Page 80 of Never Bargain with the Boss
Everyone’s engaged and talkative. Except Kayla, I realize. She’s sitting back, watching us all. Probably thinking ‘dance, monkeys, dance’ because in some ways, she’s more of a beast than any of my brothers. Her packaging is just prettier. I catch her eye and lift my brows, questioning whether she’s okay. She returns the move, arching one wry brow like, ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’ and I wisely decide that’s a bomb I don’t want to touch right now.
“Miranda,” Ira says from the doorway, and Mom nods.
I lean down to explain to Riley, “That’s Ira, our house manager. Don’t let his age or sweet demeanor fool you. He knows everything about everyone and isn’t afraid to use the information for good or evil, depending on his mood.”
“Knows where the bodies are buried,” she suggests with a grin. “I like him already.”
“You’re probably not wrong,” I answer, waiting as she stands, following suit with Mom’s lead as we head toward the dining room.
I was right. Mom sends us all to the table, while she disappears upstairs to round Dad up. Samantha is my favorite person for the moment when she asks Grace to sit next to her so that Riley and I can sit together. My daughter certainly doesn’t mind because Samantha is one of her, as she used to call her, ‘mostfavoritestpeople on the whole entire Earth’.
With Grace several feet away at the long cherrywood table, I bump Riley’s knee under the table and send her a sly smirk. We still can’t be too obvious, but there’s much less scrutiny now. She cuts her eyes my way and grins. It’s such a small thing, but it feels so naughty.
Until I look across from me and find Cole staring at me in warning. He knows me. Just as importantly, he knows Riley. And while he’s happy for me, he responded to me privately after the sibling group text, telling me I’d better not fuck up his and Janey’s chance at some sense of normalcy because there is approximately zero-point-zero percent that either of them would leave Emmett with anyone other than Riley. At this point, I think he’d kill me if it meant he got keep Riley.
I frown, Riley is so much more than his babysitter. She’s my… Riley.
Mom and Dad soon make their joint appearance, with Dad declaring, “Thank you for waiting. Sorry about that.” It’s a blanket apology he’s made before, and while I’d love to say he’ll eventually change, he won’t. The best we can hope for is that while he’s at the table, he’ll be solidly with us, and most likely, he will be. He is good about that, at least. As he settles into his seat at the head of the table, he looks up and down each side, stopping abruptly when he sees Riley.
I knew this was coming.
“Dad, this is Riley Stefano. Riley, this is my dad, Charles Harrington.”
“Oh, that’s right. Miranda told me you were coming. You’re Grace’s nanny, right?” He glances at Mom, who has a fake smile plastered on her lips but is silently screaming at him with her eyes. Mom understands nuances and subtleties Dad never could, nor would want to.
“Yes, I am,” Riley answers politely.
As Dad unfolds his napkin and places it in his lap, he asks, “Your family not close enough to go home for Thanksgiving?” It’d be an innocuous question under normal circumstances, but given Riley’s history, it’s most definitely not.
“Dad,” I say sternly.
“It’s okay,” Riley interjects. “I don’t have a family, Thanksgiving or otherwise, so I’m very appreciative of the invitation to join yours this year.”
Dad flinches and looks to Mom for help. She glares back at him like ‘I tried to tell you.’ She probably did warn him, both when I sent the text and just now before they came downstairs, but it wasn’t important enough for him to remember at the time, probably because he was busy moving millions across digital 1’s and 0’s. “We’re quite glad to have you join us,” Mom says, smoothing the awkwardness the way she’s so gifted at doing. “Let’s dig in before it gets cold.”
She grabs the closest platter and begins passing it without taking even a single scoop. She won’t serve herself anything until the dish has made its way around the table at least once. It’s how she is.
While we pass various vegetables and side dishes around, Dad stands to carve the turkey that’s been placed right in front of him. He always does it, but at least it’s not some big Broadway production where we’re expected to watch in silent awe while he heroically slices meat from the bone of a dinner he didn’t make. Still, Riley clutches my thigh under the table and turns platter-sized eyes at me.
“It’s just like on TV!” she whispers at me.
I can’t help but chuckle and nod along with her because she’s right. Our family table does resemble Norman Rockwell’sFreedom from Wanton the surface, with its fine China, white tablecloth, and huge bird center stage, not to mention the generations of wealth and privilege surrounding it.
“Hurry up, Charlie,” Grandmom tells Dad. She’s the only one I’ve ever heard call Dad by the cutesy nickname he used as a child. Not even Mom would dare. “I’m not waiting all day for turkey when I’ve got the gravy right here.” She holds up a silver—real, not plated—gravy boat that is indeed filled with light tan sauce.
“Here, Mom. Take your turkey leg and hush,” Dad tells her, unceremoniously plopping a bone-in leg onto her waiting fine porcelain plate.
Yes, as wealthy and picturesque as our family might be, we’re still just… family, who irritate each other and love each other, sometimes at the same time.
Dinner goes well, with everyone chatting politely and no one asking anything too pointed of Riley and me. Mostly, I spend the whole time hyperaware of her, ignoring everyone else. Her bracelets sing the whole time she’s cutting her turkey, eating her green bean casserole, and poking the marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, and the sound makes me inordinately happy. As does her happily tapping boots beneath the table every time she tries something she particularly enjoys.
“Good?” I ask at one point. I don’t just mean the dressing. I mean with everything.
She gives me a big grin, struggling to not lose a crumb of food, and nods vehemently. I can’t help but chuckle at how adorable she is.
We talked about this last night on the patio, when she revealed she’s never been to a real traditional family Thanksgiving before. She had holidays in some of her foster placements, but more than once, she was taken to what amounted to a daycare center for the day so her foster parents could celebrate with their actual family. She claimed to have understood, especially when feeding extra mouths was already hard, and appreciated the work that went into entertaininga roomful of mostly forgotten kids, but I could tell it hurt her to not be included. Other years, when she did get to go with her foster family, she still felt like an outsider who was mostly unwanted there. She did have happy memories from one Thanksgiving meal, a barbecue held by one extended family, which by Riley’s own report was delicious, but not the same feeling as traditional holiday fare around a big table with people you love.
And with people who love you.