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ladyseaheart1668 · 5 years

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Endless Summer Book 4 : Daughter of Vaanu (Chapter Thirty-Three)

Description: It is a day to give thanks. But our heroes know they must always keep on their guard

Tagging: @mysteli @xo-endlessmayhem-xo @princesstopgun @endlesshero1122 @whatmcsaid @tigerbryn11 @feartheendlesssummer

Notes: Whew! This is a long one! ^_^; Once again, I want to thank @endlesshero1122 for inventing five characters and giving me full permission to use them. Dylan, RJ, Ysa, Zig (not Ortega!), and Alex are those characters, and you will all be seeing a lot more of them. :)

Chapter 33: Days of Plenty

Grace

“May I come in, darling?”

The question shakes me out of my momentary stupor. “I...I suppose so.” I take the chain off the door and pull it open, stepping aside. My mother steps inside, the heels of her pumps clicking on the hardwood floors. I shut the door behind her. It has been awhile since I've seen her. I take her beautiful white suede coat, trimmed with faux fur, and hang it on the coat rack by the door. Months, at least. She has aged some in that time; a few more fine lines, a few more gray hairs. But she is still flawlessly put together in her sophisticated royal blue dress suit and pumps, with her hair swept back in a French twist. She is clutching a designer briefcase, with her name engraved on the edge in an elegant serif font. I can't help but feel shabby in my sweater and mom-jeans, standing in the foyer of a luxury London flat that has definitely lost some of its showroom quality thanks to baby-proofing and two busy parents who can't exactly keep up with cleaning.

“...Would you like some coffee? There's a fresh pot brewed and everything.”

“Thank you, dear, that would be lovely.”

I lead her into the kitchen, only to immediately regret my decision when I get in there and remember what a disaster area it is. I move toward the cupboard to find a coffee cup, hoping my body blocks the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Not that it will make much difference with the countertops covered in half-cleaned spills and the floors unwashed. To my horror, I turn away from the cupboard and find I am too late to stop my mother from putting her hand down right into the sticky remains of an apple juice disaster from yesterday morning. Aleister and I had blotted up the amber puddles on the countertops and the floor with almost our entire supply of clean tea towels, but we were both running late. By the time we got home, we were both too tired to do anything more. We figured that no lives would be lost if we waited until morning to dig out the kitchen cleanser and the mop. But then, neither of us were expecting guests. There's a pit in my stomach as I offer my mother a hand wipe. At least we keep boxes of those stocked in every room.

“I'm sorry about that. I was trying to fill Reggie's sippy cup with apple juice yesterday, but somehow, I managed to drop the bottle and we didn't have time to give it a proper cleaning. I was planning on doing that this morning...”

“I see...” My mother accepts the wipe, delicately blotting her perfectly manicured hands, and conspicuously moving away from that area of the counter. I wince as I hear the soles of her shoes squelch in the sticky residue on the floor. “...Have you considered hiring a bit of domestic help? Perhaps a nanny or a housekeeper?”

“We have a several babysitters on call for when we're both working,” I say firmly. “We haven't found that we have need of a housekeeper right now.”

“The soles of my shoes might disagree,” she quips.

“Well, the soles of your shoes don't live here,” I snap. As her eyes narrow slightly, I take a deep breath, forcing a smile as I hand her a cup of coffee. “Why don't we go into the living room? I can't promise it will be immaculate, but at least you're not likely to find apple juice puddles in there.”

As we head into the living room, Aleister emerges from the bedroom with Reggie in his arms. He smiles politely at my mother, though his gaze is lukewarm as he regards her.

“Mother Hall. I thought I heard your voice. What a surprise.”

“Aleister.” My mother and husband come together to peck each other obligingly on the cheek. Mom smiles at Reggie, tickling him under the chin. “And Reginald Mason Rourke. How handsome you're becoming.”

“Can you say hello to your grandmother, Reginald?” It appears that the diamond tassel earrings dangling from my mother's earlobes have caught Reggie's eye because he squeals excitedly, reaching for one with surprising speed. Luckily, Aleister is faster. “Now, Reginald, 'say hello' does not mean attempt to steal her lovely earrings.”

“No harm done. I am glad that you are home. I was honestly hoping to speak with you both. Will you join us in the living room?”

“Do you have time, sweetie?” I ask pointedly. “If you don't, I can fill you in later.”

“I am the C.E.O. Well, one of them. I can take a few extra minutes.”

We continue into the living room, where Mom sits on a cuddly toy lion when she sinks into an armchair. She doesn't say anything about it, but she does make a very pointed face as she sets it aside. Aleister and I sit on the sofa, with Aleister balancing Reggie on his knee.

“I am here,” my mother says, looking at Aleister, “because your father has been in contact with me.”

Aleister looks up sharply. I feel my chest go tight, and my hand flies to his.

“You mean...recently?”

“Early in September. He wanted me to look into a former employee at Mansingh Transglobal. The mother of your friend, Alodia Chandler.”

The silence that follows her announcement is so thick that even Reggie seems to sense that something isn't right. He goes quiet, his chubby little face scrunching up uncertainly. When he starts to squirm and whine, Aleister lets him down to crawl around on the soft carpet at our feet.

“...What did you find out?” I finally manage to ask.

“Not a lot. Cassandra Chandler was a computer science major who worked as a researcher. She died about the time I became the C.E.O. There doesn't seem to have been much that was extraordinary about her, and it isn't exactly hard to believe that Everett Rourke would be interested in her since his obsession with her daughter is not exactly a secret.”

“No, I suppose it isn't,” Aleister concedes. “But then why bring this information to us if you don't think there is anything substantial to it?”

“Because for one thing, you deserve to know that your father has been in contact with me. For another, Alodia Chandler is a friend of yours. And you two experienced Rourke's obsession with her firsthand. You might not know much about why he was obsessed with her, but you know more than I do.” She opens her briefcase, and pulls out a sheaf of papers, held together with a binder clip. “Here's what I could find on her. Perhaps Alodia will be interested in it.”

“...Thank you, Mom.” I accept the papers.

“Well, I have taken enough of your time and my own. I must be off.”

“Of course. I'll walk you to the door.”

I get my mother's coat and show her out. After watching her go, I return to the living room. Aleister is leafing absently through the papers she left us. I come up beside him to put an arm over his shoulder.

“I think I may have to hold off on those sketches. I feel like I should go through those papers today.”

Aleister looks up at me. “Do you think whatever's in here is that important?”

“I don't know. Just...something about this doesn't feel right. My mother was acting strangely.”

“Was she?”

“It seemed so to me...”

Aleister sighs, rising to his feet. He approaches me and takes my shoulders gently, bending to kiss my cheek.

“I have to leave for work now, darling. Perhaps you can agree to wait until I get home so we can go over those papers together?”

It's my turn to sigh. “You really want me to wait?”

“Yes, darling. Two heads will be more effective than one. Besides, I want you to be able to work on your sketches today.”

“In between keeping our son out of trouble and making our flat a little more presentable?”

“Precisely. Let's worry about puzzling out the mystery of Alodia's human parent together.” He pauses for a moment. “...Besides, if we find something, we may be tempted to call her, which might not be entirely welcome while she is trying to make a good impression on her in-laws—not to mention the fact that she is at least six hours behind us.”

“All right, fair.” I am quiet for a moment, frowning. “...Hey...Mom said your father contacted her in early September. That was before they confiscated his phone, right?”

“Yes, I believe so. ...Why do you ask?”

“...Like I said. Something just doesn't feel right.”

Michelle

If I have to be at the hospital working instead of with my family on Thanksgiving, at least I'm working the noon-to-midnight shift, which means that for once I can be the one making sure Sean has a decent breakfast before seeing him off and crawling back into bed for a couple more hours' sleep.

“Oatmeal,” I inform him, setting the bowl in front of him, “and whole grain toast. A nice carb-o-licious breakfast to give you energy for the game today.”

He grins at me. “I have the best fiancée.”

I come up behind his chair to wrap my arms around his shoulders. “Your fiancée wishes she could be at the game today cheering you on, instead of at the hospital.”

“I know, babe.” He leans back into my embrace. “But you're doing great things at the hospital. You know how insanely proud I am of you.”

I admit I feel a smile playing around my mouth when he says that. “I know.” I kiss his cheek. “...I hope you know I'm proud of you, too.”

“I do know. But it's really nice to hear it, too. ...Think you'll have a couple minutes to watch a little of the game?”

“It's hard to say. You know how unpredictable a hospital can be.”

“Of course. Want me to wait up for you tonight? It's only gonna be a little after midnight when you get home.”

“You're gonna be exhausted after the game.”

He shrugs. “I'll still wait up if you want me to. I'll rig up some device to keep me awake.”

I snort. “Some device?”

“You know, some pulley sytem connected to my head or my shoulder that will turn on the stereo super loud if I start to nod off.”

He demonstrates, drawing an invisible pulley system in the air with his fingers, and then pretends to be nodding off, a theatrical snore interrupted by a vocal imitation of a loud metal riff. I laugh.

“No need to go to those kind of lengths. If you're up when I get home, I will be happy to see you. But if you're tired, you should sleep.”

“All right, I'll sleep. If I am tired.”

“Good boy.”

“...I love you, Michelle.”

“I love you, too, Sean.” I give him another peck on the cheek, and go to sit down across from him where my own breakfast is waiting. “Now eat your oatmeal. You've got a big game today.”

Estela

These past few weeks have been like a dream. Me and Tio Nicholas and Mom together in a peaceful San Trobida. Having Quinn here with us only adds to the utopian atmosphere. In fact, in the moments when the chimera wavers and worries about the world outside creep in, having someone else who was on La Huerta with me has helped to keep panic from setting in. Besides that, she has been a general boon to have around the house, helping with the chores and just generally being a joy. There are moments when I worry that I am keeping her here against her will. I promise I've told her that she doesn't have to stay if she would rather go back to her own family, especially for Thanksgiving. But apparently, she has spoken to her parents, and encouraged them to make Thanksgiving romantic occasion for the two of them. Since I am clearly not holding her against her will and thus I cannot release her, the only thing I can do is to make sure she knows how much I appreciate her presence.

On Thursday morning, I wake up early to make her pancakes. I've never been much of a cook, but with her and Raj giving me a few lessons, I've at least overcome my fear of the kitchen enough to follow a recipe. I prepare a breakfast tray, garnish it with a flower in a cup of water, and carry it up to the guest bedroom where she has been staying. She's still asleep when I get up there. To my chagrin, just my entering the room isn't enough to wake her. I linger in the doorway with the tray in my hand, wondering whether I should wake her, come back later, or just stay here. It seems my hesitation makes the decision for me, because after a moment or two, Quinn starts to stir. I feel myself standing up straighter as she turns her bleary gaze on me.

“Estela?” She sits up, blinking. “What's going on?”

I clear my throat, holding out the tray. “Um...this is for you...” I wince at myself. What am I doing, standing in the doorway, holding out the tray as if I expect her to come get it? I cross the room as quickly as I can without spilling anything to set the tray over her lap. She smiles, laughing a little.

“What is this?”

“...Breakfast. It's...to say thank you. For coming with me to San Trobida, and for staying with us these past couple weeks. You have been very helpful around the house, and my mom and tio can't say enough good things about you. So...thank you.”

“Oh, Estela, it's my pleasure. Really. Having your long-dead mother return home and revealing the details of our vacation through hell to your uncle seems like the kind of thing the presence of a friend could help you navigate more easily.”

“And so it has. ...And even if I don't need to thank you, I do want to.”

She pats the bed beside her. “Well, why don't you start by sitting down and helping me eat these pancakes?”

I take a seat on the edge of the bed, pushing a small cup of warmed syrup in her direction. She picks it up and drizzles the stuff over the pancakes.

“I was thinking...that you and I could make a day of it today. I could take you into the city and show you some of the sights. ...What do you say?”

She grins. “I can hardly think of a better way to spend a day that begins with breakfast in bed.”

I smile back. “Good. Because I want this day to be special for you. Also, if you had said no, that would have been decidedly awkward.”

Raj

Shooting an episode of a cooking show is never a one-day affair, but every show handles their schedule a little bit differently. Some chefs choose to set aside a block of a few days and knock out several episodes in a single day of shooting. That's not so practical for me, since I like to travel for my episodes. But I still have to shoot each episode several times over before there's enough that the wizards in the editing department can splice the best bits together into a winning episode. By the time we have enough footage for the Rome episode, I am worn out, and I can tell Lila is, too. Neither of us feel safe leaving her on her own, even if we are in Italy, but I can't exactly invite her to help with the episode, either. We feel even less safe putting her in front of a television camera. So, she's spent a lot of time just sitting around, and I know well that boredom can be even more exhausting than work.

On the last day of shooting, we're finished before noon. I help the crew clean up, then leave the set to look for Lila. I find her sleeping on the couch in my dressing room. I shake her shoulder gently.

“Lila? Wakey-wakey.”

She blinks at me and yawns, stretching. “Are we done for the day?”

“We're done for the episode.”

“Mmm.” She pushes herself upright. “On to the next one?”

“In due time. But we've got a bit of a break now. About a week.”

“So, what will we do until then?”

I grin. “Something that I hope you'll like. How would you feel about a holiday in Tuscany?”

Alodia

I wake up with the sun Thanksgiving morning, only to find that Jake and his family are already awake. I can smell cooking from downstairs. As I make my way down, I can hear the familiar sounds of the Macy's parade broadcast coming from the television in the living room, as well as voices from the dining room where the family has gathered for breakfast.

To my great relief, my late night awakening never becomes a topic of conversation during breakfast. I am greeted warmly and welcomed into the meal, where they ask me how I am feeling and if I slept well. No one questions it when I reply that I slept very well, thank you. I make quick work of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, and help Bernadette and Rebecca with the breakfast dishes. We have to hustle, Bernadette says, because we don't have much time to dawdle before we have to begin preparing dinner.

“Are there going to be many people?” I ask, meticulously loading plates into the dishwasher.

“Depends on what you consider 'many',” Rebecca replies.

“It's the usual crowd for us,” Bernadette says. “Frank's brother Pete and his girlfriend, my brother Emile with his wife and their two boys, my mom, and a couple of our old friends who don't have anywhere else to go for the holiday.”

“Well, that's bigger than most Thanksgivings I ever had growing up. It was usually just my aunt, my uncle, me, and Diego. Sometimes his parents came too, but they didn't really do Thanksgiving themselves so that wasn't often.”

“Well, you're gonna get the full McKenzie experience this year,” Rebecca quips. “And if that isn't enough to make you regret marrying my baby brother, nothing will.”

“Oh, boy. Jake did mention it was going to be chaotic. Anything I should be forewarned about?”

“Well, you're not the only one who's meeting the family for the first time. Uncle Pete's girlfriend is someone we've only “met” over Facebook so far.”

“She seems like a nice woman, though,” Bernadette adds. “Her name is Aubrey. I think she's from Chicago originally. About twenty years younger than Pete, but once you get to be a certain age, that's not much of a difference.”

“Hey, as long as everyone is legal and consenting, I don't pass judgment,” I remark. “Well, not moral judgment, anyway. I admit to having my opinions on whether what people are doing is altogether wise, but only when it involves people I know well.”

“Sound policy,” Rebecca says approvingly. “Anyway, you'll be in good company with Aubrey. Now, about Uncle Emile and Aunt Lorraine...”

* * *

Once the dishes are done, I head back upstairs to get dressed. I've packed a long floral-printed sundress with an empire waist and a matching shrug. I add some subtle jewelry, a touch of makeup, and sweep my hair back into a French braid. I brush my teeth and head back downstairs, where the parade has been replaced on the television with a football game.

“Is this the Condors' game?” I ask, coming to sit beside Jake on the couch.

“They're not playing for a couple hours,” he answers, taking my hand and kissing it. “But don't worry. I made sure Pop knows we're die-hard Condors fans. ...You look beautiful, by the way.”

I grin and kiss his cheek. “I'll do then?”

“Absolutely. You're gonna knock 'em all dead.”

It's not even noon when the McKenzie guests start arriving. The first is an old neighbor, Sidney Everly. To describe her as an elderly widow calls up an image that is quite contrary to her actual presence. The moment I am introduced as Jake's wife, she squeals and pulls me into a hug that can only be described as crushing. Clearly, her slender, stooped appearance belies her strength.

“So someone finally snapped up Jake McKenzie! And he's put a bun in her oven!”

“Okay, okay, Sidney, don't swarm her,” Jake chides, gently but firmly separating us. “Remember she is pregnant.”

“Oh, phooey, she's not going to pop,” Sidney scoffs, but she doesn't try to hug me again. “All right, Bernadette, put me in the kitchen and set me to work!”

Next to arrive is Jesse Atwood, an equally animated bachelor who comes with a violin case and tray of exquisite-looking handmade chocolate eclairs topped with berries and dusted with powdered sugar. He is quickly followed by Bernadette's younger brother and sister-in-law, Emile and Lorraine Landry, with their teenage boys, Neil and Ethan. Seventeen-year-old Neil is friendly and seems eager to get to know everyone in the room. Ethan is fifteen years old, and I'm not sure if he's going through a surly teenage phase or if he's just overwhelmed by the number of people present, but he arrives with earbuds firmly in his ears and barely glances up from the game he's playing on his phone when I'm introduced. The family doesn't seem phased by this, which tells me that whatever it is, it's not personal, so I leave him be.

Finally, Frank's brother Pete shows up with his girlfriend Aubrey, a short, slim woman in her late forties with dark brown hair cut just above her shoulders and styled in a fluffy perm. She grins when we're introduced and shakes my hand. There is relief in her soft gray eyes.

“Glad to meet you, Alodia. I think you and I are the major curiosities here tonight.” She leans in a little closer. “Though I think you're probably a little more of a curiosity than I am. No offense.”

“None taken. Between my backstory and my baby bump I expect to be fielding a lot of questions tonight.”

“Come on, everyone!” Sidney calls from the kitchen. “There's a feast to be prepared! Anyone who's helping with the cooking, in the kitchen! Everyone else--”

“Everyone else will please heed my instructions and not Sidney's!” Bernadette says firmly, though I can see a smile on her lips. “Alodia, sha, maybe you can help serve up some cider and snacks?”

Sidney, Bernadette, Rebecca, Jesse, and Emile take over the kitchen, preparing mostly sidedishes while Frank and Pete take turkey-duty outside to the grill. I spend a little while running cider, beer, and platters of appetizers out to the living room and to the men out by the grill. To my surprise, Ethan immediately comes to help me, though he doesn't take his earbuds out. Jake has been in the living room chatting with Neil. About my third trip out to the living room, he catches my hand.

“Hey, Princess. I know Mom and ol' Sidney can turn into a pair of Major Generals when they're cooking together, but don't let 'em push you around.”

I smirk. “You really think they can push me around?”

He actually seems to consider that for a moment before smiling. “I guess not. But don't you push yourself around, either. Promise me you'll rest if you get tired?”

“Promise. But if you're really concerned, you could come give me a hand.”

He chuckles. “Okay, fair.”

A few minutes later, he and I are sitting at the kitchen table together and peeling potatoes. After a short while, Neil, Ethan, and Aubrey come to join us. Neil dominates the conversation for awhile, filling everyone in on his preparations for college. But when the conversation starts to reach a lull, Ethan surprises me by filling the silence.

“Do you know if your baby is a boy or a girl yet?” he asks me.

“Not yet,” I reply. “We're going to learn that next week.”

“Have you done the wedding ring test yet?” Sidney asks.

Jake raises an eyebrow. “The what?”

“You tie the mom-to-be's wedding ring on a piece of thread and dangle it over her belly. If it swings back and forth like a pendulum, it's a boy. If it swings in circles, it's a girl.”

“Are you sure?” Aubrey asks skeptically. “I'd always heard it was the other way around.”

“I can look it up on my phone,” Neil offers.

“Oh, there's really no need,” I chuckle. “I don't have a wedding ring.”

Sidney gasps. “You mean Jake didn't even get you a ring?!”

“...Uh...we weren't exactly married in a traditional ceremony.”

“We have a handfasting ribbon,” Jake adds. He briefly explains the handfasting ceremony, naturally replacing anything suspiciously Vaanti with something that sounds more like it was thought up by college students. “I still have that ribbon.”

“You do?” I'm startled and I don't hide it. “You've never mentioned that to me. Where is it?”

“I had it framed to keep it preserved. I put it in a safe place at my grandparents' place. ...I never thought of going to get it when we moved to California because...well...I had you back. And there was a lot going on.”

“Ohhh! You should get it as long as you're in Pearl River!” Sidney exclaims. “It's not like you're far from your grandparents' place.”

“That's actually not a bad idea,” Jake concedes.

“I wouldn't mind seeing that ribbon again,” I agree.

“Maybe you could do the ring test with that, just with a regular ring,” Ethan suggests. “Maybe the ribbon will have the same kind of...energy you need.”

“Oh, there's no need for that test,” Bernadette scoffs. “She's carrying high. It's a girl.”

“Well, the old lady on the plane yesterday agrees with you,” Rebecca snickers.

“Hey, we're not listening to the old lady on the plane!” Jake says firmly.

“Why, what did the old lady on the plane say?” Neil asks eagerly.

I laugh at his enthusiasm. “Well, I ended up getting airsick while we were landing, so I was throwing up into a paper bag while everyone was getting their things.” I go on, describing the old woman and her daughter, to the amusement of everyone except Jake.

“The old bat is wrong, by the way,” he grumbles. “Alodia looks as beautiful as ever.”

“I have to agree with Jake,” Sidney declares. “If that baby's stolen your good looks, then you must be too pretty for anyone's good. I think you've got a boy.”

“Whether or not her looks have been stolen, girls do cause more sickness,” Bernadette insists.

“What have your cravings been like?” Sidney asks.

“Well...peanut butter's been the big one...” l

“There, you see? Protein. That means it's a boy.”

“Not American peanut butter, sha,” Bernadette scoffs. “You know how much sugar is in American peanut butter?”

“Well, I have been especially fond of peanut butter cookies,” I point out.

This goes on for awhile. Everyone chimes in with the various wives' tales they've heard for predicting the baby's sex. They ask me about my moods, hair growth, breakouts, stretchmarks, and whatever else they can think of. Neil even looks up a Chinese sex-prediction chart on his phone that asks for my birthday and the month we conceived in, which my best guess places in July. That chart tells me I'm having a girl, which pleases Bernadette. Of course, no matter what the wives' tales say, she remains convinced I'm having a girl. Sidney is of the opposite opinion, and Rebecca seems to agree with her.

“Y'all are being ridiculous!” Jake declares, exasperated. “Even once we know the sex, it's not like that's going to predict their personality or anything like that.”

“Jake's got the right of it,” Jesse agrees, stirring the gravy on the stove. “Maybe y'all should keep the sex secret until the baby's a few months old.”

“Are you gonna keep the name secret, too?” Sidney scoffs.

“We wouldn't have to,” Jake retorts. “We've already chosen the name, and it's unisex.”

“I hate unisex names.”

“Sidney, you have a unisex name!”

“That don't mean I like it!”

“Well, girl or boy, our baby is River Skye McKenzie, and that's that.”

Sidney considers that. “Well, okay. That's a good name.”

“Good for a boy, but even better for a girl,” Bernadette declares haughtily.

“You're impossible, Mom,” Jake sighs.

“Yes, I am. Now go see if your Pop needs help with the turkey.”

Grayson

I prepare a small meal to take to my father for our Thanksgiving dinner. Well, actually it's more like a Thanksgiving lunch, since I am going to be eating with him early in order to make it to Rochelle's apartment on time. I did tell him I had been invited to another dinner later in the day. He didn't ask where I was going, but I suspect he knows. I have never made my affection for Tahira a secret, which does kind of worry me now. But all I can really do is swear that I will never let myself be used against her.

I arrive at the mansion where I grew up—the one that now serves as my father's prison—and make my way up the walk, clutching the cooler full of Thanksgiving food. I put it down to ring the doorbell and bounce lightly on the balls of my feet while I wait, breathing warm air into my cupped hands. I should have worn gloves, but I was running late getting out of my apartment, and by the time I thought of it, it was just too late to go back. The seconds melt into each other, and I am just about to ring the bell again when my father answers.

“You're late, Grayson.”

“...I'm sorry, dad. The turkey took longer than I was expecting.” I heft the cooler with a grunt and all but waddle through the front door. Dad raises an eyebrow at the cooler.

“What's in there?”

“Food. Thanksgiving lunch. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and a pumpkin pie. Traditional fare. I also bought a bottle of wine.”

“Hmm. Anything that will require reheating?”

“Most of it hasn't had that much time to get cold. But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to warm the vegetables.”

“Very well. I suppose you had better bring that stuff right into the kitchen. I know how eager you are to get onto your other dinner.”

I grit my teeth, needled by the thinly-veiled barb in his words. “Well, it isn't like I'm going to eat and run,” I assure him, trying not to sound annoyed.

“Of course not. Shall we eat off the fine china?”

While the food rewarms, we take the our time setting the dining room table. We spread out a white tablecloth of Irish linen with matching placemats and napkins. We lay out the silver cutlery and the antique china plates that I can remember adorning the holiday tables of my childhood. Each plate is uniquely painted with pictures of various fruits and flowers in beautiful pastel colors. In a moment of nostalgia, I claim the one with the ripe peaches surrounded by raspberries for myself. That one was always my favorite. My father doesn't comment on my choice, but I do see him smile fondly at the plate for a moment. He lights a pair of beeswax candles in crystal candleholders. I carve the turkey in the kitchen and arrange it on a platter. Then we lay out the food and take our seats. For a moment, neither of us move.

“...Do you think we should say grace?” I ask hesitantly.

“I suppose.”

“We don't have to,” I say quickly. “It's only that it's tradtional...”

Dad doesn't respond. He pulls the bottle of red Zinfandel toward him and snatches up the winged corkscrew. I wince a little as he jams the sharp end of the screw into the cork, but I make myself focus on how much the corkscrew looks like a little person or a human-shaped robot with two long arms. As dad twists the robot's head, it raises its arms as if in some stiff, jerky dance. And then as Dad pushes its arms down, it detatches itself from the bottle, taking the cork with it. Dad places it aside with the cork still attached and picks up the bottle.

“Say when,” he instructs me as he tips the bottle over my glass. Dark red liquid flows from the bottle's mouth and sloshes in the basin of my wineglass. I cut off the flow at half a glass. Dad raises an eyebrow at me for a moment before moving to pour a larger glass for himself. He sets down the bottle and begins filling his plate with turkey, potatoes, stuffing, and beans. After a moment, I do the same.

“I suppose,” he says at last as he picks up his knife and fork and begins slicing his turkey into bite-sized pieces, “that you shouldn't have too much to drink if you are going to be driving to Tahira's dinner before long.”

“...No,” I agree. “That wouldn't be responsible.”

He pauses, glancing sidelong at me. “...It is Tahira you will be spending the evening with, isn't it?”

“Among others. Her mother will be there, and Dax Darcisse and Poppy Patel.”

“But Tahira is the one you really want to see.”

“Is that your oh-so-subtle way of asking if she and I are finally seeing each other?” I quip, hoping to disguise my discomfort with this line of questioning.

“It hardly seems like the best idea to be dating someone you work with. Much less someone who works for you.”

“We're both smart people, Dad. We know how to keep our personal lives separate from work.”

“Don't be naive, Grayson. No one actually knows how to do that.”

I feel myself stiffen. Deep breaths, Grayson. You don't want a fight to sour your mood before you see Tahira.

“Well, we'll just do our best then, and deal with any problems as they come up.”

“...You know what she is, son.”

I almost drop my fork as my veins turn to ice, but I manage to keep it together. I lower my fork to my plate, its prongs still sporting a lump of mashed potatoes.

“What she is, Dad, is a woman I care for deeply, and have done since we were in college together. She is smart and fun and kind and—“

“Powerful,” Dad adds. He puts down his fork and knife, leaning back and tenting his fingers. He fixes me with a penetrating stare. “Let's not beat around the bush, Grayson. Tahira is Dragonness. You know she is.”

I sigh. I consider feigning surprise, but it's probably too late for that. Besides, I'm not sure how much good it would do. Is it really that much more dangerous for my father to know that I know her identity when he already knows it himself? Suddenly, I feel exhausted.

“...What do you want me to say, Dad?”

“I only want you to be honest with me.”

“...Then yes. I know who she is. And I know you know, too. ...I also know the real reason you attacked Northbridge was because you wanted to use her power to bring Mom back.”

“And I suppose she told you that?”

“Yes! She did! Are you going to deny it?”

“No, in fact. I am not going to deny it. Nor will I deny that my plan did not work out as I had expected.”

“And what were you expecting?”

He sighs, letting his hands drop onto the table to rest on either side of his plate. He picks at a bit of turkey skin hanging off the edge of the plate.

“I had believed the power to bring Helena back existed in the world on the other side of the Prism Gate. ...The world where Dragonness was born. I had hoped that if we managed to make it there, we would find her people. Find a the power necessary. Alas, that was not the case.”

I don't answer. I pick up my fork and knife and tear into the turkey on my plate, covering my silence by stuffing my mouth with the meat. Dad watches me eat for a moment.

“...Do you not approve, Grayson?”

I choke down a mouthful. It gets stuck at the back of my throat, but I force it down with a deep drink of wine. I set my glass down and stare at my plate.

“...Mom is gone, Dad.”

“She doesn't have to be.”

“Yes! She does! She's dead!”

My father's eyes narrow, his expression darkening. “You watch your mouth, son.”

“I'm only saying what's true! Mom is dead! She has been dead for years! It's not like I'm happy about it, but it's a fact!”

“All this from the boy who wasn't willing to do what needed to be done in Bayside for fear that some people would have to pick themselves up by their bootstraps and move on.”

“Dad, you were talking about displacing living people from their homes! Do you realize how many lives you snuffed out on the day you decided to attack Northbridge?! Eight! Eight people died because you can't let Mom rest!”

My father eyes me steadily. “I could bring them back, too.”

I feel a chill cross my shoulders. “...What...? What are you...?”

“There is a way, Grayson.”

“Dad, no...please...” I reach across the table to cover his hand with mine. “Let it go. Please. Please don't make Tahira suffer to bring Mom back.”

“I don't mean Tahira. ...There is another way.”

I can feel my heart spasming in my throat. “...Dad...please. I don't know if you just never grieved Mom properly or what, but...all I've wanted for years is for us to be a family!”

Dad puts his other hand on top of mine, grasping it firmly. “And we will be! As soon as I can find the power to bring her back, we--”

“No!” I pull my hands back sharply, feeling tears burning in my eyes. “Not us and Mom! Mom is gone! I mean you and me! You're still my father! I am still your son! We're still a family! Or we could be if you would let Mom go and look at me!”

For a moment, I think I actually see genuine remorse in my father's face. It's only a flicker, just for an instant, but even when it vanishes, his expression is softer somehow. Gentler.

“...You don't understand,” he says softly.

“No. No, Dad, I don't. ...I don't understand why you turned your back on me when I needed you most. How one day we could be so close and you could show me so much affection...and then as soon as Mom was in the ground, it was like you turned cold as her grave. For years, I thought you had stopped loving me. For years, I thought I had done something wrong.” I can't hold back a few tears as the scared little boy I used to be comes to the surface of my mind, bringing his hurt, his abandonment, his confusion. “I realize now you were just in pain, but...but the fact is you still haven't dealt with that pain. ...This...isn't how Mom would have wanted us to be to each other, Dad. She would have wanted us to hold each other. Support each other in her absence.”

“She would have wanted to be with us!”

“Of course she would have! But she isn't! God dammit, for all you accuse me of not being realistic, you can't even accept...” I trail off, my voice strangled by unshed tears that clog my throat. My head drops into my hands on the table.

I feel a touch on my shoulder, the palm of my father's hand resting gently on my back. I don't shrug him off, even though my head tells me I should. To have my father resting a hand on my shoulder to comfort me...it's like a mouthful of water to a man who has crossed the desert. Such unspeakable relief. And yet...so far from enough.

“My son...my boy...my child. Please, listen to me. I know I failed you. In so many ways. I failed your mother, too. But that is what I am trying to fix.”

Now I do shrug him off.

“No. No, Dad. What you're doing isn't fixing anything.” I lift my head, but I don't look at my father. “Until you get help, we're never going to be the family Mom wanted us to be. I'm sorry.”

He knows what I'm implying. That when he comes to trial, I am going to argue in favor of having him committed. But to my surprise, his only reaction now is a sigh.

“...It's okay, Grayson. It will be okay. I promise. I know how to fix everything now. When I am through, it will be as if all those lonely years never even happened.”

He goes back to his dinner, clearing his plate in silence. I look down at the meal going cold on my plate, the moist turkey, lumpy mashed potatoes and oily green beans obscuring the delicately painted peaches and raspberries. I don't feel like eating anymore. Something about Dad's reaction has me more unsettled than ever.

Poppy

“Come on, Dax! We're going to be late! Rochelle said dinner is at three o'clock, and it's now 2:20!”

“Okay! Okay! I'm coming!” Dax sighs, reluctantly putting aside his project. His eyes linger on the tiny object for a moment before he sighs again and starts to straighten up his workstation.

“Is that the thing you told me about?” I ask. “The hologram thing?”

“That's it.”

“How's it coming?”

“Well, actually. Really well. I even think I should have it ready to present by New Year's Eve.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I'm impressed. Considering you've only been working on it for a month now.”

“What can I say? I'm motivated. Also, the technology involved already exists, it's just a matter of making it more portable and easier to disguise.”

I put my arms around him, kissing his cheek. “That's a really nice thing you're doing for them, sweetie. I'm proud of you.”

He leans into my embrace, going quiet for a moment. “...I started to imagine what he described...being trapped on the outside...while...” He swallows. “...If it were you...or Tahira. I'm closer to the two of you than I've ever been to anyone. ...If one of you were hurt or sick and I was stuck on the outside...”

“Well, if you can pull this off, that won't be something they have to worry about.”

“I can pull it off,” he says with determination. “I know I can.”

“I know you can, too. Now come on. I am not going to be late for Rochelle's famous taffy-apple salad.”

Zahra

It's another jolly holiday at the Hsiao household. And I promise I'm not actually saying that ironically. I actually like my boyfriend's family, and I will readily admit that I am very, very lucky that way. Far from being what some racially insensitive douches would imagine, Kira and Huan Hsiao are not actually super strict, conservative “tiger parents,” like Asian parents tend to be on TV. A more accurate description of them would be snarky hippy goofballs. Well...hippies who still eat meat, I guess. So maybe not hippies.

But they are animal lovers. Their house is a crazy menagerie of four cats Nikky, Snickerdoodle, Tootle, and Buttercup; a German shepherd/collie mix named Tiffany; Mindy and George, a pair of rabbits; a parakeet named Tinker; and a ball python, hilariously named Monty—particularly hilarious because the python in question is female. We humans finish our Thanksgiving feast in the early afternoon, and Kira and Huan immediately set to work making sure the animals get their own. The cats are the most insistent, twining around Kira's ankles and yowling as she dishes Fancy Feast on top of Meow Mix and garnishes it with Temptations treats and catnip. And I know I've been staying at their place too long because I have started to recognize brands of cat food.

“Yes, yes, my little darlings,” Kira sings. “Food is coming!”

“Good god,” I groan. “Those things are cute when they're all purry and keeping my toes warm at night, but they are so friggin' noisy when they're hungry!”

“They're not that different from human babies that way,” Kira quips, carrying two double-bowls of catfood to the placemat on the floor in the corner. The cats immediately go quiet, digging into their feast. Kira calls out to Tiffany, who has been waiting patiently on the floor by the kitchen door. At the sound of her name, the dog leaps up on her paws, her tongue lolling out of her mouth as her tail starts to wag. Kira reaches into a plastic bag labled “Pampered Pets” and pulls out what I realize has to be a dog treat, but which looks enough like a cupcake that I want to eat it myself.

“Aww, you got Tiffany a pupcake!” Joey laughs.

“Of course! They're her favorite special occasion treats.”

Kira makes Tiffany sit and lie down before placing the treat a few feet in front of her nose. Tiffany licks her chops, her tail thumping eagerly, but she obediently waits for the signal before attacking her pupcake, wolfing it down in two bites.

“Oh, hey!” Joey leaps up from the table. “Let's go play Road From Xanadu! We gotta finish it before you guys go back to Northbridge!”

Craig pushes back from the table, stretching his arms over his head. “Nothing like video games after Thanksgiving dinner,” he agrees. “I'm in.”

Joey comes around to grab my arm, tugging insistently. “Come on, Zahra! We can't play without you since you're Amaya!”

“Well, you could make her an NPC,” I point out, even as I get to my feet.

“But then we'd have to start over!”

“Well, we can't have that. Let's go.”

The truth is, though, I'm a little reluctant to play. Road From Xanadu is this obscure RPG game set in this weird dimension where a bunch of people from various other dimensions and alternate timelines end up. From what I can gather, it's basically a dimension converging on all other dimensions. The main character is a badass warrior woman with weather magic whose whole mission is to get back to her own dimension in order to prevent a horrific disaster from killing her family. Along the way, she's tormented by visions of a past life that seem to be hinting that the disaster was actually an attack by someone from a past that she can't remember. It all feels a little too much like AU La Huerta for me to be totally comfortable, but Joey is super into it, so I've been trying to hide my misgivings.

We head into the living room where the fireplace is going, turn on the TV and the game console, and curl up on the couch with Joey wedged between us. The game loads up and the menu flickers up onto the screen in front of us. We search for the save marked ZCJ and load up our game. I frown as my character shows up on the screen, but without Craig or Joey's, and with a completely dark background.

“Wait...where were we again?”

“Illusory Cities,” Joey reminds me. “Field of Mirrors. Remember? We're trapped in the mirrors, and you have to get us out.”

“Oh...right...”

So my character wanders through a field of mirrors where her friends are trapped inside their dreams, trying to wake them up so they can move on to collect the next item in their fetch quest to build the portal that will take them back to her dimension. Craig and Joey yell hints and encouragement, and finally, I manage to break everyone out.

“Dude, Amaya is totally falling in love with Felix,” Craig declares, grinning. “I knew I chose the right character.”

“I bet they kiss before we stop playing tonight,” Joey agrees.

“You talkin' about Felix and Amaya or Craig and me? Because if it's the latter, you'll definitely win that bet.”

“Hey!” Joey holds up a hand in front of my face. “No kissing over my head. If you wanna kiss, you gotta warn me so I can move.”

Of course, by this point Buttercup has jumped into my lap and made herself comfortable, tucking her feet underneath her body and laying her head on my knee. I know from experience that she won't move until forced to by either her bladder or mine.

“I don't think that's happening any time soon, kiddo,” I sigh. “Okay, let's get back to it. We gotta find something called 'Wild Time'...”

Tahira

By a quarter to three, everyone has arrived at my mother's apartment except Grayson. My last three texts have gone unanswered, and I'm starting to get anxious, though I try to distract myself by setting the table. Finally, I feel a vibration in the pocket of my jeans, accompanied by the chime of my text alert. I fish my phone out of my pocket and read the message.

Grayson: Waiting outside. Am I late??

I exhale, feeling an easy smile curve my lips as reliefs flood through me in soothing waves. I thumb out a response:

Right on time. I'll come down to let you in.

I call over my shoulder to let Mom know where I'm going before I rush out into the hallway and down the stairs. Grayson is waiting outside the front door with a bunch of flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine tucked under the opposite arm. I grin as I hold the door open for him.

“As much as presents are appreciated, don't think I haven't noticed that you can't hug me while you're holding those.”

Stepping into the foyer of the building, Grayson immediately sets the flowers and wine on an end table and pulls me in for a fierce, needful kiss, dipping me slightly in his arms. I melt into his embrace, raising my arms to wind around his neck as I taste his mouth. He tastes like he brushed his teeth just recently. Finally, he straightens, bringing me with him, and reluctantly breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on mine.

“Okay, I forgive you. ...Trying to recreate V-J Day in Time Square?”

“...I love you, Tahira.” His voice is a whisper, and there's a weight to it that puts a lump in the pit of my stomach.

“I love you, too, Grayson. But...are you all right? Did lunch with your dad not go well?”

“I have to tell you something,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed. “Something Dad said has been worrying me since he said it. But...I don't want to spoil the holiday. Just promise me you won't let me leave without telling you tonight.”

My first impulse is actually to say 'okay', push his words to the back of my mind, and get on with my holiday. But even as I consider it, I know that I'll never be able to concentrate on having a good time with that hanging over my head.

“What do you mean? What did he say?” When he hesitates, I take his face in my hands, turning it toward me. “Please, Grayson. Don't hold back. I'd rather you just say it than leave me to imagine the worst.”

He hesitates another moment. A knock at the lobby door makes us both jump. We turn to look out the clear glass door and find a man balancing a foiled-draped casserole dish in one hand and waving at us with the other. His wife and two young children stand behind him, bundled up and bouncing against the bite of the chilly November air. He gestures to the doorknob. Grayson clears his throat, blushing as he pushes the door open. The small family scurries into the warmth of the lobby and toward the elevator. He sighs.

“We shouldn't talk out here,” he mumbles, not meeting my eyes. “Let's get somewhere we can talk privately.”

“...Yeah. Okay. Maybe it can wait until after dinner.”

He smiles, but it looks a little forced. Then his eyes light up and he scoops up the bouquet he had placed on the side table, placing it in my arms carefully as if it were a swaddled infant.

“Sorry I'm later than expected, by the way. I stopped to pick those up on the way.”

I can't help but smile as I regard the colorful bouquet in my arms, pink roses and miniature carnations arranged amidst snowy white chrysanthemums, yellow Peruvian lilies, lavender, statice, and huckleberry. I put my nose in the armful of flora and inhale a fragrant blend of perfumes.

“They're absolutely beautiful.”

His smile is genuine again as he casually takes up the wine bottle and offers me his hand.

“I couldn't resist a few roses,” he says, “but I've always thought roses alone were a little...well, boring. If I'm going to bring someone flowers, I want something colorful.”

“I approve of your choice.”

Everyone else clearly approves of it too, if their gushing reaction when we get back up to Mom's apartment is any indication. While Mom is busy hunting for a vase, and Dax and Poppy are helping her find the ladle she was looking for a moment ago, I see an opportunity and impulsively decide to to take it. I take Grayson by the hand and pull him into the bedroom. I shut the door, pressing the lock down for good measure.

“So, what were you going to say about your Dad?”

He shifts uncomfortably, looking cornered. “I...thought you said it could wait until after dinner.”

“I know. But I also said I'd rather know than spend dinner imagining the worst.”

For a moment he is quiet, and I think he is going to protest again that it should wait until after dinner. But then he nods.

“...We got into a fight, which will probably not come as much of a surprise. He knows that I know who you are, by the way. I didn't tell him, but he guessed and I didn't know how to deny it, or if it would even do any good.”

“It probably wouldn't have,” I agree. “It's okay. We'll deal with it. Was that all?”

“No. ...We were arguing about his obession with bringing Mom back. I was begging him not to make you suffer for it. ...He said that he didn't have to use you. That there was another way. Some of the things he said...it started to sound like he wasn't just talking about bringing Mom back. He was talking about rewriting history so she never died at all.”

I feel an electric chill skitter down my spine. “...That...that sounds like...”

“I know. ...I can't help but wonder if he's managed to learn something about the Janus Project.”

Aleister

I come home in the evening to find that the flat has been scrubbed top to bottom. In the sitting room, the evening news flickers on the television, the volume turned to something just barely audible. My wife is curled up on the sofa under a throw blanket, her glasses set aside on the coffee table beside the baby monitor. She appears to be dozing lightly, and as I approach, I can see from the screen on the baby monitor that my son is asleep as well, contentedly sucking his thumb in his crib. I smile, kneeling beside Grace and bending to kiss the top of her head. She stirs and stretches at my touch, smiling up at me.

“Hey, honey,” she says around a yawn. “There's tuna noodle casserole in the refridgerator. I already ate, but it wouldn't take much to heat it up.”

“You're a treasure,” I reply. She reaches over to fumble for her glasses, and I guide them to her hand. “I brought home macroons for dessert. Can I fix you a plate with some tea?”

“That would be heavenly. Could you also give me a hand getting off the couch?”

I chuckle, standing and offering my hand. She takes it, groaning a little as I help pull her to her feet. Once standing, she flops theatrically against my chest, resting her head on my shoulder and pretending to snore. I laugh.

“I am not surprised you're so tired. The flat looks beautiful.” I drape one of her arms over my shoulders and wind the other around her waist, pulling her close to my side as if I am helping her walk with an injured leg. “But I hope this was not just because your mother sat on a cuddly toy this morning.”

“There are some ways Mom can still get to me,” she admits. “...But I was also trying to keep busy so I wouldn't be tempted to peek at the files she left us. Besides, the flat needed a good scrub. I just hope my back doesn't regret it in the morning.”

I guide her to a kitchen chair and stand behind her for a moment, rubbing her shoulders. “I'll tell you what, darling. Why don't you have a nice hot bath while I have my supper, and then we'll look at the files together over tea and macaroons. Deal?”

“Deal.”

* * *

Grace takes her time in the bath, and when I finish dinner, we both get into our pajamas. Curled up on the sofa with a pleasant fire going, two cups of hot tea and a tray of macaroons, it's almost easy to forget what we're actually looking for with the documents spread out across our laps. Not that we seem to be finding much that is obviously incriminating.

“I am quite surprised to hear myself say this, but it seems Alodia's mother was in fact quite an ordinary woman.”

“Well, I don't know about 'ordinary,'” Grace remarks. “According to everything here, she was a genius at computer science. She headed nearly eighty percent of Mansingh Transglobal's computer science projects in 1995.”

She passes me the page she's looking at, and I skim over it. A few project names jump out at me.

“ 'Project Jupiter'...'The Trojan Project'...Anything with a Greco-Roman theme might bear looking into further. With the Trojan Project, I'm inclined to guess it had something to do with computer viruses. ...Perhaps an attempt to develop some sort of antivirus software.”

“Or digital condoms,” Grace suggests, grinning. I snort, poking her shoulder lightly.

“Trojan always was a terrible name for a condom.”

“Huh...now this is interesting.”

“What is?”

Grace holds up the page in front of her. “Apparently Cassandra Chandler worked on one of the most advanced digital painting/rendering programs of the early nineties. She won an award for her own digital art. And...oh! I think Mom included samples...” She turns to a few glossy photo prints. “Wow. This is beautiful.”

She passes me a picture of a digitally rendered sunset over the ocean. “Impressive. The colors, the shading...very advanced for the early nineties.”

“And look at this moonscape. It's so lifelike, it's like looking at a photo.”

“Clearly, she was very talented. ...Perhaps we should send this to Alodia. I'm sure she would like to have some piece of her mother to hold...on...to...Grace...?”

Grace is staring at the photo in front of her, her dark eyes wide. I peer over at the picture and feel my breath catch in my throat. It's another beautifully rendered piece of digital art, a portrait depicting a young woman posed beneath a palm tree. It is as clear as a photograph, or a Holbein portrait. Her blue eyes, golden blonde hair, her pale skin...

“Good heavens...but...that's...”

“Yeah,” Grace agrees. “It's Alodia.”

Michelle

It's hard to have a totally good day when you're working at a hospital. Even if none of your own patients die, it's hard to ignore the fact that people do die there every day. And yet, at the same time, people are born there every day, too. Lives are saved, or changed for the better with surgeries that improve quality of life. It's difficult to have a totally good day, but if you know where to look, it's hard to have a totally bad one, too. For me, today managed to even out. I was busy, which kept my shift from dragging too much, but now I'm definitely feeling it. Now, what I really want is to go home, put on my pajamas and curl up in bed with Sean so I can fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

I finally get home at nearly a quarter to one. There's a note in Sean's handwriting taped to the door of our apartment when I get there:

Hey, Beautiful. Left something on the coffee table for you. Love you! --Sean.

I smile, folding the note and tucking it into the pocket of my jacket. The first year we were dating back at Hartfeld, he was always getting me little gifts to leave in my room at the sorority house when we were both too busy for a real date night. They were never expensive, but they were always meaningful and romantic. A refridgerator magnet with my name on it, a caduceus keychain, a bunch of lilacs from the hedge that grew on campus, my favorite spinach bread from the bakery in town, or a stick of rock candy from the old-fashioned candy shop next door. Lately, he seems to have picked the practice up again. Except now, I try to reciprocate more often.

The apartment is dark when I get inside. I turn on the light in the foyer, slip off my shoes and hang my coat in the closet. I make my way into the living room and switch on the floor lamp. On the coffee table, an Easter basket has been lined with tissue paper and repurposed to hold a small collection of bath items—body wash, lotion, and spray that all appear to be the same scent; an orange-infused sugar scrub for my hands and feet, and two bath bombs. I pop open the body wash and inhale the subtly sweet aroma of orange blossom, chamomile, and vanilla, sighing rapturously. I'm going to get Sean something really special to thank him for this. Some nice cologne or a new duffle bag for away games...or maybe a gift certificate for a massage at my favorite spa. I reach into the basket to pull out the bath bombs and hold them to my nose. As I do, a sticky note that had been attached to one of the fragrant spheres comes loose and flutters to the ground. I pick it up, squinting slightly to make out the writing in the somewhat dim light of the floor lamp:

Hi, Beautiful! =) Turn on the TV and press play! Don't adjust the volume! Love you! – Sean

I pick up the remote and press the power button. The TV flickers to life, and a frozen image of Sean in his Condors' uniform appears on the screen. I recognize the Condors' home stadium behind him, and on the edge of the screen, I can make out the hand of a sportscaster holding up a microphone. I press play.

“Sean, do you have any final thoughts before the game gets underway today?”

The volume is loud enough to make me jump a little, worried that I'm going to wake Sean. But, since his note explicitly told me not to adjust the volume, I resist the urge. On the screen, Sean smiles warmly into the camera.

“First of all, I just want to wish a happy Thanksgiving to my amazing fiancee, Dr. Michelle Nguyen. She couldn't be at the game today because she's busy being an amazing doctor at the hospital. But if you're watching, babe, I just want to tell you that I'm so proud of you and I love you with my whole heart.”

The big light flicks on overhead, making me jump. I turn to see Sean smiling at me from the doorway that leads into the kitchen.

“We won today,” he says. I smile, pausing the recording and going to kiss him.

“That's wonderful. And thank you for the gifts. But why are you still awake? You must be exhausted.”

He shrugs, kissing me back and lacing his fingers at the small of my back. “I had a nice long nap after the game. I wanted to be awake when you got home. I've got a little surprise for you.”

“Another one? I know I was bummed about working on Thanksgiving, but you don't want me to get spoiled.”

“And what if I do?” he counters with mock-haughtiness. I snort.

“Well, in that case, who am I to argue?”

He keeps one arm around my waist as he leads me through the kitchen to the dining room. As we approach, I realize that I can see candlelight flickering inside. The first thing I notice when I round the corner and Sean turns up the lights is Tricia, grinning from her seat at the end of the table. The table is spread with my favorite tablecloth, decorated with a centerpiece of pillar candles draped with evergreen branches, pinecones, and clementines. Though the table is crowded with chafing dishes and a decanter filled with some kind of spiced cider, they've managed to find room for three place-settings. Delicious smells that had been previously masked by the scent of the bath bombs in the living room fill the air. Tricia gets up, coming to fold me in a warm embrace.

“Happy Thanksgiving, honey.”

I feel tears coating my eyes as I hug her back. I think my smile might actually split my face apart. “Oh, Tricia! You're awake, too?”

“Well, someone had to make sure the food was edible. I couldn't leave that in my son's hands.”

“Hey!” Sean feigns offense, lightly poking his mother. “I helped!”

I pull back, wiping at my eyes. “You both should be sleeping,” I chide around a mindlessly happy chuckle. “But as long as you're both awake, what are we eating?”

“It's kind of a Thanksgiving breakfast-for-dinner deal,” Sean explains, going to lift the cover from each dish in turn. “Apple-pumpkin pancakes, turkey bacon, and a skillet with potatoes and green beans. Plus cider to drink.”

“Thank you. Both of you. This is...I think this is exactly what I need tonight.”

Sean comes to take my hands, kissing my forehead. “I know you've been feeling overworked lately. I want to make sure you know that you can count on me when things get rough. Whether it's by getting you a few bath bombs, helping my mom cook you a nice meal, or just by holding your hands and listening. I want to give you what you need so that you never feel alone like did before.”

I wind my arms around his torso, resting my head on his chest so that I can hear his heartbeat.

“I know I'm not alone. And that's exactly what I'm thankful for tonight.”

Tahira

Grayson's words are still bothering me the morning after Thanksgiving. I didn't repeat them to anyone at dinner last night, and I did my best to bury my anxiety. But clearly I'm not hiding it that well this morning, because Mom feels my forehead and wonders aloud if I want to stay home from the soup kitchen. I force myself to smile.

“I'm fine, Mom. Just nursing a turkey hangover.”

“Well, you don't feel warm,” Mom admits, but she doesn't look entirely convinced. “But you still don't have to come. Grayson and I can manage the food just fine.”

“It's okay. I want to come. Since I was ten years old, I've only missed one Black Friday at the soup kitchen. I'm not going to miss this one just because I'm sleepy.”

When Grayson arrives to take us over to the soup kitchen, one look in his eyes tells me that I'm not hiding my anxiety from him very well, either. As we're loading the Thanksgiving leftovers into his car, he finds a moment to take me aside.

“Are you all right?”

“Not you, too,” I groan. “I already had Mom feeling my forehead this morning.”

“...You're worried about what I told you about Dad.” It's not a question. There is an unmistakeable note of guilt in his voice. I put a hand on his arm.

“Hey. I'm glad you told me, okay? ...But yeah, it worries me. ...If he knows about the Janus Project, he might know about my cousin, too. I'm worried about how he came by that information, too.”

“I'll work on getting that out of him,” he promises, enfolding me in a hug. “I'm not just going to leave it where it is.”

“I know.” I nestle in his arms. “...You'll still stay and help at the soup kitchen though, right?”

“Of course! I'm not going to bail on you and your mom and the hungry citizens of Bayside just to interrogate my dad.”

I can't help but chuckle. “I'm so glad you have your priorities in order.”

* * *

We arrive at the soup kitchen by ten in the morning. For the next couple hours, we help the breakfast crew clean up, and then set to work laying out the lunch food. We're not the only ones who have donated our Thanksgiving leftovers. On top of that, there are canned goods and non-perishables that were collected by the Bayside public schools and churches, so there is plenty to work with and plenty to keep me busy until the people start arriving. Most of the diners come from the local homeless shelter, but there are also Bayside residents who regularly choose between paying rent and buying groceries. The Grand has been a big help in the area, but it takes time for a local economy to recover from hardship. While Mom and I serve food, Grayson helps people find places to sit and cleans up after them when they finish.

For a little while, the work keeps my mind occupied. Then the lunch rush slows to a trickle, Mom goes into the back to wash dishes, and my thoughts start to catch up with me. It's almost a relief when I see the doors open to admit a group of kids, but as they gather up their trays and make their way to the line, I start to think that they may be here without a parent or guardian. No one appears to have followed them in.

There are five of them, four boys and one girl. They all look like they're one family, all dark-haired and olive-skinned. The oldest boy doesn't look any older than sixteen, if that much. The others all look to be around ten or eleven, though the youngest boy might be as young as seven. I make myself smile in spite of my concern, counting out five plastic plates to spread out on the countertop in front of me.

“Good afternoon,” I say brightly. “What can I get for you?”

“I want turkey and stuffing!” one of the boys yells, bouncing excitedly in place. “Oh! And I want those cherries! And a brownie! And can I have grape juice, too?!”

“Slow down, RJ!” the oldest boy hisses. “Give the lady a chance to catch up!”

Eventually, RJ's plate is loaded with everything he desires, and I can turn my attention to the other children. The boy who looks about RJ's age is much more polite and reserved in his requests, and the youngest boy is so shy that he blushes as he points to each dish that he wants. The oldest boy puts his arm around the girl's shoulders.

“What do you want, Ysa?”

The girl shakes her head. “I'm not hungry.”

“I know you're not feeling well, but you gotta eat something, okay?”

I smile sympathetically at her. “Not feeling well?”

“My stomach hurts,” she replies, pouting slightly.

“Well, how about some soup? Split pea? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Broccoli chedder?”

“...Tomato...” she says after a moment. I ladle out a cup of creamy red soup, and stack some Saltines on the side of the plate. With all of them served, the kids take their trays to the nearest table they can find.

A sudden chill across my shoulders makes me shudder. For an instant, it occurs to me that I might actually be coming down with something. Then, a sharp, gnawing pain in my gut tells me what's really going on. I groan internally. Menstrual cramps. I'm an alien superhero from another dimension, and I still get menstrual cramps. So unfair. Maybe I should find Grayson and have him take me home. I know from experience that I probably won't be much use until I can either get some Midol or putting a heating pad on my belly.

“Well, this all looks like shit.” The familiar voice breaks into my thoughts. My head snaps up and my eyes lock with Caleb's, peering out from underneath the hood of a heavy winter coat. He smirks. “How ya doing, sweetheart? Can I get some grub?”

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