Page 64 of Icing Hearts

Before I lose my nerve, I text Tory, telling myself it’s because I don’t feel like cooking, and I want that book. Not because I’m eager to spend more time with him. These last few weeks have been dream-like. I never thought we’d get to a place that wasn’t one-sided and sportive.

“So…what’s the dress code for Thanksgiving at the Amato residence?” I hope he doesn’t think I’m silly for asking.

He texts back almost immediately. “Good question. We usually dress nice for dinner and then change into comfy clothes after. I’m in a button-up, sweater, and khakis, if that helps.”

“It does.”

“How much time do you need to get ready?”

“An hour,” I type back.

“Sounds good. I’ll be over in an hour.”

Then another message buzzes through. “I’m happy you’re coming.”

Exactly one hour later, the doorbell chime sounds through the house. It’s one of those novelty musical sounds that takes me by surprise. My mom had my dad switch out the traditional doorbell for this one. No one usually rings the bell anymore, so I’d forgotten about it until now. A blade of sorrow bolts through my chest as I picture my mom dancing around the kitchen to the bell when I was a kid, and a friend would come ask to play. She’d tell me to be back for dinner, and I’d run off to play. I wish I had stayed home.

And right now, I’m wishing I didn’t tell Tory I’d go to his family’s house for Thanksgiving. Because all I want to do is curl up in bed. Mourning is weird like that. You’ll be fine for a long time and then something reminds you of the person you lost. And that something brings you right back to the trenches—only to realize you never made it out in the first place.

That’s exactly what I plan to tell Tory when I open the door. I’m sorry but something came up. I need to stay home. Then, I see his smile. It’s a tidal wave and I’m a helpless sand crab scuttling about while it crashes over me. So all I manage is a small “Hey.”

“Hey!” The way he says it is just as musical as the stupid doorbell. Better when coupled with the smile.

It doesn’t hurt that he looks unfairly handsome in his fancier clothes. Tory shifts on his feet.

“You could have texted. I would’ve come out,” I tell him, lingering in the doorway because he’s making no effort to move.

“Uh, can I see your room?”

“What?” I crinkle my nose and quirk my head to the side, eyeing him and his nervous demeanor. I almost laugh. Almost.

“I just wanna see what your room looks like. You’ve seen mine.”

“Sure.” I move to the side and Victory Amato walks inside my house. The door clicks shut, but I don’t bother locking it.

“Should I take my shoes off?”

“No, that’s okay.”

He looks side to side, surveying the living room to his left and a small den to the right, before following me up the centrally-located staircase.

Tory walks to the center of my room, circles once, eyeing the walls up and down. He zeroes in on a couple photos, and I hope he doesn’t notice his sweatshirt draped over the back of my desk chair.

He smiles again and says, “Nice. Very Clara.”

Then I’m grabbing my tote bag with cozy clothes and locking the door behind us as we leave. Two steps out the door and Tory scoops the bag from my shoulder. “I got it.” He walks with me to the passenger’s side and opens the door, like usual.

Foliage passes us by in a blur of sunset-orange, cinnamon, and gold with pops of orange-red—like the Crayon color. Halfway there, I ask, “What exactly should I expect? I haven’t talked to your parents much, and I don’t think I ever formally met your sister.”

“Lots of kids. There’s like a dozen kids between the three families. Plus, one guy and his girlfriend who is wearing a cocktail dress and heels. I don’t think he did a good job sharing about the dress code, but she laughed it off.” He chuckles to himself.

“Speaking of which, how’s my outfit?” I ask, gesturing to my burnt-orange miniskirt and cream, chunky sweater. My hair is curled, half-up, and secured with a matching ribbon. I wore a crimson lip stain that I know from experience will hold out all night.

“Perfect.” He gives me a quick, approving glance. “We’ll hang around for an hour or so and eat when my sister gets here. I usually sit at the kid table to avoid talking to the adults.”

“Sounds good.”

Man, Tory was not joking about the kids. As soon as we walk in the door, a couple of elementary-aged boys try to tackle him at the knees. Tory manages to drag them along while he introduces me.

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