BY THE time Charles slouched into our room around eleven the next morning, I was in a full-on panic about my physics project. What was due at the midterm mark was the proposal and a bibliography for what would be my final project. I’d had a frustrating meeting with the teaching assistant who was in charge of my discussion section about it during his office hours last week but had thought we’d worked things out.
Now I was staring at my e-mail in disbelief because he’d just responded to say that I needed to completely reconceive my project.
I barely noticed that Charles was wet until I heard him kind of squelch across the room.
“Is it raining?” I craned to see out the window, but no, it was clear outside.
“I need your help,” Charles said. This was just kind of how Charles talked, and there was no point in asking for clarification because then he’d actually explain what he was doing, which would take longer than whatever he needed in the first place.
“Does it have to be right now?”
“Now would be ideal.”
“Uh, should I assume I’m going to end up soaking wet?”
“It’s a distinct possibility.”
I sighed my you’re-lucky-I’m-the-best-roommate-in-the-history-of-roommates sigh, which was completely lost on Charles, as I pulled on already dirty clothes and shoved my feet back into my Vans. If nothing else, at least Charles’ random excursion would distract me from my physics drama.
“Hey, are you going to Boston for Thanksgiving?” I asked Charles an hour later as we walked back to the dorm. I had not, in fact, ended up getting soaking wet, since apparently the sprinklers Charles had run through earlier were on a timer. He’d never told me exactly why he needed to take pictures of me in various locations outside an unmarked building, and I hadn’t asked, content that I was serving some greater, mysterious purpose.
“No. Even if I relished the idea of spending time with my family, I can’t countenance a celebration of the violent slaughter and subsequent systematic oppression of Native Americans in the service of a massive land grab, followed by sexual violence, cultural negation, and acts of inhumanity perpetrated under the guise of constructing a national identity. Besides, I don’t even like turkey. The meat cleaves disturbingly. Are you?”
“What? Oh, no. Can’t afford the plane ticket. Besides, Thanksgiving is when my grandparents come over, and they aren’t really down with the whole gay thing.”
That was an understatement. My dad’s father looked at me like I was scum and wouldn’t hug me hello, like maybe I was going to try for some action or something. My dad’s mom mostly just shot me side-eye and didn’t answer me when I talked to her, so I’d stopped trying long ago. On my mom’s side, my grandparents acted like they didn’t know I was gay.
My grandmother would pat my cheek and say how handsome I was. Then she would ask if I had a girlfriend yet. She always managed the question with such sincerity that I had no clue whether she was legit delusional, being passive-aggressive, or possibly just displaying early-warning signs of Alzheimer’s. Except that my grandfather, who was sharp as a tack, did the same thing, making comments about the women we encountered that would’ve made me uncomfortable even if I had found them attractive.
Like, okay, none of it was The Worst—I knew that people had it way worse with being out to their families. The part that stung the most was that my parents never corrected them, reminded them I was gay, or called them on it when they made derogatory comments about queerness in general.
Sometimes my mom would shoot me apologetic or guilty looks when they said these things. Looks that said, It’s so unfortunate that this is a thing that has to happen. Like it never even occurred to her that she could intercede. That maybe she should care more about my feelings than about keeping the peace.
Janie and Eric were better. Eric would roll his eyes at them, and Janie’d sometimes say, “He wouldn’t have a girlfriend, Nana, he’d have a boyfriend.” Of course, she inevitably followed this up with, “if he ever actually spoke to anyone instead of acting like a freak,” under her breath to me. She meant it affectionately, though. I think.
It had been just this kind of family gloominess that I’d managed to escape when Daniel had invited me to have Thanksgiving with him and Rex the year Will was in Holiday. I’d said yes immediately, even though I’d known that my mom would be upset. She had turned out to be surprisingly understanding, though, and at first I’d wondered if maybe I’d underestimated how bad she felt having to watch me navigate the uncomfortable family conversations.
But another part of me couldn’t help but wonder if what I’d actually underestimated was how awkward she felt watching it. How much easier it was if I just wasn’t there and she could say, “Oh, Leo’s spending the holiday with friends.” And I’d wondered if that was how things would be from then on: my absence making things easier for everyone.
“Well, it’s fine—the dorms stay open, so it can be just like any other weekend,” Charles said.
It was true, and it’d be good to have some quiet time to get a lot of work done before the last push leading up to finals. Still, maybe it made me pathetic, or a terrible person, given the whole slaughter, oppression, inhumanity issue, which I knew was true. But I was still kind of bummed at the idea of having nowhere to go for Thanksgiving.
I shot a quick text off to Daniel asking him what he was doing for Thanksgiving. The idea of spending it in with him and Rex in Philadelphia seemed perfect. Hey, maybe I could even convince Will to come.
Rex is taking me to a cabin, he wrote back, with one of the suspicious-looking crooked mouth emojis that looked laughably like the expression I’d picture him having to accompany that statement in real life. Good to see he’d mastered the smartphone. In a state park, he texted, this one accompanied by a straight-line mouth emoji, also eerily accurate. My heart sank.
Omigod, you have total emoji face! I wrote back. And, Have fun!
On a whim, I texted Will. Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?
Hell no, hate tgiving, he wrote, no emoji. I couldn’t even imagine the emoji that could come close to expressing Will levels of scorn.
“Maybe I’ll offer to work at Mug Shots on Thanksgiving,” I mused. At least I could make some money and maybe even rack up some karma points with Layne by volunteering. I was still trying to come back from the whole telling her I was gay in an attempt to get her to hire me thing.
“Aren’t things usually closed on Thanksgiving?” Charles asked absently.
I WAS ready to commit actual bodily harm against my physics TA by the last class before Thanksgiving break. It was infuriating because I loved the lecture so much, the readings were fascinating, and I was actually kind of thinking that being a physics major would be amazing. But this fucking guy made me want to invent new words just to express my loathing for him. I couldn’t tell if he had it in for me in particular or if he was this much of a dick to everyone, but it was like he took joy in shooting down my ideas and making everything as difficult as possible by giving me the bare minimum of information in response to any question I asked.
I walked back to my room and fell immediately face-first onto my bed where I lay, backpack still on, until Charles shook me awake a few hours later and asked if I was purposely reenacting what it felt like to be pressed to death. He was writing a paper about the Salem witch trials—I’d had no idea how many theories there were to explain the cause of the girls’ mania—and had explained in great detail the week before about pressing as a method of execution.
I woke up long enough to grumble, shrug my backpack off, and pull the covers up before going back to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, I almost panicked when I saw it was after ten until I remembered it was Thanksgiving break and I didn’t have anywhere to be until five, when Charles and I were going over to Milton’s folks’ house for dinner. When they’d heard Milton had friends who were staying in the dorms over Thanksgiving, they’d insisted we come celebrate with them, Charles’ critiques of the holiday notwithstanding.
SEND ME a pic of yr outfit, Milton texted me around noon.
Ummmmm, I wrote back. I was just wearing jeans and a hoodie like I always did. Is Thanksgiving an… outfit occasion? It never had been in my family. But I guessed I should’ve known that my parents might not be predictive of the sartorial habits of what I’d gleaned was a pretty stylish New York City family, considering that my mom’s idea of fancy was a sweatshirt decorated with white puffy paint lace around the collar and my dad’s was his plaid button-down from Lands’ End instead of his plaid button-down from Target.
Facepalm, Milton texted. Never mind. See you at 5.
“Hey, what are you wearing to dinner?” I asked Charles, who was reading up on the history of Native American cultural appropriation to make sure he could accurately synopsize the various critical positions.
“A navy suit, a light gray shirt, and brown wingtips,” he said.
“Right, sure.”
Holy shit.
I texted Will: FASHION EMERGENCY!!! Can I borrow something to wear? P.S. Happy Tgiving.
“SO YOU seriously aren’t doing anything festive for Thanksgiving?”
“I got a turkey sandwich with cranberry compote for lunch. That was festive as hell.”
I rolled my eyes at Will and shrugged on the shirt he held out to me.
“Hmm, I wonder if Rex can cook Thanksgiving dinner in the cabin?” I mused. Rex was an amazing cook, and I couldn’t imagine him passing up the opportunity.
“Huh? They’re going to Michigan?”
“No, no. They went to a cabin in some state park for Thanksgiving. I just figured Rex had told you.”
Will snorted. “I never hear from that asshole anymore.”
“You don’t? Since when?”
He looked at me like I’d said something stupid. “Uh, since he and Daniel shacked up.”
“But… why?” I knew Daniel and Will weren’t exactly one another’s biggest fans, but I couldn’t imagine that Daniel would ever ask Rex not to talk to Will.
“Because that’s what happens when people get into relationships, kiddo. They don’t give a shit about other people anymore.” His tone was matter-of-fact.
He slipped the jacket over my shoulders, and we both looked at me in the mirror.
“It doesn’t look good on me the way it does on you,” I grumbled. The suit was light gray with a dark gray pinstripe, and on him it looked classy, but I looked like I was playing dress-up as a gangster or something.
“It doesn’t really go with your coloring. Besides, you’re skinny as shit.”
I glared at him. “Well, fix it!”
“What, like feed you a calorie-dense meal?”
I slugged him in the shoulder.
He picked through his closet and pulled out a pair of dark gray pants, a thin white shirt, and a thick navy sweater that buttoned with round wooden buttons and looked like it should be worn by a shepherd in Wales or something.
“Ooh, soft.” I reached for the clothes.
“Are you wearing boxers?” Will asked, eyeing my ass in a distinctly nonappreciative way.
“Yeah, why?”
“Take them off.”
“Um.”
He just looked at me.
“Turn around,” I said. He rolled his eyes and pulled some underwear out of his drawer, throwing them at me.
“Put those on.”
“You want me to wear your underwear?”
“Don’t get too excited, kiddo.”
He turned back around while I changed. The pants probably weren’t supposed to be this baggy, but they didn’t look too bad. The shirt was soft and the sweater fit me perfectly in the shoulders, its heavy knit lending me enough bulk that I didn’t look so skinny.
“I look like I should be at a fancy ski lodge or something.”
Will came and stood behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror. He nodded, as if satisfied.
“Does it look okay?” I was totally fishing, but I couldn’t help it. The sweater smelled like him, and I could smell him right there, and his hair gleamed golden in the mirror next to the dark of my own.
Will slid his arms around my waist from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder.
“Yeah,” he said. I grinned, and I could feel his lips move against my neck as I saw his smile bloom in the mirror.
MILTON’S PARENTS were nothing like I’d imagined. I’d only ever known people’s parents who were… well, parents. Milton’s parents were people. His mom was in some kind of nonprofit arts administration, and she dressed like the ladies who ran galleries I’d seen in movies about New York: a fitted black skirt that came to midcalf over heeled black boots, a cobalt blue sweater, and a necklace that looked like The Hulk had torn a piece off the side of an airplane and twisted it into a circle and put it over her head. She wore her hair in a riot of natural curls tipped blonde, and her bright pink lipstick would’ve looked ridiculous on my mom, but on her it was amazing. Even though she was really nice, I’d been ridiculously intimidated by her since the moment she’d first opened the door for Charles and me.
His father was less intimidating because he was less interested in me, clearly wanting to take advantage of his time with Milton and his sister, Clarice, who was in her last year at Parson’s studying fashion design. His father did something that I didn’t fully understand and taught a class on political economy once a year at The New School. He apparently had a huge Twitter following because he was outspoken about the intersections of race in popular culture and political economy.
The Beales lived in Park Slope and had an amazing view of Prospect Park. I snapped a quick pic and sent it to Will with the caption Giving thanks that I didn’t show up looking like a total scrub! Xoxo.
Milton’s grandparents on his mom’s side showed up about an hour after we got there, as did a few of Clarice’s friends, all of whom were ridiculously well dressed in this way that I could never pull off even if someone picked my clothes out for me.
I was learning that there was this whole approach to fashion that wasn’t about what was most flattering but more about expressing personality. It elevated people-watching all across the city because it gave me even more material to use to try and figure out who people might be. Or, at least, who they wanted the world to think they were.
Some of Milton’s parents’ friends showed up a little while after that, carrying covered dishes of food and bringing an argument they’d been having in with them. It was about a recent policy change in the mayoral office, and I was embarrassed that I didn’t know anything about the local politics of the city yet. I saw the front page of the New York Times all over town, strewn across tables in the library or the dorms, and the Post and the Daily News at the counter of Mug Shots. But I still hadn’t absorbed enough of it to be able to remember names and make connections.
“Tommy’s a defense attorney and Skya works for the Sylvia Rivera Law Project,” Milton told me, eyebrow raised as if I was supposed to know the significance of that. Before I could ask, though, Milton’s mom herded us into the dining room where a long table was set with creamy white dishes that were probably the nicest thing I’d ever eaten off. The food was set up on the sideboard against the wall, and we filled our plates, the conversation zinging off in multiple directions.
Mostly I just ate and listened. Charles brought up the origins of Thanksgiving, spitting out his research in a tone with which I was intimately familiar. Milton’s dad and Skya, who were sitting closest to him, nodded as he talked about the hypocrisy of celebrating genocide, and I could tell Charles was excited to talk about what he’d learned.
But rather than either dismissing him or praising him, Skya asked Charles what he did to advocate for Native American issues on a daily basis, and told him gently but firmly that while it was all well and good to trot out a critique on a holiday that people have developed a sentimental attachment to for reasons far removed from its origins, it’s another entirely to actually do the work to make any kind of difference relating to that critique.
If I’d been Charles, I’d’ve been mortified, but he just nodded and said that he would look into it. And I was sure he would too. Skya patted his arm affectionately and told him that she could help him with some resources if he wanted.
The food was delicious. There was a turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes and gravy, but it was all fancy. The stuffing was made with cornbread and figs, the mashed potatoes were velvety and had a flavor I couldn’t place. There were also baked macaroni and cheese with truffle oil, and a shaved brussels sprout salad that managed to make a vegetable my mom usually served boiled to disgustingness taste like fluffy magic. For dessert there was a pecan pie, a blueberry pie, and a chocolate cheesecake with some kind of salted caramel sauce that tasted like liquid gold and that I basically wanted to drink out of a water glass.
After dinner, we sat in the living room having whiskey (the adults) and hot apple cider (the rest of us) and speaking at half speed because we were all too full and relaxed to muster the energy to form complex sentences. I was so satisfied that I was even drifting off a little. If I let my eyes cross slightly, I could make my vision double so that it looked like the Beales’ tastefully decorated Christmas tree was also sitting in Prospect Park.
Charles was deep in conversation with Skya about the implications of gender self-determination in the legal system, and Milton was in his element, charming Clarice’s friends. I was warm and full and at peace with the world. I nuzzled Will’s sweater and replayed the moment when he’d rested his chin on my shoulder.
My phone chirped with a text reply from Will, almost like he’d felt me thinking about him. I grinned. It was a picture of himself, taken in the mirror of a bar. He looked as beautiful as ever. Then I turned my phone over to enlarge the picture and saw that over his shoulder were all men, some of them shirtless. His text said Gonna be giving thanks pretty soon myself *leer*. My heart instantly plummeted into my stomach and I blinked hard, swallowing, the taste of all that delicious food gone sour in my mouth.
