This is going to be a long Thanksgiving.
*
Dinner is awful. Well, not the food—for someone who claims to suck at cooking, Allie did a pretty good job with the meal. It’s the act of eating said food that I find excruciating. The conversation is brutal. Mr. Hayes seems to be going out of his way to antagonize me. His preferred phrase of the evening is “of course.” Except it’s spoken in a flat, condescending tone that makes me wish I was spending Thanksgiving in the empty house in Hastings.
When Allie tells him I’m going to law school next fall, he says, “Of course.”
When she mentions my family owns a place in Manhattan, he says, “Of course.”
When I thank him for having me to dinner, he says, “Of course.”
Goddamn. Brutal.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m making a genuine effort to be polite. I ask him what it was like to be a pro scout, but all I get is a half-mumbled, one-sentence response. I compliment him on how nice this brownstone is, and he grunts out a “thank you.”
Eventually I give up, but Allie is more than happy to fill the awkward silence. As she tells her father about the play she’s acting in, her courses, her upcoming auditions, and everything else she has going on, that’s the only time Mr. Hayes seems to come to life. It’s obvious he loves his daughter deeply, and he hangs on to every word she says like she’s offering him the secrets to eternal life. He does scowl at her once, though, after he asks if she’s still in touch with Sean and she admits they had coffee.
“Never liked that boy,” Mr. Hayes mutters. For once, he and I are on the same page.
Allie chews her last bite of gravy-laden mashed potatoes before voicing a protest. “Aw, that’s not true. You guys always got along when we came to visit you.”
Her father chuckles. Well, look at that, he’s actually capable of conveying humor. I never would have guessed.
“He was your boyfriend—I had no choice but to get along with him. Now he’s not, so I don’t have to pretend to like him anymore.”
I cover up a laugh behind my napkin.
“Boy was too needy,” Mr. Hayes continues. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”
“How did he look at me?” Allie asks warily.
“Like you were his entire world.”
She frowns. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“Damn right it is. Nobody should ever be someone else’s entire world. That’s not healthy, AJ. If your whole life is centered on one thing—one person—whatcha going to be left with if that person goes away? Absolutely nothing.” He gruffly reiterates, “Not healthy.”
Joe Hayes has a very practical way of looking at things. I’m oddly impressed.
“Well, now you’re just making me feel bad for Sean. Let’s change the subject. Dean, tell my dad about your last game.”
I sigh ruefully. “Really? The one I got thrown out of?”
Her dad harrumphs. “Of course.”
The conversation becomes strained again. I’m relieved when it’s finally time to clear the table, eagerly standing up to help Allie gather the dishes. There’s still half a turkey left in the serving platter, which Mr. Hayes reaches for as he staggers to his feet.
“No, Dad,” Allie says in a strict voice. “Go and watch the rest of the game. Dean and I can clean up.”
“I’m not an invalid, AJ,” he grumbles. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying one plate to the kitchen.”
No sooner do the words exit his mouth than the platter wobbles in his hand. Or rather, his hand wobbles and the platter follows suit, abruptly slipping from his grip and smashing to the hardwood.
The ceramic shatters to pieces, sending the slippery turkey careening across the floor. I immediately set down my plates and hurry around the table. Allie does the same, and our heads bump when we both reach for the same broken piece.
“Goddamn it,” Mr. Hayes bites out. “I’ll take care of the mess.”
“No.” Her tone isn’t strict anymore—it’s commanding. She snatches the ceramic shard from my hand and says, “Dean, would you take Dad to the living room and make sure he stays there?”
Her father levels me with a death glare that makes my balls shrivel up, but no way am I facing Allie’s wrath right now. Stifling a sigh, I lightly clasp Joe’s arm and lead him out of the small dining room.
The scowl stays fixed on his face even after he’s settled on the couch. “I could’ve cleaned it up myself,” he informs me.