In honor of the season of Giving Thanks, I thought I’d share one of the two Thanksgiving scenes I’ve ever written. One of those two scenes is in The Letters She Left Behind, but I’m sharing the one from In the Echo of this Ghost Town. To give you a bit of a recap, Griffin and Max are friends (they met during the summer) and have continued their friendship through the fall, but Griffin is beginning to realize he might have more feelings for her than he’s acknowledged:
November
I’m fucking coming out of my skin waiting for Max—and Cal—to arrive for Thanksgiving. Thinking about our tiny-ass ranch style house with a tiny-ass living room and dining room, all of us packed in like sardines in a can, makes me hot and sweaty. The discomfort isn’t the space, it’s the idea of being so close to Max. Since my misguided attempt to share what happened with Coffee Lauren, my texts with Max have been different—not as easy as they once were. I’m afraid I’ve ruined us somehow, and I just want to fix what happened, to go back to the way things were.
I check my reflection in the bathroom one more time, to make sure I look okay. I’ve changed—sort of—since graduation. I’m not as skinny. I’ve got more defined muscles now from the physical work of construction stuff, and the running. My neck is wider, my face a little wider but sharper. I went and got a haircut because my hair was looking shaggy. I’d been inspired by Phoenix whose hair looks like shit—all long and ratty. I run my hands through my own hair one more time, then smooth my dark blue shirt, as if it will ease the ants crawling around inside my chest. I take a deep breath to douse their fire, but they crawl down my arms and out into my fingertips. I crack my knuckles.
“Griffin!” my mom yells from the kitchen. “Would you grab the door?”
I walk into the dining room and take an olive from a dish on the table set for six. Mom, Phoenix, and me. Bill. Cal and Max. Whatever Mom’s doing has my mouth watering. Who knew she could do the whole feast? She refused my help because Phoenix was in the kitchen helping her. She said, “It’s a two-butt kitchen, Griffin. You’re on house-straightening duty.” That took less than an hour. The rest of the unstructured time has added to the way my brain and nerves are spinning. Even the run hasn’t helped today.
“Stop eating the olives and get the door.”
Bill is on the other side. It’s clear he’s put some effort into his appearance for my mom, and I recall just looking at myself in the mirror, wondering why I went to the effort. His grayish hair is neat and trimmed. His red shirt buttoned up under his black leather bomber jacket. He’s tucked the shirt into gray slacks so his belly presses against the buttons a smidge. The cologne he’s wearing is strong and hovers around him like a cloud, but he offers a warm smile. He’s got a bottle of wine, flowers, and something store bought in a paper bag. “Hi, Griffin.”
I step back to let him in. “Hey.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says.
I offer him a peacekeeping smile. “Yeah. You too.”
He passes me, drops everything but the flowers on the counter, then disappears from my view, but I can hear my mom’s pleasure and exclamation over the flowers.
Phoenix appears at the end of the hallway. He’s dressed, though not with as much attention to detail. Jeans and a blue t-shirt with a Star Wars Boba Fett encircled on it. His hair is pulled back into his version of a man bun, most of the hair hovering over his shoulders. He glances at whatever is happening in the kitchen and looks away, his eyes catching mine. For a moment, our brotherly language returns crossing space and time. That’s fucking annoying, he says without making a sound.
I roll my eyes in acknowledgement.
We smile together as he sits on the couch. I join him. He turns up the volume on the football game, so we don’t have to listen to the disgusting flirting occurring in the kitchen. Side by side, we watch the game. I like that our brother language has begun functioning again.
“You hear from Dad?” Phoenix asks between an offensive and defensive series on the TV screen. The game goes to commercial.
Mom laughs in the kitchen at something Bill’s low voice has said, though I can’t hear what it was.
I glance at my brother, who is avoiding my gaze. His is fixed on the commercial. “No. You?” I already know the answer to this question.
Phoenix clears his throat and runs his open hands across his denim-clad thighs. “Yeah. We’ve been talking.”
I look at the TV and watch some guy standing at the edge of a mountain cliff with his new SUV parked behind him. My heartbeat tightens in my chest, keeping things small and compact. I want to say something about it, but the feelings are first, surprise, given how much Phoenix hated our dad when we were younger, and second, insecurity, so I don’t know what to say.
“He wanted me to tell you Happy Thanksgiving.”
I press my teeth together and cross my arms over my chest. The words ‘go to hell’ surface on my tongue, but I don’t voice them. I just nod to let Phoenix know I’ve heard him, then watch as the uniformed men pummel each other on the TV screen.
When there’s a knock on our front door, my heart stalls because I know it’s Cal and Max. My hands start to sweat, which is weird.
“You just going to sit there?” Phoenix asks and pushes me. “You’re closer to the door.”
I find a way to get my muscles moving, swipe my hands over the back pockets of my jeans, and open the door.
Cal’s in front, taking up most of the real estate on the porch. He smiles, and I offer a distracted smile, more interested in seeing Max. I haven’t seen her in person since my visit to her dorm a month earlier, and I recall the way I hadn’t wanted to leave her. My heart speeds up, and my stomach dips and rolls tying itself up into knots. I’m not sure this is how other friends feel…
Cal steps into the living room, and Max is behind him. “Hey, SK.” Her honey hair is down, draped over her shoulders like a pretty waterfall. She looks up at me, and her eyes crash into mine like a wave. Feeling floods me.
…because I like Max. Oh my fucking god. I like Max, and it’s definitely more than friendship. The realization makes my breath logjam in my chest, and my head spin in the thought. I have feelings—real feelings—for Maxwell Wallace.
I recall the feel of her body pressed against mine that morning, and the way I wanted to crawl back into bed with her. The wish that I hadn’t had to go.
The way I feel bright and warm when she texts.
I remember laughing with her at Triple B.
I picture her working on the cabinet and the way her focus makes her lips look soft and kissable.
I feel her sly smile across the table at the pizza parlor, filling the empty deep spaces inside of me with joy.
My stomach does a dizzy dance, and I fist my hands at my sides to keep from reaching for her.
I’ve been so stupid.
Max is the way forward.
I don’t want her to date the Bens or Dereks or Hanks. I want it to be me she chooses—and then realize she tried. I ruined it, like I always do.
I clear my throat so that I can get words that disguise what I’m feeling out. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
She smiles, and her cheeks bloom roses. She swipes a lock of hair, tucks it behind her ear and looks down at her feet to navigate crossing the threshold. When she leans forward, she gives me an awkward hug with her hands on my shoulders. Unsure where to put my hands, I lean closer, breathing in cinnamon and spice, a hand on her back.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
“Close the door. It’s cold,” Phoenix says.
I glance at him, see he’s shaking Cal’s hand, and close the door. “I can take that,” I tell Max.
She hands me the package she’s holding and removes her coat. She’s wearing a blue dress and an open sweater over the top of it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a dress. She looks so pretty that it hurts, a lump in my chest that my heart can’t seem to get around to function properly.
I lead her and Cal into the kitchen, where I introduce them to my mom and Bill.
“Thank you so much for your invitation,” Cal says. “Our kitchen doesn’t look much like a kitchen right now.”
“Yes. Griffin told me,” Mom says. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
They talk like grown-ups, and I tune them out in favor of focusing on Max.
Her eyes slide to mine. She smiles, and it hits my heart like a sharp dart in a bullseye of the board. I can’t keep looking at her because of the weird way it hurts, and I need to reset myself. I’m acting like an idiot. I go to the table and take some olives.
I track Cal as he returns to the living room to sit with Phoenix to watch the game. They talk though I can’t hear them.
Max, who’s standing next to me, has put olives on the tips of her fingers. She wiggles them at me. “I love olives.”
I smile. “I don’t think I’ve done that since I was a kid.”
“Then you’re missing out,” she says and bites one of her fingertips.
I follow her movement with my eyes, her fingertip to her lips. They close over the flesh of the olive, and it disappears. My belly constricts. When I reconnect with her eyes, she’s watching me. She smiles.
I clear my throat, look away because my skin is overheating, and coax myself not to be an idiot. Find something to say, I tell myself. “How are things with your dad?”
“Fine.” She eats another olive.
I beckon her to follow me and lead her down the hallway to my room. When I stop in the doorway, I realize I haven’t thought this through. The room might be sort of neat, but there aren’t a lot of places to sit.
Max doesn’t seem to mind and moves past me to sit on the end of my bed. She looks around.
I follow her in and stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. “You sure you’re okay?”
“It’s good. Dad and I talked.”
“You upset at him?”
“No. I was never really upset with him. Just the circumstances, you know. Indigo disappeared like I figured she would, and I realized that’s what he’d been trying to protect me from.”
I sit next to her.
She turns to face me.
I look down at my hands. It’s easier than getting stuck on the pretty way she looks. “He missed you. And when he got back, whatever happened shook him up.”
“Yeah. It shook me too. He’s all I’ve got.”
I can’t help but look at her then. I search her face. This close in this light I can see she’s got a beauty mark just under her left eye. Her eyes have these deep blue striations and a splash of green in the left one. I’m drawn to the pretty pink sheen of her lips. They’re not smiling at me but downturned just a touch. Kissable. I can feel her eyes measuring me, too, and it feels a little reminiscent of that day in August, when she kissed me. Hope offers a tentative pulse inside of me. Could she still want to kiss me?
“You have me,” I tell her.
She looks away, turns so she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and examines her fingers. Her nails are painted blue to match her dress. “I’m glad.”
I realize even if she is still interested in me, she’d never be the one to cross the line of friendship. Not after what happened in August. I rejected her. Fear coils up like a snake inside of me, tight around the terror of ruining our friendship. Knowing me, that is exactly what I would do. I’ve left a trail of ruined friendships.
She stands, moves away. “So, this is SK’s room.” She glances over her shoulder at me with a fun smile. Dimple.
My belly responds, flopping about. I want to touch her, draw her back to the bed, kiss that dimple.
She moves about the small room with her hands clasped behind her back. “This doesn’t look like a serial killer’s room.” Her voice is low when she says it, like she’s imparting a secret.
“That’s because it isn’t.” I lean back on my hands to watch her move. “What does a serial killer’s bedroom look like?”
Her upper lip quirks with one of those sassy smiles. “Oh. Full of all the news clippings of all their nefarious activities.” Her eyes sparkle as she says it.
“Nefarious? Speak English.” I purposefully goad her.
“I am. Sinister. Come on, SK.” She resumes looking around. “But there isn’t much here. I mean, it doesn’t really reflect you. Where are your posters? Trophies? Pictures of friends?”
I sit back up and glance around. She’s right. There isn’t much of me in this room. “I took down the one poster I had.”
“Oh.” Her eyes light up. “I bet I can guess what it was.”
I raise my eyebrows to invite her to guess.
She returns to the bed and sits next to me. “A picture of a hot girl in a bikini.”
I smile. “Close.”
“And a car.”
This makes me laugh. “Closer.” I wish we were sitting closer.
She smiles. “Why did you take it down?”
I look around at the room, which suddenly feels like a stranger’s space; I don’t know who this person is, and there’s nothing here to tell me. It’s empty. “It just didn’t feel right anymore.”
She hums a response. I don’t know what it means. It doesn’t sound judgmental.
“Would you like me to take your sweater?” I ask her.
“Sure.” She gets up.
I stand, stepping up behind her—closer—to help her.
She turns her head slightly, and I notice the way her lashes fan over her cheeks.
My fingertips graze the bare skin of her shoulder.
She stalls, and her eyes flash to mine.
I freeze.
Someone laughs in the other room.
She shivers, looks away, says something about keeping the sweater, and shrugs it back on.
I don’t catch all of what she’s said more cognizant of the fire burning from my fingertips straight to my center. “Max.” I don’t know why I say her name. I just need to. I can’t find my balance without saying it. I don’t reach out and touch her. I don’t move. I’m in suspended animation.
She draws her hair from under the collar and turns to face me. “Yeah?” Then her eyes flick up to mine, and I know she can see all the feelings my features are telling her. While I may have been able to hide them from everyone else, I’ve never been very good at hiding them when it comes to her. She saw them the very first time she met me when she sat down at the table. She hadn’t even known my name.
She steps closer.
When she takes a breath, I can feel the shift in my shirt, whispering a caress across my skin.
She tilts her head slightly to meet my gaze. “Griffin?”
Griffin.
Not SK.
Griffin.
My heart is in my throat, filling it with its mass rather than words because I don’t know what the words are. I just know there are flashes of lightning electrifying me. I notice her breathing—it’s erratic, faster than a moment ago. These tiny observations make me think that maybe she wants me to kiss her. That whatever happened last August is still between us, that all the tension I felt at her dorm wasn’t just me.
I’m afraid.
“Me too,” she says.
“I said that out loud?”
She offers a tentative smile, nods, then leans toward me as if to tell me she’s willing to meet me halfway.
I reach out and pinch a strand of her hair between my fingers, afraid to touch her, but she tilts her head so that her cheek presses against my hand holding the strand of silky hair. I release it and lay my open palm against her cheek.
“I want to kiss you,” I say, but the words barely make a sound.
“Hey!”
I straighten, and Max whirls around at the sound of Phoenix’s voice.
Standing in the doorway, his eyes darting between us, Phoenix smiles a toothy grin, which makes me want to punch his face. “Dinner,” he says.
“Okay.” I offer him a frustrated look.
He winks at me before he disappears, and I grind my teeth together.
Max, who is suddenly intent on looking at the stuff on top of my dresser, has her back to me.
“Ready?” I ask.
She turns, her cheeks pink with a blush, and nods. “Starving.”
I wonder if she’s talking about the meal. The thought excites me that she isn’t.
