Still, I mop up the last drips

  of gravy with a dinner roll.

  Dad watches, then comments,

  If you ate like that every day

  you’d need bigger clothes.

  Better skip the pumpkin pie.

  Gabe shoots me a sympathetic

  eye roll. Ariel eats like a canary.

  I think she can manage one piece

  of pie without requiring

  a whole new wardrobe.

  As much as I appreciate Gabe

  sticking up for me, Dad’s been

  drinking for hours. This could

  could go badly or he could

  laugh it off. I cringe, waiting.

  But it’s Zelda who takes on Dad.

  Hey, Mark. Isn’t it you who always says you like your women with

  a little extra padding? Or was

  that something you made up

  to make little ol’ me feel better?

  Either way, this girl’s having

  pie, though it might have

  to wait for an hour or so.

  Dad chooses to plaster a grin

  on his face. Y’all are right. My

  girl is a little bird. One meal

  won’t make her a blimp, will it?

  He stares across the table at me,

  and with one sudden vicious

  verbal blow knocks the air

  from my gut, and from my lungs:

  Too damn bad she looks so much

  like her fucking whore mother.

  I push back from the table

  hard, a reservoir of invective

  threatening to burst the dam.

  But just as I’m about to free

  it, a thought dashes across my

  mind: What if this is his way

  of proving me too irrational

  to merit a driver’s license?

  I Stay in My Chair

  Zelda jumps to her feet,

  inviting Dad’s anger

  simply by warning,

  Mark . . .

  And Gabe stands slowly,

  puts out one hand to

  steady me, and asks,

  Do you really think

  that was called for?

  And Dad sits very still,

  ignoring the others

  while measuring my

  reaction to his absolute

  invitation to tell his sorry

  ass totally off.

  Now I stand, scoot

  my chair back under

  the table. “Know what,

  Dad? That was the first

  time you’ve ever mentioned

  what Mom looks like.

  Interesting to know

  I resemble her.

  Thank you for that.”

  I amble over to the counter.

  “I think I’ll have some pie.”

  And That’s the First Time

  I can remember

  calling my mother

  Mom. Not “my mom.”

  Not “my mother.”

  Mom.

  I hope that hurts

  my bastard father.

  I’m reeling, though

  I don’t dare show it.

  My father

  is a carrion eater.

  Maybe I’ve seen it before.

  But I’m not sure

  I truly realized

  until now that

  bone picking

  might, in fact, be

  his favorite hobby

  and that his victims

  are as varied as his

  W o m e N

  and me.

  Wordlessly

  My pie and I retreat to the living

  room. I turn on the TV, mostly

  for noise, which works perfectly,

  because what comes on is football.

  I flop down onto the too-soft sofa,

  stare at big dudes in tight pants

  and helmets running into one another,

  pick at pumpkin filling in need

  of more cinnamon or nutmeg

  or whatever. I’m glad I decided

  not to drink earlier. That little scene

  was an excellent reminder

  of the importance of self-control.

  I’m thankful I could manage it.

  I think I’ll save inebriation for when

  I’m positive there won’t be a need

  to parry with Dad, or with anyone,

  for that matter. I’m wounded,

  but not fatally, and with any luck

  at all, I’m still on track to get

  my driver’s license this coming

  week. Once mobility is assured,

  I won’t require anyone in my life.

  I’ll be picky about who I keep.

  Gabe Will Probably Be a Keeper

  He joins me on the sofa now,

  tilting the sagging cushion, and

  so also me, toward the center.

  Wow. That was ugly. I’m sorry

  he said those things to you.

  I shrug. Try to think of a proper

  response, but no words seem

  appropriate. What finally comes

  out of my mouth is, “Want some

  pie? I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

  You don’t like it? I made it from

  scratch. Well, except for the crust.

  That came from a mix, but a good one.

  I don’t mention the need for

  more spices. “It’s yummy, but

  I don’t have room for dessert

  after all. You’re an awesome

  cook, by the way. I hope I can

  be as good as you one day.”

  Stick with me, baby, and I’ll impart

  my entire repertoire of culinary

  secrets. You’ll be a master chef.

  I can’t help it. “But then I’d need

  a plus-size wardrobe, wouldn’t I?”

  I don’t know if that is, in fact,

  a subconscious plea for

  reassurance, but Gabe takes it

  that way, and I’m happy when

  he reaches for my hand.

  You listen to me. His whisper

  is fierce. I don’t know what

  your dad’s problem is or was,

  but that attack was bullshit.

  You’re an incredible girl, and

  if you put on a pound or two

  no one would notice because

  you’d still be the exact same

  funny, bright, loving person.

  Funny? I guess.

  Bright? Enough.

  Loving? Am I?

  “Okay. If you say so. I’ll save

  the pie and eat it later. With

  whipped cream. And I’ll wash it

  down with full-strength eggnog.

  None of that light shit for me.”

  Atta girl. Now, who’s winning

  the game? He chances a quick

  kiss. Last thing we need is

  Dad’s commentary on that.

  After a While

  Dad stumbles into the room,

  holding a glass of what might

  have a thimbleful of eggnog

  combined with some amber

  liquid. Whiskey, is what Dad’s

  breath announces, when he says,

  Move over there, would ya?

  Gabe excuses himself to go

  call his mom and wish her

  a happy Thanksgiving. When

  he gets up off the sofa, I do, too.

  “I’ll help Zelda with the dishes.”

  Dad snorts. Was it something

  I said? Hey! Touchdown!

  I ignore him, and the touchdown,

  wander back into the kitchen,

  where Zelda has already managed

  to clean up the Gobbler Day mess.

  “I didn’t know you were a magician.”

  It wasn’t so bad. Mark cleared

  while I washed a
nd put stuff away.

  Dad Played Busboy?

  That’s hard to believe.

  Maybe Zelda gave him

  hell. Funny, but I think

  the magician comment

  is the most words I’ve

  ever offered her at once.

  “Dad never helps clear

  at home. You really must

  be able to work magic.”

  There. Real conversation.

  Believe it or not, I think

  he felt guilty about blowing

  up at the dinner table, not

  that he bothered to apologize.

  He didn’t tell you he was sorry,

  did he? I told him he should.

  “No, but it doesn’t matter,

  and empty apologies

  don’t count anyway.

  I’ll do what I always do,

  and chalk it up to alcohol.”

  Zelda, who isn’t nearly as

  buzzed, nods understanding.

  You and I don’t talk much,

  but I want you to know if you

  ever need an ear, I’m here, okay?

  Actual Kindness

  That’s how that feels.

  Not just lip service.

  And lacking ulterior motive.

  What can she want

  from me, anyway?

  “Thanks, Zelda. Appreciate it.”

  Not that I’d ever take

  her up on it. Not like I

  ever want to grow close

  to one of Dad’s women.

  That would spell doom.

  “And thanks for a great Turkey Day.”

  I don’t mention it’s the first time

  I’ve ever felt like part of a family

  bigger than just Dad and me.

  Why did he have to ruin it?

  Why was I the person he chose

  to shove so forcefully away?

  Between the L-Tryptophan

  In the turkey and the alcohol

  in his eggnog, Dad passes out,

  snoring, before the game ends.

  I don’t need to stay and listen

  to his rumbling, so I ask Gabe

  for a ride home, and to make

  sure Dad stays put, I bring

  the keys to the Focus with me.

  “I’ll send them back with Gabe,”

  I assure Zelda. “But you might

  want to hang on to them until

  tomorrow. Dad shouldn’t drive

  tonight, and I’m fine home alone.”

  The first third of the drive

  is silent, Gabe and I both lost

  in introspection. He’s rarely

  so pensive, and when I finally

  pull myself out of myself,

  I ask, “Is everything okay?”

  Yeah. I just miss my mom, and

  talking to her only makes me

  miss her more. She’s doing better,

  though. Says she’ll probably go

  home after the first of the year.

  “That’s great. Sounds like progress.

  Oh, hey . . . Look. There’s Niagara.”

  Gabe slows as we pass the Triple G,

  where a woman’s riding the mare

  in a paddock. An attractive woman.

  Gabe confirms it’s Peg Grantham.

  “Pull over a second. Please.”

  When the GTO brakes to a halt,

  I jump out and go over to the fence,

  wave, and Niagara, plus rider,

  come trotting over. I introduce

  myself, then ask, “How’s Hillary?”

  Her injuries are healing well.

  But she’s antsy. And lonely.

  You should come visit her.

  “Would tomorrow be okay?”

  I say it before realizing I might

  not have a way to get here.

  Oh, absolutely. Also, I hear

  you’re a horsewoman. I’ll take you

  on a tour of the barn if you’d like.

  “Sounds like a plan. I’d love it.”

  Deal struck, I figure I’ll just have

  to talk Gabe into giving me a ride.

  Home Again

  Straight into the routine.

  Shoes off by the door.

  Click heater up.

  Go into the kitchen

  for something to drink

  while Gabe settles in

  on the couch to wait.

  Except this time what

  I return with are two

  steaming mugs of tea,

  sugar on the side.

  While I wouldn’t mind

  something stronger,

  I want to see if kissing

  him is as good minus

  any trace of alcohol.

  He looks at me quizzically.

  Earl Grey? That’s new.

  “You know your tea,

  which doesn’t surprise

  me. But, yeah, I guess

  this is the mostly new me.

  I’ll put on some music.

  Any special requests?”

  Don’t suppose you have any

  Cold War Kids? Or Muse?

  This makes me smile.

  “I do, actually, and I rarely

  get to play them without

  headphones on. Dad only

  listens to country.”

  I plug my phone into

  the speaker dock Dad gave

  me for Christmas last year,

  an interesting gift choice,

  considering he hates my music.

  Then I sit close to Gabe,

  who pulls my legs across

  his. We sip tea, listening

  to music we both appreciate,

  and the importance of this

  particular connection

  soon becomes obvious.

  I need to feel cared

  about. Gabe needs to

  feel not alone. We don’t

  have to give voice to those

  feelings. It’s enough we

  acknowledge them. We do,

  and I know we do, because

  simultaneously we set

  our cups down so they

  can’t interfere in what’s

  coming next. “Wait.”

  Not on the Couch

  Not fast.

  Not half-clothed.

  Not a throwaway.

  I lead Gabe down

  the short hallway

  to my room, happy

  for once to have made

  the bed when I got up.

  I turn on the night-

  light I rarely rely on.

  That will be enough.

  I don’t want to bathe

  in harsh artificial glare,

  but I do want to see.

  He stops me just inside

  the door. Are you sure?

  “Is it too late to change

  my mind?” I grin. “No.

  I’m sure. At least I think so.”

  Now he smiles. Way to be

  definitive. Well, if you’re

  almost, sort of, kinda sure,

  let’s give it a try. But first . . .

  I’ve Lost Track

  Of what number kiss

  this could be, but it

  doesn’t matter. This kiss

  will lead somewhere new,

  and that’s a place I must explore.

  This kiss isn’t sweet.

  Isn’t gentle, and yet,

  the kind of need infusing

  it is anything but selfish.

  He’s giving to me.

  I’m giving to him.

  And when one accepts

  what the other offers,

  it is with gratitude.

  His arms encircle

  my waist, lift, and carry

  me to the bed, where

  he lays me down

  carefully, treasure.

  I watch him peel off

  clothing?
??his shirt,

  his Wranglers—until there’s

  nothing left but the gray

  boxers that hide nothing.

  He has a blue-collar body,

  toned by physical labor,

  not gym equipment.

  He also has goose bumps.

  The heater hasn’t quite

  managed to shake the chill.

  I laugh. “Better get under

  the covers before you freeze.”

  Good idea. But first . . .

  He reaches down, unzips

  my jeans, tugs them off

  by the cuffs. I wish I’d worn

  Victoria’s Secret panties

  instead of the garden

  variety cotton, but that’s

  all I’ve got in my drawer.

  Gabe doesn’t seem to care.

  His hands travel my legs,

  knees to hips, then push

  up over the slight rise

  of my belly to the small

  hills jutting just above.

  Take off your sweater.

  He helps lift it over my head,

  then unhooks my bra before

  covering our exposed skin

  with sheet and quilt and

  lying beside me, facing me,

  and he pauses there.

  You can still change your mind.

  In response, I kiss him,

  plead for his lips and tongue

  and fingers to touch places

  only one other person

  has ever been given explicit

  permission to explore.

  He isn’t Monica, no, not at all.

  She is silk. He is leather.

  She is lithe. He is brawn.

  She is low tide. He is high.

  She quivers. He quakes.

  The giving is different.

  He directs, and I follow

  the script, learn the action,

  rehearse until I get it right.

  The final act is approaching.

  I thought I would be scared

  but I’m anxious for the gift

  of knowledge denied by God

  in the book of Genesis.

  Instead, Gabe is the denier.

  Stop. I don’t have a condom.

  Condom, Right

  I definitely don’t want

  to take a chance on

  getting pregnant.

  Oh, but . . .

  “Hold on a sec.”

  I roll over toward

  the nightstand, open

  the drawer, which is

  still well-stocked with

  Trojans I haven’t had

  a use for, up until now.

  When I hand one to

  Gabe, he gives me

  an oh really? look.

  “You can thank Syrah.

  Long story. Tell you

  later. Meanwhile . . .”

  The pause has resulted

  in a need to start over,