Henry comes back to the apartment with me in the morning. To my relief, the men are gone—including Connor. “I hope he’s okay,” I fret. “What if he’s in a jail cell somewhere? What if he fell in the river?”

“What if monkeys really do take over New York?”

I raise my eyebrows at Henry.

He steps forward and wraps his arms around me. “I know you’re worried about him, but ‘what ifs?’ will get you nowhere. I’m sure he’s fine. If he’s not turned up by tonight, then I’ll come with you to look for him myself.”

I squeeze Henry tightly and look up at him with adoring eyes. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

I follow Henry’s gaze as he looks around the apartment. It’s in a state. There is loose ash on the carpets and furnishings, trash everywhere, and the smell of weed still lingers in the air. Henry rolls up his sleeves. “Let’s get this place cleaned up, and then we can grab some breakfast before class.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I protest. “You’ve already done so much.”

“Nonsense,” he says, in his curt English accent. “It won’t take long between the two of us.”

We set to work clearing up. Henry digs in, picking up armfuls of wrappers and pizza boxes and shoving them into a garbage bag. I brush down the sofas, vacuum, and wipe down the table. We finish by opening all the windows to let out the smell and spraying liberal amounts of air freshener.

As we come toward the end of our efforts, I catch Henry looking at the pictures on the wall.

I stand behind him and follow his gaze. I point out a picture of my mom at twenty-five. “That’s my mom when she was my age.”

“You look just like her. Beautiful.”

“That’s Connor when he was a kid.”

Henry follows where I’m pointing, then lifts his own finger to point out another picture of a little girl with pigtails and missing front teeth. “Is this you?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Aren’t you a little cutie!” His eyes wander to a grainy photo of the three of us at Thanksgiving. “Christmas?”

“Thanksgiving.”

Henry’s eyes light up, and he turns to me in excitement. “I’ve never had a Thanksgiving.”

“Never?”

“Not a British tradition.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” I gush. “You have an amazing dinner with turkey and yams, followed by pumpkin pie. Mom, Connor and I all used to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade together, and talk about all the different floats, and which ones were our favorite.

“We had this tradition where Mom would give each of us a shoebox, and we’d make our own mini-float. We’d put them on the table as centerpieces. Mom kept those old shoeboxes for years. I had to get rid of them when the house was sold—I didn’t have the room to keep them anymore.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” Henry says. “What else did you do?”

“Mom used to put the football game on for Connor, and he’d sit and pretend to watch it, even though he didn’t understand the rules. Every now and then he’d jump up and cheer, then look around to see if we were watching. He wanted to look like the man of the house.”

I smile but feel incredibly sad at the same time. The memories are bittersweet. They were such precious moments, but they’re all long gone.

Henry takes my hands in excitement. “We should do it!”

“Do what?”

“Thanksgiving.”

I laugh. “I haven’t celebrated Thanksgiving in years.”

“All the more reason to do it now,” Henry persists. “Come on! This might be my only chance to experience a real, true Thanksgiving.”

I chuckle. “You’ll be here next year, too. You’ll have another chance for an American Thanksgiving.”

“Not with shoebox floats, though.”

My heart pangs. The thought of making one of those little floats without Mom breaks my heart, but I also miss the fun and excitement of the grand reveals.

“We’ll do it at my place,” Henry continues. “The whole shebang. I’ll get a turkey. We’ll do the yams—sweet potatoes, right? I’ll even roll up my sleeves and make a pumpkin pie if tradition calls for it.”

“I can’t,” I say. “It’s not fair on Connor.”

Henry takes a deep breath. I know he wants to tell me where Connor can stick it, but he holds his temper—then says something I’d never have expected in a million years.

“Connor’s invited too.”

“What?”

“I want to spend time with you. If that means every now and then I have to spend time with Connor, too, that’s something I’ll do. For you.”

I shake my head. “I can’t trust him, Henry. What if he ruins your apartment or gets high and ruins the day?”

“What if, what if, what if? What if we all have an amazing day and save Thanksgiving?”

I hesitate some more. “I’ll think about.”

“Ask Connor.”

“I will. Although I doubt he’s your biggest fan right now after you took down his friend.”

“I doubt he even remembers it. Besides, his friend’s the one who did this.” Henry points at his bruised jaw. “You deserve to enjoy the holidays, Lissy.”

“It’s going to be mayhem at the diner,” I reply. “It’s the best time for tips.”

Henry holds up his hands. “I’ll leave it with you. Think about it, okay?”

“I will.”