Unfortunately, Austen takes the seat across from me. We’re joined by Brontë, Jace Robbins, and Able Litton.

The food is served buffet style, so I pile my plate high before sitting down. Austen slumps across from me. There’s nothing on her plate but turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy.

“You should try the green bean casserole. Eating something green wouldn’t hurt.” I don’t think I’ve said anything too bad, but I receive a glare for my effort at making conversation. “They say green beans help improve attitude.”

“Are you saying I have a bad attitude?” she fires back. Everyone at our table has now returned with their plates. They’re watching Austen and me like we’re in a tennis match.

“No. I’m just saying I read that. Whatever is in them helps with your mental health.” Jeez. She takes everything wrong. I’ll just sit here and keep my mouth shut. “I’m not sure there are enough green beans on the planet to help your attitude anyway.” Because I can’t resist. Because I have a death wish.

“What?” Austen is staring at me in surprise. Her eyebrows are so high they’ve almost disappeared under her hair. Eliot slowly moves her chair away from me.

“Nothing. Just forget it.”

“Oh no. Please continue.”

I debate changing tables. But what’s the worst she can do with all the adults in the room? She’s also been ignoring me for most of the month, and I’m fed up with it. “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt you to be a little more generous in where you spread joy.” There, I sugarcoated it a little. Or I thought I did.

But apparently, Austen doesn’t agree. As if in slow motion, she picks up her spoon and flicks a heaping portion of potatoes and gravy at me. It splats against my chest right on the turkey’s face.

“Is that generous enough for you? No?” She scoops up another spoonful and adds it to the mess oozing down my sweater. What is with her and throwing food? Do I throw it right back at her? She’s scooping up a third spoonful when the decision is made for me.

“Austen Caraway! What on earth has gotten into you?” her mom demands. “Upstairs, now!” She turns to me and shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Reed.”

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