Finally, Dana sighs. “Fine. I don’t even know what to charge for this. Each piece is handcrafted, you know? How does five hundred sound?”
It sounds about four hundred bucks more than I am willing to pay, I want to retort, but instead, I reach to shake her hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
TEN
It is Thanksgiving Eve, and—surprise, surprise—I’m all by myself.
Nora invited me to spend the day with her family. You know Colt is coming too, she said. Mom is a sucker for huge Thanksgivings. I gave her a half-assed excuse about a stomachache, and now I’m off the hook.
Celebrations are another big fat no for me. There’s something about putting myself in a positive situation that seems wrong ever since Mom died.
I called Dad and Renn to wish them a happy holiday. Renn didn’t answer but sent a terse text message. Dad did answer, and he sounded like he’d rather talk with an IRS agent than with me.
With Loki in my lap, a half-empty bowl of popcorn under my arm, and RuPaul’s Drag Race on the TV, I tell myself that I’m not the only one who is not celebrating this evening. Take Dom, for instance. He skipped going to his parents’ in Dover and is working a double shift at the hospital.
I think about all the nurses, doctors, truck drivers, police officers, and firefighters, of all the essential workers, then take a deep breath and get over myself.
Still, I can’t seem to concentrate on the show. Even when Loki stands up and headbutts me, demanding to be adored.
Rubbing at his nose with one finger, I pick up my phone and scroll through the last few text messages I’ve received.
Pippa: Happy Thanksgiving, bitch （yup, still here, waiting for you to get over yourself. Call me）。
Dad: Say Hi to Nora’s parents from us.
About that. I couldn’t tell him I was going to sit around moping all by myself today. So I may have told him a teeny-tiny white lie.
Dom: Work’s good. There’s a potluck and some restaurants dropped treats for the patients, which is nice. How’s it going for you?
Dom: Needless to say, there is one thing I’m particularly grateful for this year . . .
Ever: Is that so . . . ?
Dom: Your daily glazed doughnuts, of course.
I DoorDash him one doughnut every day, even though the treat costs less than the delivery fee. There’s something very uplifting about doing something nice for someone else. I can see how doing charity could be addicting.
I’m rising from the couch to put the popcorn bowl into the sink when there’s a knock on the door. Since Nora and I don’t have a buzzer, delivery people usually leave our mail at the door. But I don’t think anyone is delivering anything at eleven at night on Thanksgiving Eve, and my mind starts to fill with gory scenarios starring a serial killer. Preying on lonely women on Thanksgiving is low, even for psychopaths. A line should be drawn somewhere, right?
Before I figure out what I want to do, there’s another knock on the door. I rush to the kitchen, drop the bowl, take out a kitchen knife, and tuck it in the waistband of my sweatpants.
Tiptoeing to the door, I ask, “Who is it?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“An axe murderer. Open up.”
I smile, my whole body sagging with relief. “Sorry, Mr. Slayer, no one’s home.”
“Bummer. In that case, I’ll just . . .” I hear the shuffling of paper bags and realize he may need help. I swing the door open to find my boyfriend standing at my threshold with an unholy number of tinfoil-wrapped dishes. He is still in his scrubs, looking tired and gorgeous and all mine. My heart swells.
“Surprise.” He leans to kiss me. “I brought food and my horny self. Let’s get this party started.”
“Dom, this could feed an army.” I grab two of the dishes as I usher him inside. That’s when he drops everything on the floor. He reaches for my waist. I think he’s going to pull me to him and kiss me, but then he carefully slips out the knife I shoved into my sweatpants and holds it between us.
“Babe.” His shoulders are shaking with laughter. “Your mind works in mysterious, disturbing ways.”
“I wasn’t expecting company!” I give him a light shove.
“Who’s running from the Feds now, huh?”
“Not me.” I grab the knife and toss it into the kitchen sink. “You’d have to be next-level dumb to attack federal agents with a butter knife.”
We tuck into the food—roast turkey, green bean casserole, candied yams, and mashed potatoes. Local restaurants dropped off some; other food was brought over by patients’ relatives. The gravy is flawless and the stuffing is celestial. We crack open a bottle of cheap wine and drink it from plastic cups, the ones that squish unless you hold them extra carefully.