Chapter Text
Shaun talked in his sleep.
Not in a say-actual-words way—absolutely not. If that happened, Abby would’ve been out of that bed so fast, phone in hand, already drafting a “so anyway my boyfriend is possessed” text. No, this was more… noises. Little mumbles. Random grunts. Soft half-sounds like his brain was trying to open an app and just froze before he’d snuggle his face into her shoulder and sigh. None of it made sense, but somehow it was still kind of cute. Like, objectively annoying, sure, but in a way that made her smile instead of committing a felony.
And honestly? She’d survived worse. Abby had spent months sleeping with two giant-ass dogs who treated nighttime like a competitive farting league. This was nothing. She would gladly take a hot boyfriend making weird little sleep noises over being Dutch-ovened by a pitbull. At least Shaun smelled good. At least his unconscious body wasn’t actively putting a hole in the ozone.
Plus—and this part mattered—she didn’t have to be the big spoon. Ever. She got to be the little spoon, wrapped up like a burrito, warm and safe, his arm slung over her waist like God intended. Truly, spiritually correct. And yeah, he muttered nonsense and snorted occasionally, but whatever. What crime was he actually committing here? None. Absolutely zero.
Okay but her crime? Yeah, that was real. Because her very hot, snort-mumbly boyfriend was absolutely not supposed to be in her bedroom. Ever. At any point. He had climbed in through her window after Mom and Dad went to bed like some kind of delinquent Disney Channel love interest, and if her dad found Shaun in her bed—in her bed—there would be no coming back from that. Shaun would simply cease to exist. Her dad wouldn’t even yell. He’d just go quiet. Which was worse. And Grandpa was here, and Abby was fairly certain he’d hidden bodies before. She didn’t have proof. It was simply a vibe.
But also… whatever. She had made out with a boy. In her bed. For an objectively insane amount of time. And he was good at it. Like, alarmingly good at it. Like, “oh, so this is why people risk their lives sneaking boys into their childhood bedrooms” good. She felt like she was in The Summer I Turned Pretty, minus the beach house and plus the very real threat of paternal homicide.
Yeah. No notes. That shit rocked.
And fucking relax, pervs. It wasn’t like she was doing anything heinous. She’d only had her first kiss, like, a month ago. This was still very much beginner-level nonsense. Yes, Shaun had climbed into her room for the first time literally that night, which—okay, sure—was a bold choice. But they weren’t doing anything. Mostly just kissing. A lot. Did he maybe touch her boob over her shirt? Maybe! Whatever! It was fine! Mind your business!
And also—her parents were literally down the hall. Like, feet away. Cough-hearing distance. She wasn’t a heathen. She had self-control. Boundaries. A deeply ingrained fear of her mother. God. Who did people think she was, sneaking around like that with zero regard for consequences? Or proximity? Please. She wasn’t stupid.
Except for right now.
Right now she was being catastrophically stupid.
Because while she was busy sneaky-linking with her boyfriend—who was currently dead asleep, shirtless, and stretched out in her bed like he belonged there—the movie they absolutely did not watch still playing on her laptop like a glowing witness to the crime, she had forgotten to set an alarm. The alarm. The one that was supposed to go off at 4:00 a.m., because Dad was up by 4:30 on the dot, and Shaun needed to be awake, dressed—no complaints about the boxers, thank you very much—and climbing back out her window by 4:15 before Dad started his early-morning lurking down the hallway.
But no. No alarm. Because the second Shaun hauled himself through the window, her brain had fully powered down. Because she’d been too busy staring at his abs when the hoodie came off to remember alarms, or consequences, or even her own government name. Now she lay there in the, dread pooling in her stomach as she realized that if this went sideways, they were, scientifically speaking, so fucked.
And sideways it went, immediately and violently, because now someone was at her door.
“Abby?” Dad called, rapping gently against the wood.
Ha! Fun! She was in danger!
Her eyes snapped open like she’d been hit with a defibrillator, any lingering sleep instantly ejected from her system. Beside her, Shaun shifted with a soft groan, tightening his arms around her and pulling her flush against his chest like this was a perfectly normal, consequence-free morning. For half a second—just one, desperate, delusional second—she tried to convince herself this was a dream. A stress dream. A very realistic nightmare where her dad was absolutely not standing on the other side of her locked bedroom door, which, by the way, was not supposed to be locked because ER docs got weird about “accessibility” and “emergencies,” while her soul actively exited her body through her butthole.
She twisted carefully, peeking over Shaun’s shoulder to tap her phone awake on the nightstand. And, well. Nightmare confirmed.
9:00 a.m. glared back at her like a death warrant. Which meant Dad was very much awake. Had been awake. This wasn’t early morning anymore—this was, like, old-man noon. He’d had coffee. Possibly a workout. Dogs had been walked. She was so, so fucked.
She started shaking Shaun awake as gently as humanly possible, like maybe if she didn’t move too fast, reality would politely wait its turn. She didn’t even breathe. Shaun just shifted closer instead, making this pathetic little sound that would’ve been adorable under literally any other circumstances, and buried his face into her shoulder like a sleepy octopus.
“Go back to sleep, babe—” he started to mumble, voice thick and useless.
Abby slapped her hand over his mouth so fast she nearly took his face with it.
He startled, recoiling just enough to blink at her in bleary confusion, pushing her hand away with a frown like he was deeply offended by this sudden violence. He opened his mouth again—probably to complain—so she slapped her hand back over it. Harder. His brows shot up as the light pouring through the blinds finally registered, and Abby lifted one finger to her lips in a sharp, silent don’t.
“What?” he whispered into her palm.
She kicked him under the covers.
“C’mon, kiddo,” Dad called again, knocking a little louder this time.
Abby watched the color drain straight out of Shaun’s face. His eyes went huge, pure panic setting in as his feet started doing this frantic little duck scramble under the covers while he tried to sit up without making a single sound.
“Time to get up,” Dad added. “I need your help downstairs.”
“Just a minute!” she called back, and if her voice cracked like a pubescent boy’s, well. No one needed to talk about that.
Shaun launched himself out of the bed like it was on fire, scrambling for his clothes in full panic mode. He yanked his hoodie off her desk and shoved it on backwards, which was tragic for multiple reasons, chief among them being: goodbye, abs. He fumbled with his pants, hopping on one foot like a cartoon idiot, then froze, eyes darting to the window. Shoes. Right. He grabbed them and just—yeeted them straight out the window before yanking his jeans up.
He was back at her in a second, hands on her face, kissing her quick and desperate like it might be the last time he ever saw her, and then he was gone—hauling himself out the window and onto the tree in a mad scramble and then just scurried down. Squirrel behavior at its finest. Abby caught him curse quietly when the branches rustled and the dogs lost their shit in the backyard. She stood in the middle of her room, watching Shoeless Squirrel Boy skedaddle down the tree like some sort of discount Marvel character, heart pounding like she’d just committed a felony. Which, granted, she had. At least a parental felony.
Mission: get Shaun out. Complete. Now she just had to open the door and pretend she hadn’t almost died.
“Abby,” Dad called again, and this time there was a little bite under it as he knocked. “Unlock the door, kid. You know the drill.”
Okay. Showtime. She sagged her shoulders, tried to look like a person who had just been dragged out of REM sleep, softened her eyes into something convincingly groggy. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, rubbing at her face and forcing a big, dramatic yawn.
“Hi, Daddy.”
He did not buy it. Not for a single second.
He stood there in full I used to be in the military and now I just bother my kid stance—feet planted, arms crossed, posture sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes flicked over her face, then immediately past her, sweeping her room like he was clearing it. Bed. Desk. Laptop. Window.
“Why is your window open?” he asked.
Fuck.
“I got hot,” Abby said, immediately, because panic had taken the wheel and that was apparently all she had.
Dad gave her a look that made her stomach drop straight into her ass. Why was he looking at her like that? Like she’d committed an actual crime. She hadn’t—she was just standing there under her string lights, in pajamas that weren’t appropriate for late November, sweating so much. You know, like a liar.
He was onto her. Fully. Absolutely. She could feel it in her bones as he stepped past her and into her room, still scanning like he expected to find a six-foot-three point guard in SpongeBob boxers passed out in her bed—which, objectively, he had, but thankfully Dad was working with zero evidence and maximum suspicion. He moved slowly, methodically, like a bloodhound on a scent, eyes flicking over everything as he went. Then he stopped at her bed and kicked her comforter aside where it dangled over the edge, all the confidence of a drill sergeant doing bunk inspections, and glanced underneath it.
Why was he doing that? Why did he know to look there? What was happening?
“I heard voices,” he said evenly, wandering towards her closet door and nudging it open with her foot.
Oh god. She was going to throw up. Be cool, Baker. Be cool.
“I had a show on,” she squeaked.
He didn’t look at her when he replied. “Your TV is off.”
“I was watching it on my computer,” she shot back, too fast but not fast enough to sound rehearsed.
Dad nodded slowly. Once. Twice. And somehow that felt… okay. Not good. Definitely not good. But maybe—not immediately fatal.
“Why did it take you so long to answer the door?” Dad asked, turning back to her.
“I was—” she panicked, then committed. “Pooping.”
Wow. Incredible work, Abby. Seriously? That’s the best you can do?
He frowned. “Then why are you out of breath?”
“I was constipated.”
There was a beat. And then—oh no. The doctor switch flipped.
“How long has this been happening? Any cramping? Are you getting enough fiber? Because straining can—”
“Ew, Dad! Stop being a doctor!” she yelped, mortified, clapping her hands over her ears like that would undo reality.
Apparently that worked, because he huffed and finally turned toward the door. Relief flooded her so hard her knees nearly buckled. She took a step after him, freedom in sight—
“Abigail Quinn.”
Double fuck.
Her full government name stopped her cold. She turned slowly, heart slamming against her ribs, and found Dad standing at her window, staring out into the yard like a Bond villain plotting revenge. One hand rested on the sill. Casual. Menacing.
“If I find out you had a boy in this house,” he said quietly, still not looking at her, “you two are going to be in a world of trouble. You hear me?”
Nice. Dad Speak for you’re both dead. Not good. Really, really not good. She was so dead. Okay. Fine. Nuclear option. Big guns. Here we go.
She dropped her arms and looked up at him through her lashes, dialing her eyes to maximum soft and pitiful. Not full-on crying—that was suspicious—but just enough lip wobble to suggest emotional devastation at the mere implication that she was absolutely lying through her teeth.
“Daddy,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t even do that. Ever. Honest.”
Dad stared her down for a long, brutal second. Then another. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Finally, he sighed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
“Get dressed,” he said, staring towards her door again. “Come downstairs. Breakfast is ready.”
And just like that, it was over.
God. Dads were so easy. That never would have worked on Mom. Sucker.
Abby nodded obediently and shut her bedroom door behind him the second he turned away, immediately slapping a hand over her mouth as her stomach lurched. She stood there for a beat, breathing through it, convinced she might actually throw up on her rug. Disaster narrowly avoided. Barely.
She crossed the room on shaky legs to close her window—and froze. Across the gap between their houses, Shaun was standing in his own room, already inside, hoodie on correctly this time. He caught her eye and grinned, lifting two fingers in a stupid little salute before winking at her like they hadn’t just risked death together. She flipped him off affectionately and slammed the window shut.
She got dressed in record time and slipped out into the hallway, heart still thudding. Mom’s bedroom door was still closed, which was weird. They always left it open for the dogs in the morning.
When Abby hit the bottom of the stairs, the house hit her senses all at once. Smelled like Thanksgiving had exploded in the kitchen, all warm, buttery, spiced, and slightly overwhelming. Grandpa was on the couch in his pajamas, the parade blaring at an ungodly old person volume, while simultaneously fending off the dogs trying to steal bites off his breakfast plate.
Mom wasn’t in the kitchen yet, which was even weirder than the closed bedroom door. By this time, Mom should be halfway through dinner prep with Jurassic Park blasting out of her iPad because she watched it every Thanksgiving like clockwork while she pretended she wasn’t totally day drinking. But strangely, no Mom. Instead, Dad and Grandma were going full Top Chef—chopping, stirring, tasting, judging, moving faster than Abby could process.
She shuffled over, stomach still doing nervous gymnastics after her close encounter of the fatherly kind, and asked, “Uh… where’s Mom?”
“Still asleep,” Dad said casually, like this was normal and he hadn’t left her totally gagged while he trimmed green beans. Like, what? Did Mom know that? Mom never slept in. Especially not on holidays. Not when there were timers to set, schedules to follow, and recipes taped to cabinets like holy scripture. Abby blinked at him, jaw slack, but Dad shrugged as if that explained everything. “Long night. Figured I’d let her sleep a little.”
No. Right. Because that was normal. Mom just slept in now.
Abby just stood there, fully nonverbal, watching Dad dump green beans into a casserole dish like the laws of nature hadn’t been violated five minutes ago. Her brain was buffering hard, trying to roll itself around this absolute lunacy. Mom asleep. On a holiday. Unsupervised kitchen activity. None of it was adding up.
She glanced from Dad to Grandma, who was already fully dressed in the knit turkey vest she wore every single year, hair neatly brushed behind her ears, calmly rolling out pie crust like this was all perfectly normal and not some sort of alien abduction situation. Like Mom hadn’t been replaced by a pod person upstairs. Abby swallowed, still silent, still processing, because something was off—and she did not like it.
“What about the turkey?” Abby finally blurted, because someone had to address the elephant in the room.
Dad glanced up like she’d asked what day it was. “I put it in.”
She stared. “…Are you sure that was a good idea?”
He straightened, instantly defensive. “I cooked for thirty years, Abby. I can handle a turkey.”
She snorted. “That doesn’t mean you were good at it.”
Behind him, Grandma muffled a laugh and patted his arm like she was calming a mildly offended cat. “I taught him everything he knows,” she said kindly. “It’ll be just fine.” Then she leaned toward Abby, dropped her voice, and winked. “I’m supervising.”
Abby giggled. Grandma smiled back and moved toward the fridge. “Jackie, honey, eat something before you fall down.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said, then pointed a spatula at Abby. “Go get breakfast.”
Abby shot Dad one more sideways glance and decided, yeah—nope. Mouth closed. Best not to draw attention to herself when she was still basically radiating shame like it was a Sol de Janeiro scent. Instead, she slid a plate off the stack on the counter, avoided eye contact like it was contagious, and slunk over to the stove to scoop eggs onto her plate.
This was fine. Everything was fine. She was fine.
Moose immediately headbutted her leg, then plopped his massive, fuzzy butt down beside her like she was his only chance against starvation. He whined. Pawed at her knee. Went full sad shelter dog mode until Abby sighed and slipped him a piece of bacon off her plate.
Behind her, Dad and Grandma fell back into their chaotic rhythm—half The Bear-level intensity, half the most boring small talk imaginable. Abby listened for a second, just to be sure everything stayed aggressively normal. No raised voices. No suspicious questions. No sudden accusations.
Okay. Coast clear. She finally let herself breathe.
Abby escaped into the living room, deciding she’d had more than enough Weird Kitchen Energy for one morning. That was enough of that. Grandpa glanced up from his almost comically full plate as she came in.
“Mornin’, pumpkin,” he said, settling deeper into the couch with a grunt.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Abby replied, stabbing a strawberry with her fork as she dropped down beside him. Immediately, Dolly hauled herself up onto the couch, front paws planted squarely on Grandpa’s belly as she leaned in and gave his plate the most shameless lick known to man.
“Get your ass down,” Grandpa grumbled, gently shooing her away, but she bounced right back like this was a fun little game. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath before sighing in defeat. “You sleep alright?”
She nodded, maybe a little too fast, and locked her eyes onto the K-Pop Demon Hunter balloon on the TV. Grandpa hummed, chewed his toast, and let the silence stretch out all comfortable and normal. Then, like he was commenting on the parade float lineup, he said, “Shaun sleep alright too?”
Her fork clanged against the plate.
“What?” she squeaked, whipping her head toward him.
He didn’t even look at her. “Been around a long time, pumpkin,” Grandpa said mildly, like he was asking her to pass the remote. “My hearing might not be what it once was, but I’m not deaf.”
Oh. Oh no. Triple fuck.
This was it. She was dying. This was some kind of pre-afterlife reckoning. Abby stared at him, brain fully blue-screened, plate forgotten in her lap while Dolly demolished her eggs with zero remorse.
Finally, Grandpa turned his head, Rumi flashing in the reflection of his glasses. “I hear that boy in your room again,” he said calmly, “and I’ll have no problem knockin’ on your daddy’s bedroom door. You understand me, little lady?”
Abby nodded so hard her neck twinged, blood draining out of her face. She leaned in, voice barely there. “You’re… you’re not gonna tell Dad, right?”
Grandpa’s mouth twitched. Then he smirked—slow and knowing—and sank back into the couch with a low chuckle that was honestly more unsettling than if he’d just yelled at her. He shook his head.
“Nope,” he said easily. “Nope. He can sit with that one for a bit.” He shook his head, amused. “’Bout time it’s his turn.”
Abby stared at him, horrified.
What the fuck did that mean? Why was everyone in this house suddenly speaking in riddles like she’d wandered into a prestige drama?
“His turn for what?” she whispered.
But Grandpa didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. That would’ve been way too merciful. Instead, he just kept chuckling to himself like he knew something she didn’t—because apparently everyone in this house did—while sudden footsteps thundered overhead, loud enough that Abby genuinely wondered if the ceiling was about to cave in.
She was still staring at Grandpa, horrified, when Mom’s footsteps tore down the hallway, accompanied by a rapid-fire stream of whispered curses that sounded like she was fighting a demon in socks.
Mom burst into the living room in full panic mode. Still in her pajamas, robe thrown on over an old Fleetwood Mac tee, hair a complete disaster and only half pulled up, glasses crooked—she looked like she’d woken up mid-apocalypse.
“What time is it?” she snapped at no one in particular.
“0930,” Grandpa said calmly, already flipping the channel to the dog show.
“In plain English, please,” Mom hissed, already blasting toward the kitchen like she’d been fired out of a cannon. “Jack!”
“In here, Sparky,” Dad called back.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Mom demanded, still in full panic mode. Abby watched from the couch as she burst into the kitchen, spinning like she was under attack. “My alarm didn’t go off—why didn’t you come get me?”
“I turned it off,” Dad said. Almost proudly. Which was so stupid.
“Why?” Mom snapped, sharp enough that Abby physically flinched. Mom started yanking drawers open, rifling through them like the kitchen was actively betraying her. “Fuck, I’m so far behind. I need—damn it, I need to get the turkey in, and—and—shit, where’s the baster? Jack—”
Dad stepped directly into her path, still calm, still faintly smiling, and lifted his hands like he was soothing a spooked horse. He set them on her shoulders, forcing her to stop and actually look at him.
“The turkey is in,” he said evenly.
Mom froze, eyes still darting around the kitchen, bun flopping dangerously. “Okay… but… the pie dough—I need—”
“Already chilling in the fridge,” Dad replied.
Mom stalled for a second, like her brain was buffering, and Abby watched her shoulders finally drop an inch. Dad stayed freakishly calm, like this was all going exactly to plan, while Mom looked between him, then the counter, then the oven, and back again, trying to reconcile reality.
Dad leaned in and kissed her, then—ugh, gross—gave her butt a little pat before Abby could look away. “I’ve got it,” he told her gently. “It’s all getting handled. Eat before breakfast gets cold. I’m gonna clear the sink.”
Mom just stood there as he walked away, still visibly shaken, scanning the kitchen again like she’d just woken up on Christmas morning in one of those Hallmark movies where the main character has to learn the true meaning of the holidays or whatever. Then she smiled, all tiny and kind of dopey, and started plating breakfast while Dad shooed the dogs out back.
Abby watched the whole thing with her fork suspended halfway to her mouth, brain absolutely fried. Because, again—what the fuck was happening today? She shook it off and turned back to the TV, choosing to focus on inbred dogs prancing around aggressively WASPy white people with Grandpa, who was—somehow—cool now? Like, chill. Unbothered. Complicit, even.
Behind her, Mom pulled one of the stools away from the island and sat, leaning in toward Dad as they started talking quietly about God knows what. Abby didn’t need to hear the words to know the vibe. The tone was way too flirty for the hour.
Then there was a knock at the door.
For one blessed, stupid second, Abby thought—oh. Maybe that was it. Dogs were out back. No chaos. Maybe the universe was done testing her. And then Dolly chose violence.
She planted her paws squarely into Grandpa’s chest and threw her head back, howling directly into his ear in a way that was nowhere as musical as her namesake. Grandpa swore, nearly losing his plate, and Abby’s intestines did that horrible, squishy thing again like they were made of overcooked pasta.
Please don’t be Mrs. Griffin. Please don’t be Mrs. Griffin.
“Got it!” Grandma called from the kitchen.
Abby watched over the back of the couch as Grandma headed for the door, the whole thing suddenly moving in slow motion, dread curdling into cheese curds while the doorknob turned.
But no. Way too much Dior. Way too much hairspray. This was definitely not Mrs. Griffin. No—this was so much better.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Aunt Becca squealed, barreling into the kitchen with her arms wide, oversized Gucci sunglasses hiding half her face. She practically tackled Grandma in a hug, laughing so hard it sounded like wind chimes in a hurricane, and Grandma laughed right back, returning the embrace like they’d rehearsed it a hundred times.
Abby let out a soft, involuntary gasp and pushed herself up off the couch, stunned. Aunt Becca’s red-lipped smile was practically radioactive, lighting up the entire hallway even from where Abby sat.
Oh. This. This was so much better. Like, on a scientific level, her body was convinced she had just been injected with pure joy.
Aunt Becca honed in on her over Grandma’s shoulder, and Abby’s brain nearly short-circuited. Her whole face stretched into a smile that must have required actual engineering with all the Botox in it. She threw her hands up with a squeal and barreled into the house like a glittering, red-lipped tornado in what Abby guessed was nearly four grand in loungewear alone. She knew how much Dior cost now. She’d looked at their website. She wasn’t allowed to think about it. Dad said.
“My favorite girl!” Aunt Becca cried, trapping Abby’s face in her impossibly manicured hands and peppering her cheeks with kisses before yanking her into a hug so crushing it felt like a small earthquake. “Oh, I missed you so much! I have a whole bag of things for you at the hotel—big girl birthday presents for my big girl!”
Abby laughed, letting Aunt Becca squeeze her again before the whirlwind turned her attention to Grandpa. He looked equal parts delighted and mildly traumatized.
Then Dad stepped into the kitchen doorway, rag in hand, drying his hands, and that calm, composed look he always carried? Gone. Abby’s stomach did a backflip—he went white. Aunt Becca spotted him, froze like a statue, and went completely rigid. Hands on her hips, lips pressed together in that perfect smirk.
“Oh,” she said, the word tasting sour. “You’re here.”
Dad stared. Shook his head slowly. Jaw tightened. And then, impossibly, turned red. Like actual, alarming red.
“Fuck,” he muttered, low and clipped, and Aunt Becca just smirked.
“What?” Mom called from the kitchen, immediately met with the thwack of Dad dropping the rag into the sink.
“Fucking—” Dad began, then paused like his vocabulary had been stolen. “…Becca.”
Abby’s brain short-circuited. Okay. What?
“Oh,” Aunt Becca snorted, eyes glinting. She began stalking Dad toward the kitchen, slow and deliberate, like a massive cat circling its prey. It was terrifying. And magnificent. “Nice. Really nice. Good to see you too, Jackass.”
Oh? Oh. Oh, how the tables turn. That felt like a story. Abby pushed herself off the couch, swiping up her plate on impulse. Suddenly, she was hungry again—seconds, yes, definitely seconds—and headed toward the kitchen.
Inside, Mom and Aunt Becca were locked in a hug that looked like a reunion after some epic war, laughing and squealing like the world had been set right. Dad, meanwhile, was furiously scrubbing a plate at the sink, hard enough that Abby could almost see cartoon smoke curling from his ears.
Interesting. Abby pulled the carton of orange juice out of the fridge and started pouring herself a glass, sneaking glances between them. Interesting. Very interesting.
Mom looked absolutely thrilled that Aunt Becca was there. She always was, Abby figured. There was a whole Pokémon evolution of Mom that only unlocked in Aunt Becca’s presence—if Pokémon evolutions could be triggered by white wine, raised voices, and an alarming willingness to discuss wildly inappropriate topics in public places. Chaos Mom™️ had once loudly recounted her pre-hysterctomy IUD horror story during a character breakfast at Disneyland, while Goofy stood three feet away pretending not to hear any of it or see any of her incredibly detailed hand gestures, and Aunt Becca goaded her on in only the ‘live your truth, girl’ way that women did when they were plastered. Abby would be lying if she said Chaos Mom™️ wasn’t her favorite version of Mom.
Dad, on the other hand, looked like someone had walked into the kitchen, shit directly on the floor in front of him, and then asked him to pass the salt. He did not have the ER-doctor wherewithal to calmly assess the situation and say, ah yes, this is a perfectly normal thing I deal with every day. Instead, he just stood there behind the island, staring at Aunt Becca like she’d materialized out of a cloud of sulfur and brimstone, horns and all.
Aunt Becca, of course, noticed immediately, and her face dropped like someone had too shit in front of her. “Why are you here?”
“I live here,” Dad said flatly, gesturing to the kitchen like it was the dumbest fucking question in the world. Which like, fair. It was. He does.
Mom finally broke out of their hug, though she was still bouncing slightly on her toes like a sorority girl who’d just spotted a keg across the lawn. “I didn’t think you were coming!” she said, hands still gripping Aunt Becca’s shoulders like she might disappear if released.
Aunt Becca shot Dad one last look—sharp, satisfied, absolutely loaded—one he returned with equal intensity before she turned back to Mom. Abby had to stifle a laugh. It was like watching two apex predators silently agree to ruin a shared ecosystem; if, you know, one had only one foot and the other was riddled with Botox. “I decided last night and got on a flight this morning,” Aunt Becca said breezily. “Which, let me tell you, they are not staffing the A-Team in first class at four in the morning. At least it was a direct flight.”
“Oh yeah?” Dad muttered, wiping down the counter with a rag like he was scrubbing blood off of it, or was preparing to. He didn’t look up. “Tell me—who’s flying direct from hell nowadays? Spirit or Delta?”
Abby snorted into her orange juice and lunged for the fridge, yanking the door open like it might save her. God damn, Dad, she thought, shoulders shaking. You catty bitch. Do it again. She pretended to be deeply invested in the contents of the crisper drawer and shut the fridge just in time to hear Mom let out a sigh that sounded like she’d been bracing for exactly this moment since Aunt Becca booked the flight.
Aunt Becca smiled, but it had all the warmth of a shih tzu baring its teeth, especially with her hair pulled back like that—which was…a choice. “Funny,” she sneered. “American, actually. We must have just missed each other when they decided to let you out.”
Dad’s jaw ticked, once, sharp and unmistakable. Abby felt a thrill of anticipation ripple through her. Oh, this was good. This was Michelin-star family dysfunction. Aunt Becca opened her mouth again, clearly winding up for another round—
“Okay,” Mom sighed, stepping squarely between them like a referee who’d seen this fight before and already had a headache. Honestly? For the love of God, let them, Mother. Abby pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking, and wondered how long it would take before Dad remembered he was a medical professional sworn to do no harm—and before Aunt Becca decided to test just how far that oath really went. This was incredible. Thanksgiving dinner hadn’t even started yet, and they were already at Defcon One.
Ooo, maybe they’d make it on the scanner tonight. Really come full circle.
Becca looked at Dad, then waved him off with a little flick of her wrist like he was an annoying pop-up ad. She clapped her hands together, all cheer and teeth. “Alright. What are we drinking? The flight attendant poured like she was afraid of the bottle. It’s a holiday.”
“Nothing yet,” Mom said.
Becca’s face twisted. “Why?”
Dad didn’t even turn around this time. He bent toward the oven, squinting at the turkey like it might answer for him. “Gee, I don’t know, Rebecca. Maybe because it’s nine in the fucking morning.”
“Oh, amazing,” Becca said. “The army taught it how to read a clock. Did they get to shapes and colors, or did you wash out before kindergarten?”
The oven door slammed shut so hard the spice rack rattled. Dad’s shoulders went tight, voice already dropping into that dangerous, muttering register. “One time. One damn time thirty-three years ago and you just refuse to let it die.”
Abby pressed her mouth to the rim of her glass, shaking with silent laughter. She had no idea what had happened thirty-three years ago, but she was ride-or-die for whatever it was, and she desperately hoped Aunt Becca never, ever explained it. Like, does her fifty-year-old father not know how to read an analog clock? Because same bestie. That shit be hard.
The bickering kicked up like someone had flipped a switch. Abby stood there, rapt, her head turning between Dad and Aunt Becca and then to Mom, back and forth, back and forth, like she was courtside at Wimbledon. “Are you going to say something?” she asked Mom, doing her level best to smother the delight bubbling up in her voice.
Mom didn’t even look at her. She just rubbed her eyes behind her glasses and folded her arms over her chest as the voices rose. They weren’t shouting—no, this was better. Their tones edged closer and closer to outright mockery, each sentence dipped in just enough sweetness to be lethal. Abby felt a thrill every time one of them landed a hit.
She wouldn’t say she was a reality TV connoisseur, per se. Sure, she’d watched Real Housewives with Mom on occasion. But this? She would watch literal seasons of her father and her aunt acting like literal teenagers without blinking. This was premium content. Like something that would run for six seasons and then get a think piece written about it. What was the origin story? What was the lore? What ancient crime had been committed? Why did they both look like they were two seconds away from drowning the other in the first shallow puddle they found? Abby didn’t even care. She leaned back against the counter, juice warm in her hand, absolutely transfixed.
“No,” Mom said calmly, even as her eyes darted between Aunt Becca loudly accusing Dad that he still owed her forty dollars and Dad announcing—just as loudly—that he would gladly write her a check for forty thousand right now if it meant she’d go back to wherever the hell she came from. “I learned a long time ago to just let them wear themselves out.”
Abby let out a soft, reverent wow. This wasn’t even about the money anymore—if it ever had been. Forty dollars felt like a myth at this point, a cursed artifact that had survived decades purely to ruin holidays. She imagined it framed in a shadow box somewhere, labeled Break Only to Bother Beth.
Mom reached for her coffee like a woman settling in for a show, entirely unbothered by the fact that the kitchen now felt one step away from a WWE pay-per-view. Dad was gesturing wildly with a spatula. Aunt Becca had her hands on her hips, chin lifted, vibrating with righteous fury.
Abby took a sip of her orange juice and smiled to herself. Whatever this was, whatever ancient, petty war they were reenacting for the thousandth time, she was grateful to be alive to witness it.
Grandpa shuffled in then, already balancing a plate as Aunt Becca said something sharp about Kevin and Dad fired back with a reference to the bonfire incident, which Mom shut down immediately with a warning look and a sharp, “Absolutely not.” Grandpa paused mid-step, took in the scene—the postures, the tones, the sheer hostile energy vibrating through the kitchen—and then calmly added another cinnamon roll to his plate.
He didn’t acknowledge the shouting match actively unfolding behind him. Didn’t flinch when a cabinet door slammed. Just adjusted his grip on the plate and ambled toward the table like this was background noise, like World War III was simply ambience. As he passed Mom, he glanced up at her and muttered, “That didn’t take long.”
Mom shook her head, lips pressed into a hard, unimpressed line. “No,” she said flatly. “It did not.”
“Beth!” Dad barked, brandishing the turkey baster like it was evidence in a criminal trial. “Will you please explain to her—for the millionth goddamn time—how that was not my fault?”
Aunt Becca’s laugh was sharp and offended. “Oh, wow. So now it’s my fault?”
“That my pants caught on fire because you launched a fifth of vodka at me?” Dad shot back. “Yeah, Becca. I’m comfortable calling that your fault.”
“I said catch!” she snapped. “And honestly, it’s not like you even have that leg anymore!”
Abby felt her soul leave her body. Mom made a noise somewhere between a groan and a prayer. Grandpa froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.
Dad blinked once. Slowly. The baster sagged in his hand. “Low fucking blow,” he said quietly, with terrifying calm, pointing at her with the baster. “Real fuckin’ low, Rebecca.”
“I’m sure it was,” Aunt Becca said, glowing. Abby pressed a fist to her mouth, eyes wide and shining. No. Coming for the combat injury in the first ten minutes was crazy work. These two hated each other. This was incredible.
Mom opened her mouth, already rubbing her face like she was trying to physically press the migraine back into submission, but a sharp whistle cut clean through the bickering.
Dad and Aunt Becca went dead silent, their heads snapping toward Grandpa, who still hovered near the table with his plate. He leveled them both with the same flat, unimpressed glare, and—miracle of miracles—both of their eyes dropped to the kitchen tile like scolded children.
“I’m not listenin’ to it all damn day,” Grandpa said plainly.
“Yes, sir,” Dad mumbled immediately.
Aunt Becca nodded, lips pressed tight, chastened in a way Abby had never seen before and would probably never see again.
“Either close your mouths,” Grandpa continued, calmly cutting into his cinnamon roll with his fork, “or take it out into the yard and finish the damn job already. Christ. Thirty years wasn’t enough without you two snappin’ at each other like dogs.”
They all watched Grandpa go, his footsteps slow and unbothered, like he hadn’t just silenced two grown adults with a cinnamon roll and a glare. The kitchen stayed quiet after that—long enough for Abby to start thinking, wow, maybe that actually worked.
It did not.
Dad and Aunt Becca turned on each other again, but this time they leaned in close, voices dropped to furious, conspiratorial whispers. Their faces were tight, expressions sharp, hands gesturing just enough to keep the fight alive without technically disobeying Grandpa’s orders. Abby tried so hard not to laugh. She really did. But a tiny snort escaped her before she could stop it. She tried to cover it with a cough, but it was too late.
Mom’s eyes cut toward her, sharp and warning.
“Alright,” Mom sighed, already reaching for Aunt Becca’s arm. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me while I change, yeah?”
Aunt Becca made a small, triumphant sound in the back of her throat and nodded, allowing herself to be guided away like she’d just won something important. Abby caught the satisfied tilt of her smile as they headed for the stairs.
“Try not to shed all over my bed, would ya?” Dad called after her.
Aunt Becca didn’t even slow down. “Oh, tell me, Jackass,” she called over her shoulder. “How do you sleep in the sheets I picked out?”
Dad waved her off without looking up, muttering something unintelligible into his coffee cup. Abby stood frozen, jaw practically on the floor, glee radiating off her in waves as she watched Mom and Aunt Becca retreat up the stairs. Dad kept muttering like he hadn’t actually decided the argument was over.
When he finally noticed her staring, there was a flicker of guilt on his face—but the second he saw the excitement plastered all over Abby, he rolled his eyes. “Don’t start, House,” he muttered, filling his mug again.
“You caught on fire?” Abby asked, unable to help herself.
“What did I just say?” he replied, voice low, ignoring her.
“Like… on fire-fire? Or just a little?”
“No, Abby.”
“Why do you and Aunt Becca hate each other?” she asked, bouncing on her toes as he started toward the back door. “Why are you going outside? Dad—”
The back door closed behind him with a decisive click of the lock, like punctuation finalizing a sentence she wasn’t allowed to read. Abby watched him step onto the patio, just standing there with his back to her. He inhaled slowly, the breath ghosting out in the cold, shoulders rising and dropping in a rhythm that was almost meditative, except for the low, muttered words that tumbled from his mouth.
Abby couldn’t help it. She giggled softly, pressing herself against the doorframe, watching him. Oh my god. She broke him. Aunt Becca broke Dad.
God, today was going to be amazing.
Today was not amazing.
No—today was the opposite of amazing.
Well. Okay. That wasn’t totally fair. It started amazing. Or at least…fine. Most of the day had been pretty nice. Borderline wholesome almost. And honestly? That made the crash worse.
Mom and Aunt Becca had spent most of the morning upstairs, barricaded in her and Dad’s bedroom, sprawled across the bed while they caught up. Abby figured that had been very intentional—mostly to keep Aunt Becca from wandering downstairs and rage-baiting Dad until he snapped. It was actually kind of sweet, hearing Mom laugh so hard she snorted, the sound drifting down the hallway like proof that everything was normal. Functional. Healthy, even.
That illusion died when Abby went upstairs to ask Mom a question for Dad and walked in on her lying on her back, one leg up in the air, saying—out loud for God and her daughter to hear—
“—and then he does this thing with my leg, I’m not even sure how—”
Abby had immediately noped the fuck out of there, retreating down the stairs at record speed while clinging desperately to the idea that Mom was talking about yoga. Or Pilates. Or literally anything that didn’t involve her parents having sex.
Around noon, Aunt Becca left to go back to her hotel to shower and change. Which was a deeply unhinged choice, considering this was absolutely an elastic-waistband, eat-until-you-can’t-breathe kind of holiday. Abby couldn’t stop thinking about it. Who changed for Thanksgiving? What was she changing into?
God. She really, really hoped she didn’t marry into one of those families someday. The ones that dressed up for Thanksgiving. Or worse—ran 5Ks.
By the time Uncle Chris and Aunt Jess came back with the boys, the house was already loud—but somehow it got louder. Like, physics-defying louder. The boys burst in and immediately swarmed Dad and the dogs in a way that felt less “family greeting” and more “nature documentary about predators.”
Owen, especially, had apparently decided sometime in the last twelve hours that Dad was His Person. Full fixation. Would not be shaken. He trailed after him into the kitchen and stayed glued to his side for the next hour, firing off questions at a pace that felt medically concerning.
Why is the oven beeping?
What does beeping mean?
Did you make it beep? My daddy makes it beep a lot.
Did you ever burn a turkey?
Why is it hot?
How hot is hot?
What happens if the turkey explodes? Is that why you only have one leg? Mommy said I wasn’t allowed to ask that.
Do firefighters cook turkeys?
Abby waited for Dad to snap. Or at least sigh. Or gently suggest Owen go find literally anyone else. He didn’t. He answered some questions. Redirected others. Asked Owen questions back like this was a normal adult conversation and not a hostage negotiation. Never once told him to go away. Which Abby absolutely would have done after question number three.
She watched from the doorway, chewing on the inside of her cheek. He was good at it. The patience. The way he crouched down to Owen’s level. The way he listened like the questions mattered. She wondered—just for a second—if she would’ve gotten that from him, if things had been different. If he would’ve been like that when she was little. He would’ve been a really good dad to little kids. Even if they were really annoying.
The rest of the day blurred by the way it always did—too fast, too loud, and fueled almost entirely by snacks. Someone laid out food on the kitchen island like it was a sacred offering, and Abby hovered there like a raccoon with a mission.
Cooper and Wes hijacked the TV and made her play video games with them until they inevitably switched to Madden, at which point Uncle Chris wandered in, annihilated them in under ten minutes, and crushed their spirits so thoroughly that they declared video games stupid. Ten minutes later they were outside, feral and shirtless despite the weather because Aunt Jess told them not to get their clothes dirty, terrorizing the dogs.
Abby took that opportunity to absolutely decimate the deviled eggs. Like—an alarming amount. A number that should maybe be studied. She felt zero guilt. None. It was Thanksgiving and those eggs were a public resource. Who cares if she probably ate twelve whole eggs? They should have been faster.
Then Aunt Becca reappeared, freshly changed and dressed like she was headed to the sluttiest PTA meeting in the history of suburban America, and immediately decided that Dad looked too happy. She cornered him in the kitchen and launched into what Abby quickly realized was a continuation of a story. A story she would be needing full details on, immediately. From what she could piece together through the yelling and hand gestures:
- Mom had been blackout drunk. Or high. Abby suspected both.
- Aunt Becca had invited people over to Grandma and Grandpa’s house while they were on a cruise. Mom did not know this. At all.
- Dad lost Mom for an hour while trying to clear strangers out of the house.
- Someone took a shit in the basement.
- And Dad eventually found her in the bathtub housing an entire box of Cocoa Puffs (with half & half, as Mom thought was important to mention—it wasn’t.)
And these were the people trying to tell her what to do? Vodka Pants and Bathtub Cereal? Please.
Grandma and Grandpa, it turned out, had not known about any of this.
They absolutely did now.
Mom was very grounded.
Like—retroactively grounded. Spiritually grounded. Grounded across time and space.
Dad got in trouble. Which was…new. Wild, even. Aunt Becca was visibly thrilled by this development until, shockingly, she also got in trouble. Her joy evaporated instantly and she tried to pivot, doubling down and picking another fight with Dad about it, which is when Grandma snapped and threatened to put them in timeout.
Dad scoffed. Actually scoffed. He told Grandma that he’s forty-eight. She cannot put him in timeout. Aunt Becca actually agreed with him, which—wrong. Abby was very new to this arrangement but already knew everything about that alignment felt cosmically incorrect.
They got put in timeout.
It did not help.
Voices were raised. Fingers were pointed. Aunt Becca cried at one point, which felt fake. Dad swore at least twice, and Mom stared into the middle distance like she was actively dissociating. Abby, meanwhile, ate more deviled eggs. She also got in trouble.
Apparently “I’m coping” was not an acceptable explanation for eating the last six eggs.
She also got put in timeout.
So they were all crammed into Mom’s office—Dad on the arm of the chair, Aunt Becca sprawled dramatically on the couch, Mom at her desk with her head in her hands, Abby perched on the floor. All having a very bad time.
No one was learning a lesson.
No one was growing as a person.
Abby’s tummy really hurt. Probably from all the eggs.
Even that part had been…weirdly kind of fun.
Not fun fun. But like—I will absolutely be unpacking this in therapy someday fun. She’d learned new lore, which honestly felt invaluable. Also, she now knew exactly how many deviled eggs she could eat before her body started sending polite-but-firm cease and desist notices. Growth.
When they were finally released from their stint in the joint, Aunt Becca and Dad had been forced into a ceasefire. Not willingly. Mom made them agree. Out loud. With a handshake.
The handshake did not happen.
Instead, they slapped at each other’s hands like feral second graders until Mom threatened consequences again, at which point they grudgingly stood six feet apart and pretended the other did not exist. Peace had been achieved. Temporarily.
They reentered society just in time to find Aunt Jess and Uncle Chris setting the table, Jess directing traffic while Chris obediently followed orders like he was in a cooking show challenge. Grandma was ferrying dishes out like a general deploying troops, and Grandpa was in the living room having a full western-style standoff with the TV, squinting at it like intimidation might make the Cowboys game appear faster until he accidentally turned off the TV, said fuck, and Grandma yelled at him. Dad sighed, stepped in, and fixed it in under ten seconds. Order was restored.
Normal Baker family holiday activities.
And then he showed up.
Everything was settled. Like, perfectly settled. Grandpa, Dad, and Uncle Chris had claimed the living room for football, legs stretched out, beers in hand, already arguing about a call that hadn’t even happened yet. Mom was in the kitchen talking shit about the Bears to absolutely no one, armed with a wooden spoon and a confidence that suggested she’d been right about this since August. Aunt Becca had Grandma and Aunt Jess pinned at the island, gesturing wildly as she talked, jewelry flashing, clearly mid-story and absolutely refusing to be interrupted.
Then the doorbell rang and, naturally, all hell broke loose.
The dogs exploded into noise—barking, howling, nails scrabbling across the floor like they were responding to an active threat. Grandpa yelled something about “Jesus Christ,” Dad shouted for someone to grab the dogs, Mom yelled “I got it!” and did not, in fact, have it. Abby, by proximity alone, got drafted.
She weaved through fur and chaos and reached the door, already annoyed, already bracing herself for a neighbor or some weird Amazon mix-up. She pulled it open.
And there he was.
Doctor Fuckass himself.
She genuinely thought she’d hit her head. She had to have. This was one of those stress-induced hallucinations. A nightmare. She’d blink and wake up back in her room with Shaun still warm behind her, the lingering horror of receding hairlines flashing through her mind like a bad PSA.
But no.
Hoodie Guy was standing on their doorstep. Ten toes down on Mom’s aggressively autumnal doormat, dressed in jeans and a shirt he absolutely thought made him look approachable. He had a bottle of wine tucked under his arm like a peace offering, like this was normal. Like he belonged here. His eyes landed on her and he smiled. Which was frankly rude. Don’t do that. He flirted with her mom, after she specifically told him not to.
“Hey, Abby,” he said warmly. “Happy Thanksgi—”
“Yeah, whatever,” she cut in, staring at him like if she looked hard enough he’d evaporate. She gave him a once-over. Nope. Still solid. Still real. Still a problem. Haven’t I told you before, old man? Did Operation Wallet Drop teach you nothing? Not happening. “Why are you here?”
He blinked at her like she’d just spoken another language.
“Uh—Jack invited me,” he said, lifting the bottle of wine a little, like proof. “Can I come in, or…?”
Abby just stared at him. Blank. Unblinking. Processing.
Fucking Dad.
Ugh. She was really going to have to get used to this, wasn’t she? Dad living here meant this now. Meant him. Meant random middle-aged men with opinions and button-downs showing up to Thanksgiving. She sighed, deeply, and leveled him with the nastiest bitch face she could physically generate. It should’ve peeled paint. Then she turned over her shoulder and yelled down the hall.
“Dad!” She stepped fully away from the door, abandoning Robby on the porch like an unclaimed package. “Your boyfriend is here!”
Dad peeled himself off the couch with a groan and started down the hall, Grandpa’s shouted commentary at the TV echoing after him like a war chant. Robby laughed as he stepped fully into the house, lifting an arm just in time for Dad to pull him into one of those awkward little bro-hugs—half embrace, half shoulder check.
“Woah,” Robby said, grinning. “Started the party without me?”
Dad snorted. “What can I say? We’re pretty passionate about our shitty football teams in this house.”
They released each other with a mutual back slap, the universal language of adult male friendship, and Dad jerked his head down the hall.
“C’mon,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Abby watched as Robby followed Dad into the living room, still looking a little unsure of his footing in this chaos. Mom popped out of the kitchen, all bright smiles and warmth, like she’d been rehearsing this moment in front of the mirror for years. She reached up and pulled him into a hug with a cheery, “Hey you!” that was just a little too loud, reverberating off the walls and making Abby flinch.
Aunt Becca peeked out from the kitchen next, wineglass in hand, cheeks flushed pink—probably equal parts alcohol and giddiness.
Mom turned to introduce Aunt Becca, who immediately zeroed in on Hoodie Guy like a heat-seeking missile, and Abby wanted to fucking barf. No. Nope. Absolutely not. She knew Aunt Becca had a type—guys who were basically one foot in the grave—but this? This was not it. And wasn’t she engaged again? Or was that last year’s update? Abby had lost track. Either way, dude. Gross.
Much to Abby’s horror, Hoodie Guy returned the favor, giving Aunt Becca the same once-over, and for the first time all day, Abby wasn’t the only one visibly disgusted by it. Dad, standing by the dining table like a man ready to referee nuclear war, watched Robby with the intensity of someone who’d just caught him shitting on the rug. Aunt Becca giggled at something Robby said, and Dad’s eyes found Abby’s across the room. He shook his head ever so slightly.
Be nice, he mouthed.
Abby rolled her eyes.
Fine, she signed back. Fine. Whatever. She could be nice. She could be perfectly nice. It was only one dinner.
But no. She could not be nice. She hated this man. She wanted to throw bricks at him for fun. And now he was in her fucking house, shoes on her floor, breathing her air, trying to fuck her aunt, and she was expected to what? Be a gracious host? No. Jail. Bricks. Many. Repeatedly.
And now he was sitting at their table, like he belonged there, like this was normal. Abby watched, stomach twisting, as he smiled at something Grandma said, nodding along politely, before his eyes found Aunt Becca and he smiled.
Really? In front of her mashed potatoes? In front of her family? Her mashed potatoes? Abby felt her eyeballs threaten mutiny. God, this was a terrible day to have eyeballs.
Abby felt Aunt Becca lean in before she even heard her, the familiar conspiratorial whisper cutting through the clink of silverware. “What are we staring at?” Becca murmured. “Because if it’s that art project your aunt is wearing, I have opinions.”
Abby followed Aunt Becca’s gaze across the table, then snorted quietly into her mashed potatoes. The turkey sweater was a tragedy—felt appliqué, googly eyes, the whole nine yards—but somehow it wasn’t the most distracting thing in the room. She shook her head and took another bite, chewing slowly. “At Mom.”
Aunt Becca leaned closer, lowering her voice like they were plotting a minor felony instead of sitting through Thanksgiving dinner. “Oh. At Mom,” she repeated, eyes flicking back toward the other end of the table. “Are we judging what she has on, too? Because I had opinions on that as well. I can meet you in the garage in thirty seconds.”
Abby snorted, barely managing to choke it back. “No,” she whispered. Her eyes did a quick sweep of the table—very intentionally skipping over Robby’s dumb ass and the way he was not being subtle at all with the looks he kept shooting Aunt Becca—before landing on her mom.
Mom was laughing at something Uncle Chris said, like genuinely laughing. Her cheeks were a little flushed, eyes a little shiny, and she leaned her head against Dad’s shoulder before reaching for her wine glass. Abby smiled, absently shoving a Brussels sprout around her plate. “She’s just… weirdly chill,” she murmured. “It’s kind of nice, actually.”
“Oh,” Aunt Becca said, grabbing her glass. She watched Aunt Becca scan the table, just in time to catch her lock eyes with Dad and exchange a mutual, deeply childish sneer before they both looked away. Damn it. Abby sighed internally—she really should’ve had her phone out. That would’ve been gold for TikTok.
Aunt Becca leaned back, subtly blocking Mom’s view, and slid her glass toward Abby. “Good. Love that for her,” she whispered. “I’ve been microdosing her since noon. Glad to see it’s paying off.”
Abby immediately choked on the sip she’d just taken, coughing so hard her eyes watered. Aunt Becca yanked the wineglass out of her hand, smoothly replacing it with her water before anyone at the table could clock what was happening. She patted Abby’s back with one hand, scanning the table with the casual ease of someone who definitely had not just confessed to drugging her mother.
“What—” Abby sputtered under her breath once she could breathe again. “With what? Why?”
“Oh, relax,” Becca whispered. “Just a little THC. You have to admit she’s been, like, a thousand times more enjoyable.”
Abby stared at her, horror dawning in real time. “Aunt Becca! You can’t just give people drugs without telling them! That’s—like—a crime. I’m pretty sure that’s a felony. Or at least a thing.”
“It’s fine,” Becca hissed, waving her off. “It’s just weed. Your mom did plenty of it in college, trust me.”
Abby’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Shh!” Becca snapped, darting a look down the table before leaning in again. “You’re going to get us in trouble!”
“I’m going to get us in trouble! You drugged my mom!”
Aunt Becca waved her off like Abby was overreacting, lifting her glass to her lips. “She’s fine!” she whispered back. “Believe me, she’s been much higher than this. She’s just going to get snacky and take a nap. Trust me; I’m a doctor.”
“No you’re not! You got kicked out of your residency because you hit another doctor with your car!”
“I got kicked out of my residency because I hit your father! And I missed him with my car! I hit him with a golf club! Stop being ungrateful!”
Abby blinked at her like she’d just been told the sky was actually green. What the fuck was happening? Who were these people? Why was she stuck at Thanksgiving with Vodka Pants, Bathtub Cereal, Mom Drugger, and Aunt Fucker? And how the hell was Uncle Chris suddenly the most sane person in the room? She was literally just a baby. If this was her divine punishment for having a boy in her room, then fine. She understood. Are you there, God? It’s me, Abby. Stop.
She looked down at Mom again, still resting on Dad’s shoulder, almost comically clean plate in front of her. Abby’s eyes snagged on the faint ring of redness around her mother’s eyes. Jesus Christ. Mom can’t be high. Moms don’t get high. Not allowed.
Fuck. She did look relaxed, though. Damn it, Aunt Becca.
Abby’s eyes flicked down the table as Grandma turned her attention to Robby. “So, Jackie told us you went on some big motorcycle ride over the summer?”
Robby nodded, brushing crumbs off his napkin. “I did. Took a little sabbatical—rode up to Alberta for a bit, then took my time coming back down. It was great.”
“Yeah?” Uncle Chris leaned in, interest sparking in his voice. “Whattya riding?”
“A Triumph Bonneville,” Robby replied.
Uncle Chris let out a low, appreciative hum. “Beautiful bike. Rode a 70 myself for a while, but Jess made me sell it before we got married. First week with the State Patrol, scraped a guy off the freeway—he was on a 69. Bike survived it, of course. He didn’t—poor bastard.”
Grandpa grunted, the sound half acknowledgment, half horror. “Yeah… I remember that call. Got hit by an oil tanker.”
That was all it took. Grandpa and Uncle Chris launched into their gross, gory cop stories—one motorcycle horror story after the next. Abby watched Hoodie Guy’s face go pale, like the candlelight was draining the color straight out of him, and she couldn’t help herself. She grinned, slow and deliberate, like some cartoon villain perched in the shadows. Yes. Yes. Good.
Uncle Chris jabbed his fork toward Grandpa. “No, no, no—kid on the crotch rocket? Not speeding. Barely moving. And wouldn’t you know it, no helmet. Dumbass. Concrete wins every time.” He shook his head, voice tight with disgust. “State doesn’t even make it mandatory. Ridiculous. You see this stuff all the time though in the ER, right, Rob?”
Robby cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Uh… yeah, kind of. Not that often, though.”
Chris snorted. “Kind of? I swear, Mom came home with a story every other week when we were kids, didn’t she, Beth? Half these kids out here riding like maniacs, one mistake, boom. Skull versus asphalt. Always a losing game. Always. Right, sis?”
Mom nodded, slow and deliberate, like she was punctuating some invisible punchline, then scooped another heap of mashed potatoes onto her plate. Abby stifled a laugh, biting the inside of her cheek, and glanced at Hoodie Guy.
He was calm. Perfectly calm. Sipping his water like he hadn’t just witnessed a domino chain of terror careening across the table. Abby had to give it to him—poise under pressure. Almost admirable. Almost.
Almost.
“Robby doesn’t wear a helmet,” Abby announced, stabbing her fork into a chunk of turkey with all the solemnity of a judge dropping a verdict. Hoodie Guy’s eyes snapped to her, annoyance creasing his big dumb face. She shrugged, lifting the bite to her mouth. “Grandma and I saw him.”
Uncle Chris jabbed his fork toward Robby like a trident. “That’s fuckin’ dumb.”
The chorus of agreement hit instantly, voices rattling around the table like a wave.
“Really dumb. Aren’t you an ER doc?” “Not a good idea at all.”
“I held a guy’s brain once,” Uncle Chris added, casually like he was naming his favorite pizza topping.
“Cool!”
“Ew!”
“Chris—not at the table.”
Abby watched Robby sink back into his seat, glare locked on her like she’d personally insulted his entire lineage, while she happily took another bite. Better.
Much better.
“Jesus Christ.”
“You said it, brother.”
Robby stared at the wall of red and green totes like it might start spitting out Demogorgons. “Why are there so many?”
Dad didn’t even flinch. “Christmas is a whole ordeal with the Bakers, man. I stopped asking that question years ago.”
Robby squinted upward. “Just that shelf?”
“That shelf and that corner there,” Dad said as Abby stepped into the garage, pointing like he was identifying hostile targets. “I think that one, too.”
Abby hopped off the last step and onto the concrete, clocking the scene immediately: Dad and Robby in the middle of the garage with their arms crossed, the ladder Dad had dragged over last week when Mom tried standing on the dining room table to hang curtains leaning against the wall, and approximately nine thousand red and green bins stacked like a Costco apocalypse. She tugged her Uggs on and watched them stare at the shelves in silence, both of them clearly dissociating. She walked between them, tilted her head back, and did a slow, unimpressed scan of the ceiling.
“You’re missing some,” she said calmly, pointing up at the rafters. “Up there too. Don’t forget the pink one. That one goes in my room,” She pointed to the rafters where the boxed trees were crammed next to the light-up deer. “Congratulations. You’re also responsible for those.”
Dad nodded solemnly, eyes still on the rafters like he was mentally drafting a will. Robby followed his gaze, then glanced sideways at Abby, eyebrows shooting up. “You have a tree in your room?”
Abby rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. God, she had really thought she might get through the night without having to engage with his annoying ass. “We have a tree in every room, Robert. Duh.”
“Still not my name,” he muttered, crossing his arms again as he looked back at the bins. “She needs all of this down?”
Oh my god, men. Abby pressed her lips together, counting to three. No wonder this dude was like a million years old and still single. “No, Robert,” she said patiently, in the voice she used when explaining very obvious things to very stupid people. “Mom asked you to get all of this down because she didn’t mean it. Obviously.”
“Alright. We’ll handle it,” Dad muttered, jamming his hands into his pockets. He gave the bins one last suspicious look, like they might multiply while he wasn’t watching, then turned to Abby. Inside, Mom and Aunt Becca were still talking at nuclear volume, footsteps circling the door on a loop like some wine-soaked ghost of Thanksgivings past. Dad ignored all of it and zeroed in on Abby instead.
“Where’s your coat?”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s thirty degrees.”
“I’m young.”
“You’re recovering from a virus.”
“I survived.”
Dad’s mouth twitched, but he powered through. “Go get a coat.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “We’re going from the heated car to the heated mall. I’ll be exposed to cold air for, like, eight seconds.”
“Go,” Dad said, jerking his head toward the door. “Mom and I got you that one you begged for for your birthday. It’s hanging right by the door.”
“That was aspirational begging.”
“Get some use out of it.”
Robby nodded along like this was his moment. “Jack’s right,” he said, helpfully, which was the worst kind. “All it takes is it going to your lungs, and pneumonia is no fun.”
Abby scoffed so hard it was basically a sound effect. She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, stomping toward the door. “Oh my god, no one was even talking to you, WebMD,” she muttered.
She reached inside and yanked the black puffer off its hook, doing that one-armed coat maneuver while using her other hand to shove Moose’s very large, very determined head back through the doorway as he tried to launch himself at Dad. “Absolutely not,” she hissed, bracing her foot against the doorframe.
Moose, however, chose violence. He shouldered his way through like a furry battering ram, tail wagging like he’d just accomplished something historic, and trotted over to park himself at Dad’s feet. Abby finally surrendered, letting the door swing open as she fought her way into her coat and threw her arms out. “Happy? Is this what you wanted?”
“Thrilled,” Dad said, scratching Moose’s side while the dog blasted his I ate my body weight in mashed potatoes breath directly into Robby’s personal space. Dad stood up with a grunt and started digging through his coat pockets. “Where are you girls goin’ tonight?”
Abby shrugged, fully lying. In reality, her Black Friday strategy had been locked in for weeks. Sephora and Ulta ads had dropped—ten-dollar Tarte mascara, unholy Laneige discounts—and she’d been mentally speed-running the mall in her sleep. Dad pulled out a credit card and held it out to her. The gremlin in Abby’s brain immediately started cartwheeling. The audacity. The blind trust. The raw, unchecked power. Sir. What do you think I’m about to do with this?
“Do me a favor and grab a few more things for Mom’s stocking, would ya?” Dad said, holding out the card like a peace treaty. “I did all the big stuff. Just a couple of little things. And no gift cards.”
“Why no gift cards?” Hoodie Guy asked, giving Moose’s ears a scratch before tugging a bin down with a grunt.
“Because they’re lazy,” Abby said, rolling her eyes. “If Mom wanted to pick her own gift, she could have. Gift cards are basically just paying someone to do your emotional labor.”
Robby raised a brow, unconvinced. “I’ve never had a girlfriend complain about gift cards.”
“Oh, of course,” Abby said, shoving the card into her purse. “That explains why you’re here eating our Thanksgiving instead of being with your own family.”
“Abby,” Dad sighed, like he’d run out of patience years ago. “Be nice.”
“I’m being nice,” she shot back, zipping her bag with deliberate flair. “But also… you could, I dunno, get Mom a real gift. Since you’ve got, like, thirty to make up for.”
Dad shook his head and yanked another bin down. “I am getting her a real gift.”
Abby snorted. If she had a dollar for every time she’d heard that… okay, she still wouldn’t be rich, but she would rather have Dad’s credit card. “If by ‘real gift’ you mean splitting a hot tub for the backyard, no, Dad. That’s not a gift. That’s a whole project. That’s what couples who’ve been married thirty years do for each other, not a first Christmas surprise.”
Dad chuckled, hoisting another bin off the shelf. “Then I guess you don’t get to use it, kid,” he said, tapping the lid and nudging it toward Hoodie Guy. “Ah. Labeled. Only 23 more to go.”
“Just saying,” Abby said, shoving her hands in her pockets, “that’s a pretty sad ‘first Christmas with the alleged love of my life’ gift. And that’s only the Christmas bins. You’ve still got the fall bins to get down so Mom can put that stuff away too. The orange ones.”
Dad turned to stare at the five bins stacked precariously above the workbench, and Abby watched his shoulders slump like someone had dumped a ton of bricks on them. He muttered under his breath, nodding slowly. “And what would you recommend I get Mom, House?”
Abby shrugged casually. “A ring, probably.”
He straightened immediately, eyes wide like she’d just caught him swiping cookies from the pantry.
Abby shrugged again, leaning against the workbench. “Yellow gold. Oval cut. Probably a carat for each decade you abandoned her, just to be safe.”
Hoodie Guy looked completely mortified, like someone had shoved a lemon in his mouth and made him chew. Moose, clearly in on Abby’s savage energy, rolled onto his back with a grunt, kicking his paws in the air like he was waving a flag. Dad made a weird sound somewhere between choking and clearing his throat. Oop. Got his ass. “Abs, baby…”
Abby groaned and pushed off the workbench, arms crossed for maximum attitude. “Oh my god. Don’t act like it’s weird. I know you and Grandpa talked about it. You guys got all weird when I interrupted earlier. You literally live in our house. I call you Dad. Stop pretending it’s weird. And you know she’d say yes, too.”
Moose rolled over again, tail thumping the floor like a tiny drumline of approval, while Hoodie Guy just stood there, useless as always.
Dad didn’t say a word. His throat worked like he was trying to speak through molasses, and he kept blinking like the world had just short-circuited. Yeah… it was going to take a minute for him to come back online. Perfect timing, because Mom and Becca were barreling into the garage anyway, a literal cloud of noise. They were talking over each other, somehow still managing a conversation that made zero sense to anyone else.
Dad looked from them to Abby and back again, giving her a look that screamed this conversation is far from over. Abby shrugged. Whatever. She wasn’t the one dating Mom.
“Are you driving?” Aunt Becca asked, zipping up her coat.
Mom shook her head slowly, her movement all loosey-goosey, and stabbed her plastic fork into the giant slice of apple pie she was holding on a paper plate. Honestly, the whole thing looked like a fractions story problem: slices within slices, layers upon layers. Her first helping hadn’t been much better. Aunt Becca glanced down, then gave Abby a little wink. “You went back for more?”
Mom nodded, a little too eagerly. “No, Mom is driving. I think I drank too much. I’m so hungry—I don’t know why. I’ve been eating all day,” she said, shoveling another bite of pie into her mouth with a soft moan. “And this is so fucking good. Nice job, baby.” She leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to Dad’s lips.
“Abby, let’s go, baby. Grandma’s on her way out,” Mom said, turning back to Dad and letting him kiss her again. “We’ll be home late. Don’t wait up. I love you.”
“Love you too,” Dad mumbled against her lips, giving her hip a squeeze as she moved past him.
Mom angled toward Robby, offering a one-armed hug while holding her pie out to the side. “So glad you could make it,” she said, hugging him tightly and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “And thank you for helping. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Least I can do,” Robby chuckled, letting the weirdly long hug linger for an extra beat before she pulled away. “See you Tuesday?”
“Bright and early,” Mom said, shoveling another bite of pie like it was never going to be made again.
Out in the garage, Grandma stepped onto the driveway, football noise booming behind her, Aunt Jess following, and Grandpa yelling at the TV like it personally owed him a touchdown. Grandma clapped her hands, keys jangling. “Alright, ladies, let’s get a move on before the good stuff is gone.”
Aunt Jess hooked her arm through Mom’s as they strolled toward her minivan, laughing and talking over each other like it was a competition. Abby trailed behind, keeping a safe distance—close enough to witness the chaos, far enough to avoid participation.
Aunt Becca, though, wasn’t playing it safe. She slung an arm around Mom’s waist and shot Robby a grin over her shoulder that was almost criminal. “Jesus, how the hell did you say no to that?” she muttered, still loud enough for Abby to hear.
Abby rolled her eyes, approaching the van as Aunt Becca yanked on the backseat handle. Click. Locked. Of course it was.
Mom giggled, tugging open the passenger door before turning to Becca with a playful roll of her eyes. “I don’t know… the whole ‘love of my life works in the same ER’ thing kinda took care of that,” she said, sliding into the seat.
Aunt Becca made a face like she was mentally recalculating her life choices, and Abby slid in behind them, tuning it all out by staring at the cars parked in Shaun’s driveway. Warm light spilled from the front of his house, shadows flickering across the windows like a private movie.
Car doors slammed around her as the adults fumbled with coats and keys. Aunt Becca leaned forward, one hand resting on Mom’s shoulders, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“Just saying—Paris is beautiful this time of year. I’d never say no to seeing the Tower,” she murmured, a sly grin tugging at her lips.
Mom shrieked with laughter, clutching her mouth like she’d just eaten something way too good. “You’re terrible,” she managed between chuckles, the sound muffled around the bite of pie still in her mouth. She twisted in the seat to face Becca more directly, shaking her head with a grin. “Believe me. I considered a trip.”
Aunt Becca let out a delighted little squeal, smacking Mom lightly on the arm as Grandma eased the car out of the driveway. Abby raised an eyebrow, fishing her phone out of her purse like a detective on a stakeout.
That was… weird. Mom hadn’t mentioned anything about going to France. Neither had Dad. Were they planning a trip? She wanted to go, obviously. Rude.
Then her brain went full throttle. Oh my god—was Dad planning to propose in Paris? Ugh. A little lame. She was almost positive Ed had been angling for the same cliché, too. Abby’s fingers hovered over her phone, mentally drafting the shutdown speech she’d need if he tried to pull that off.
Abby tapped into TikTok, scrolling halfheartedly as Grandma eased the car away from the driveway. She glanced up as they passed Shaun’s house, catching the faint glow of his bedroom lights flickering across from hers.
“You guys are going to Europe?” she called up to Mom, curiosity lacing her voice.
Aunt Becca snickered beside her, elbow brushing against Abby’s arm. Mom shook her head quickly, laughing a little. “Oh. No, honey. We’re not.”
Abby shrugged, returning to her phone. Weird. Whatever. She kept scrolling, half-watching some shaky video from a Sabrina Carpenter concert she’d streamed this summer while Grandma rattled off their Black Friday game plan. Sabrina glittered on stage, lights bouncing off her sequins, and Juno played quietly from Abby’s phone in the backseat.
A text banner popped across Abby’s screen, and she swiped it open. Their thread lit up her phone like a neon sign.
Shaun ❤️: 🪟🏡? 👀
Abby’s eyes flicked to his house as they drove past, the faint glow of his bedroom windows reflecting off the car window. She typed back, thumbs flying.
normal time? 😘
Sorry, Dad.
Abby swiped back to TikTok, the same shaky Sabrina Carpenter video still playing as the car hummed down the street. Aunt Jess laughed at something Mom said, Mom continued shoveling pie into her mouth like it was a competitive sport, and Abby kept her eyes glued to the screen, half-listening to Grandma rattle off store names and deals.
“Have you ever tried… this one?”
The song on TikTok kept going, and then—it hit. Abby snapped her phone off with a sharp flick, groaning as she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.
Fucking gross.
God, these people sucked.