Chapter Twenty-Four
Consonance: notes that, when played simultaneously, sound pleasing
Charlie
Damian opens the door of his parents’ house without knocking. “We’re here,” he calls over the music and voices inside.
His mom, two sisters, and several other people spill out of the kitchen, where they’ve obviously been hard at work on the Thanksgiving meal. I recognize Martina, Damian’s cousin, from her dad’s restaurant. The others must be her mom and sister.
“Come in, come in out of the snow,” Elisa says as she wipes her hands on a towel.
The snow started this morning. Big fluffy flakes. I had to walk through over an inch to get to Damian’s car when he came to pick me up. I’ve seen snow before, but it was always in passing going from one place to the next on tour. Or at a ski resort. Never as part of the mundane facts of daily living.
Elisa pulls Damian in for a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving. So glad you both could make it.” Then she turns to me, her eyes going wide at the foil-covered pie plate in my hand.
“It’s apple,” I blurt out. “I hope that’s okay. I didn’t know what all you were making. My roommate said that there’s always room for an extra pie. And even though Damian said it wasn’t a big deal, I wanted to bring something. Thank you so much for having me.”
Elisa’s face, still wreathed with happiness, softens. “Thank you, Charlie. We’re glad you could come. It must be hard to be so far from family on a holiday. But at least you have Damian, and so you have all of us. You’re always welcome here. You should know that by now.” She takes the pie plate from my hands and passes it to Carla, then folds me into a hug.
This is the fourth time I’ve been here now. And every time, her welcome hugs are my favorite part. She treats me with the same easy affection that she passes out to her children, and it makes me feel warm and welcome and happy. Every time we come over, I just want to bask in her hug for as long as she’ll let me.
She releases me and steps back. “Make yourself comfortable. You’re welcome to help the girls and me in the kitchen, or you can hang out in the living room with the boys. Your choice.”
“Hey!” a male voice objects. “I’m in the kitchen too.”
I glance behind her to see Marco, Damian’s uncle, standing in the dining area.
“Only because I can’t get you to leave me alone,” Elisa shoots back.
Marco crosses his arms and harrumphs.
Hector, Damian’s dad, steps into the space Elisa vacates, wrapping Damian and me in quick, bone-crushing hugs. “Come in. Sit down. There’s room on the couch for both of you. I hope you brought your appetites. Elisa’s got a whole feast about ready in there.”
Damian laughs. “So, same as always?”
“Exactly.” Hector claps Damian on the shoulder and moves out of the way, and we head to the living room, where Hector sits down in his beat-up, but comfortable-looking recliner. Damian’s brother and brother-in-law sit on opposite ends of the sofa. Damian wraps his arm around me and leads me to the loveseat, keeping me close as we sit, knowing that, while I’m more comfortable here than I was the first time, crashing their holiday dinner makes me feel like an intruder. Or at least an outsider. Even if I was invited.
Logic and feelings don’t always go together.
It doesn’t help that I have no frame of reference for normal family holidays. The last decade of Thanksgivings have mostly been spent in restaurants away from home. And the ones where we were in California were still spent in restaurants.
When I was a kid, my mom liked to make a show of having family dinners, with spreads like you see in magazines. But she wasn’t interested in cooking, so they were always catered. She slaved over the place settings and hired out the cooking. The Thanksgivings I remember from my late-elementary years usually featured a guest who had some connection to the entertainment industry, my mom trotting me out to show off my piano or dance or singing abilities in hopes of landing me an agent or a contract or a connection to someone who could do that for me.
It was actually one of those connections, a producer who thought I had something special, that coached me, helped me cut a demo, and got me my first manager. From there, I auditioned for a few Disney channel movies, and finally landed a roll on a musical retelling of the Prince and the Pauper, but with female main characters. Since my singing and dancing skills have always been better than my acting, I only did a handful of small parts on Disney shows and movies. But that got me more acting and vocal coaching, and that brought me to the attention of my current manager, who had me cut a demo and shopped it to interested labels. And now, here I am, a megastar, widely touted as pop royalty. One of the biggest names in the industry.
And burnt out on all of it, happier to be cozied up with a boy on his parents’ couch on Thanksgiving, feeling like I can be myself in a relationship for the first time ever.
“You’re awful quiet,” Damian says against my hair, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Everything okay?”
I smile up at him. “Yeah. I’m great. Just thinking.”
“About?”
I shrug and pick a piece of imaginary lint off my leggings. “Oh, you know. Reminiscing about Thanksgivings past. Nothing big.”
His arm tightens around me in a quick squeeze. “Does it make you sad not to be with your own family?”
I have to bite back a smile. “Um, no. Not really. I was actually thinking how nice it is to be here. If I were with my parents, we’d be at a restaurant, and my mom would be trying to convince me to watch my calories and not to overindulge in desserts.”
“Even on Thanksgiving?”
“Dieting never takes a day off.”
Damian opens his mouth, but then closes it and shakes his head like he doesn’t even know how to respond to that. Finally he says, “That won’t happen here. My mom will heap food on your plate until you’re stuffed to the gills and literally can’t eat another bite.”
And he’s so right. I take modest helpings of each dish, which includes turkey, a pork roast, mashed potatoes, rice and beans, sweet potatoes, and cranberry dressing. Elisa encourages me to take more, “As much as you want” of each thing.
Marco does the same thing. “Eat! Eat!” he exclaims. “You’re too skinny.”
I laugh at that. Part of the reason I’m wearing leggings today is because my jeans are getting uncomfortably tight. My desire to overindulge in pancakes covered in berries and whipped cream and ice cream and anything that strikes my fancy is slowly curbing itself.
After Thanksgiving dinner is over, everyone sort of collapses in the living room, groaning about how full they are. The Latin music that’s been playing in the background of our conversation throughout dinner grows louder.
Hector claps his hands together, calling everyone’s attention. “Someone needs to clear the driveway and sidewalks. There’s about four inches out there now. And you all need to be able to leave eventually.”
“I’ll do it,” Damian surprises me by saying. “I need to do something to work off all that food.”
“You not planning on dancing later, Damo?” asks Marco.
That has my eyebrows raising as I look at Damian. “Dancing?”
He flashes me a grin and nods. “I told you I learned from my family.” He stands and nods to the door. “Come out with me. You said in the car that you’ve never really played in the snow. I’ll shovel, and you can make snow angels.”
I glance down at my leggings, heeled booties, and tunic top. “Um, I don’t think I’m dressed for making snow angels.”
“You can borrow snow gear,” Elisa interjects. She looks me up and down. “What size shoe do you wear? I’m sure we can find you something that’ll work for you.”