Chapter 2 - THE DRIVE TO COLUMBUS
The silence inside my SUV was thick enough to cut with a carving knife.
Behind us, in the backseat, four-year-old Poppy was clutching her stuffed giraffe, Barnaby, watching out the window as the streetlights of Westerville flickered past.
Lucas sat in the passenger seat, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle was twitching along his cheekbone. He hadn't stopped staring at the dashboard since we pulled out of his parents' driveway, leaving Linda standing on her porch in the crisp autumn air, mouth agape, while Cassie watched from the living room window with a look of utter shock.
"You embarrassed me," Lucas finally spat out, his voice choked with anger. "You embarrassed my entire family in front of my aunt, my uncle, and my sister."
"I embarrassed you?" I kept my eyes fixed on the highway ahead, heading south toward my mother’s small bungalow in German Village. "Lucas, your mother literally belittled my hard work five minutes after I walked through the door. Your sister brought up your ex-girlfriend for the hundredth time this year."
"They were just making small talk!" Lucas shouted, slamming his hand lightly against his knee. "Jesus, Stella! It’s just how my mom talks! She’s passive-aggressive, okay? You know how she is! You couldn't just brush it off for three hours? You had to throw a dramatic temper tantrum and steal the damn Thanksgiving turkey?"
I took a deep breath, refusing to let the hot tears burning behind my eyelids spill over.
"It wasn't a temper tantrum," I said calmly. "It was an eviction notice. I am evicted from the role of your family's punching bag. And as for 'stealing' the turkey—I bought it. I spent eight hundred dollars of my bonus check on that meal. I spent eighteen hours on my feet after working three consecutive night shifts."
"You made me look like an idiot in front of my mother!"
"No, Lucas," I said, pulling up to a red light and finally turning to face him. "You made yourself look like a coward. You sat on that couch and let them pick me apart like scavengers. You’ve been doing it for six years. You think Ryan was so great? Maybe you should have married Ryan. Because clearly, no matter what I do, I will always just be the placeholder until you find someone who fits your mother's precious checklist."
Lucas froze. The mention of Ryan’s name coming out of my mouth with such raw venom struck a nerve.
"That's not fair," he whispered. "Ryan was years ago."
"Then tell your sister that," I snapped. "Because she seems to think Ryan is still sitting at your dinner table."
We pulled up to my mother’s house. The small yellow cottage was glowing with warm light, cozy and humble. My mother, Eleanor, opened the front door before we even cut the engine, wearing her knitted cardigan, looking confused as she saw us hauling massive insulated food bags up her steps.
"Stella? Lucas? What happened?" my mother asked, ushering us inside out of the biting cold. "I thought you were at the Westerville house?"
May you like
I set the heavy bags on her small kitchen table and looked at my mother. The warmth of her tiny home—the scent of cinnamon, pine, and genuine love—nearly broke me right then and there.
"Mom," I said, my voice cracking slightly for the first time. "We brought Thanksgiving to you."
