“I need your recipe for these biscuits, Kai.” Emmy smiles with a biscuit on its way to her mouth. “They’re the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“They’re my Mama’s recipe.” Even with my heart heavy, I have to smile. “She and I would make biscuits every Thanksgiving morning. The pumpkin pies are her recipe, too. She loved to cook.”

“You didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with your own family there in . . . what was it? Glory Falls?” Bristol’s voice makes it obvious that she wishes I had. What have I done to this girl? Before I can answer, Rhyson responds. Sharply.

“Kai’s mother passed away a few months ago, Bristol.” His tone holds a warning that he’s ready to break their temporary peace if she missteps.

Bristol’s frown fades and her remorseful eyes meet mine.

“I’m sorry, Kai,” she says softly. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay.” I bite my lip because I’m not sure my voice will remain steady. “I . . . she loved the holidays. I made her favorite today to go with dessert. Mint apple cider.”

“And we’d always put up the Christmas tree Thanksgiving night,” San says, his voice low and sober.

When death hits so close, so close it abrades your soul, there sometimes isn’t room or thought for what anyone else loses. I forgot that San was always at Mama’s table for Sunday dinners. She cheered the loudest at his baseball games. He was a pallbearer at her funeral. He lost her too. It’s not just my first Thanksgiving without Mama. It’s his too.

It hits me all at once. I made a batch of mint apple cider. I got up early and made Mama’s biscuits from scratch. My pumpkin pie will taste almost just like hers, but we didn’t say grace before we ate. We won’t visit a shelter together tonight to serve a meal to the homeless. She won’t keep me up decorating the tree before we can finally go to bed. There was only one Mama, and the world has lost her, but it keeps turning. But for me, I live in that void where her love and her voice and her kindness used to be. And in so many ways, even moving forward, I’m standing still.

I am suddenly aware of everyone’s compassion, this collective kindness for which I was unprepared. It penetrates the wall I use to insulate my grief and hide the lingering pain. I hate that these tears keep assaulting me when I least expect them. That sadness ambushes me. That the desolation Mama’s absence creates inside of me is inescapable, even here at Thanksgiving dinner in front of Rhyson’s family before we’ve even served dessert. And I hate this awkward quiet while they all try to figure out if it’s okay to move on or if they wait for me to get it together. Only this time I can’t. I’m trapped in this moment while I reach for my composure in vain.

Breathing in and deeply usually helps, but I’m too far gone. My heart is too raw today. A sob erupts into the silence. I’m horrified that my body is betraying me this way. That my emotions are this undisciplined, wet spill over my cheeks. I squeeze the linen napkin in my lap until I’m sure I’ll draw blood from it, but the tears won’t stop. The pain doesn’t stop. I leak it. I lose it. I cannot stop it.

I cover my face with my hands too weak to even stand or run. I’m lost in this storm of grief, and there’s nothing to hold on to. I’m blowing in high winds, and I’m sure I’ll be carried away. God, please carry me away. In this moment, saturated with loss, life is merely the thing I want to escape. On this day that always meant so much to us, I want to be with her again more than I want to be here.

But then strong arms encircle me. Rhyson’s firm hand nudges my face into the solace of his shoulder. He rubs my back and makes shhhh noises by my ear. His voice, his touch, is an unexpected balm.

“It’s okay, Pep,” he whispers, his voice so low and tender I want to stop sniffling to hear what he’s saying. “I’m right here, baby.”

It’s so perfect. It’s just what I needed him to say. That he’s right here. That even though I feel like I’m alone in the outer reaches of grief, someone who cares is right here with me. Anchoring me to this life. Every touch, every soothing sound pulls me back from the precipice until I can breathe again.

I sit back to look up at him. He smiles at me, a slow, subtle smile that tells me if I need to cry some more, I can. His food could grow cold and his family could wait all day, and he’d still be right here. I manage a watery smile as he gently mops the tears from my face with his napkin.

“Better?” He angles his head and positions his shoulders to block everyone else out. I nod and finally glance around the table. Emmy’s eyes are wet, but she gives me a kind smile. Grady’s concern is all over his face, and so is San’s. Bristol is looking between her brother and me, a mixture of emotions I can’t decipher shadowing her pretty face.

“I’m sorry, everyone. I didn’t realize . . .” I pick up my fork and turn back to my plate, hoping it’s the signal they all need to resume dinner as usual. “I didn’t know it was hitting me that hard. Please, go on and eat.”

I dig into the turkey and stuffing, even though it tastes like ashes in my mouth. I eat and manage to smile as Bristol and Rhyson fall into their usual brother-sister banter, but it takes time for me to get past that dull ache. When will it be gone for good? Will it ever, or will there always be this chance that when I think of her, when I dream of Mama, I will lose myself to this sorrow?

“I THINK I ATE AWAY TEN years of my life,” Rhyson groans, holding his stomach.

I laugh and scoot a little closer on the nook built into the wall surrounding Grady’s poolside fire pit. Today was gorgeous and warmer than any Thanksgiving I’ve ever had, but with the sun gone, there’s a bit of an early evening chill.

“What was your favorite dish?” I already know. I lost count of how many helpings Rhyson had of my stuffing.

“You know what it was.” Rhyson bumps my shoulder and laughs.

“My stuffing?”

“Yes, your stuuuhffin.” Rhyson drags the syllables out and teases me with a sideways glance.

“There you go again, belittling my Southern roots. Will it never get old?”

“I doubt it.” Rhyson eases back against the pillows behind us, pulling me closer and tangling our ankles. “That first night we met, I thought you were gonna stab me in the eye with a toothpick for teasing you about it.”

“You were awful.” I kick his shin and feel his shoulder shake against me when he laughs. “You teased me about my accent and then made me feel even more self-conscious about that icky producer at my audition.”

I expect him to laugh again, but he doesn’t. He’s still against me for a few seconds before speaking again.

“Yeah, you never told me who that guy was.”

“Huh? Who?”

“You know, the guy. The one who wanted you to blow him.”

“Oh, he was . . .” I stop myself just in time, sitting up and looking back at him. His easy smile doesn’t distract me from the cold calculation in his stormy eyes. “Why do you want his name, Rhyson?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but he’s tense at my side.

“Just wondering.”

“Just wondering so you can go find him? You’re worse than San.”

Rhyson sits up so fast I’m not prepared for how close it brings us together. Not prepared for the heat of his body or his words.

“You’re right.” His sharp words disrupt the quiet. “I am worse than San because he knows who the guy is and didn’t do anything about it. If you gave me a name, not only would that bastard be walking with a limp, but he’d be broke by next week. Count on that.”

It scares me. The violent emotion brewing behind Rhyson’s eyes. Not because I think he would hurt me. He never would, but because he lets me see it. Less and less he’s hiding, and I wonder how long we’ll be able to stay in this limbo where everyone knows we’re more than friends, but where I keep us less than lovers.