Loaded down with leftovers, we say our good-byes to Grady and Emmy. Bristol left a while ago to hit clubs and visit friends. We’re taking a few unfamiliar side roads before I realize we should be at my house by now.

“Rhyson, where are we going?” I look around, confused to see fewer shops and traffic lights.

“You’ll see.” He grins, turning the steering wheel with confidence.

Ten minutes later, we stop, and I may cry all over again, but for a completely different reason. Not because Mama is gone, but because Rhyson is here. He’s in my life, and he is a blessing.

Hundreds of Christmas trees sit in neat rows under the bright lights strung overhead. The sun has gone down, and the lights cast a faint glow over the wide variety of trees on display. A few people mill about, but not many.

“You wanna pick a tree?” He’s already grinning.

Shock and gratitude encompass me, and I can’t believe he brought me here, just based on what San said about our Thanksgiving Day tradition of putting up the Christmas tree.

“There are a few people here. Will you be okay?”

“I’m not a hermit, Kai.” He laughs even as he reaches in the backseat for his Dodgers cap. “I just like to interact on my own terms, not have some camera shoved in my face every time I go to the grocery store. People aren’t that bad. It’s the paps I want to strangle.”

“I don’t have any decorations at the apartment.” I frown, wondering if I can dash into a Walmart, even though the thought of braving those already-Christmas-shopping crowds makes my head hurt.

“I asked Emmy if she had any spare decorations.” Rhyson loosens his seat belt and turns off the car. “She has tons and is dropping them off at your place in a little bit.”

He gets out of the truck and, as is always his way, walks around to my side of the car to open my door. He helps me down, and I grip his hand tighter when he would let go.

“Thank you.”

It’s only two words, but I can barely get them past my lips. I’m overcome with emotion. My insides have been shredded today, and in this sweet, thoughtful moment, are beautifully restored. I push myself up on my toes to kiss Rhyson’s cheek. His hand immediately presses into my back, keeping me against him. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his strong and steady heartbeat.

“You didn’t have to do this.” I take a step back, but he doesn’t let me get far before he’s stepping back into my space, his eyes engaging mine and refusing to let go.

“You have no idea what I’d do for you if you’d let me.” He runs his thumb over my bottom lip., his touch light, but enough to seize my breath. Enough to triple my heartbeat. “But one day you will.”

NEW DRAPES, REFINISHED FLOORS, AND FRESH coats of paint do nothing to change what this house has always been to me. How it still feels. Like a luxurious prison with me the inmate and my parents the wardens. Redecorating, re-facing my childhood upstate New York home is like wrapping a corpse in a fresh layer of skin. It’s still cold, dead, and rotting inside.

I only realize that I’m humming “Rach 3,” caught up in its robust virtuosity, and fingering imaginary keys on the dining room table, when everyone around me goes completely quiet. I’ve sought success as an adult in the mainstream, but concert piano haunts me like a first love waiting in the wings for a second chance. When people, things, situations bore me, which is about half the time, I find myself retreating into the hallowed chambers of my mind. The music that was just always there, still is.

The stares of my family members weigh heavily on me, transporting me, like everything else in this house, back to my childhood when I always felt like a rough-edged puzzle piece that never quite fit anywhere.

Grady and Emmy are the only friendly faces at the table. Even Bristol’s expression pulls tight.

I clear my throat, lowering my fingers from my makeshift piano on the dining room table to my lap.

“Sorry,” I murmur, spooning some of the lobster bisque into my mouth. It’s delicious, but makes me feel like I’m eating a catered meal.

What I wouldn’t give for the simple dishes Kai prepared for Thanksgiving dinner. They tasted like home and care. I can’t help but wonder how things are going for her. I glance at my watch. We’re having a late lunch since Bristol, Grady, Emmy, and I arrived a little later than we had anticipated. Kai told me they would serve the homeless in the basement of Glory Falls Baptist Church tonight, followed by a brief service and some traditional carols. I want to be there with her. I try to convince myself that being anywhere would be better than at this long dining room table, as tight and closed as a coffin, but I know anywhere wouldn’t do. I want to be with Kai.

I saw her only briefly before she flew back to Georgia, just long enough for us to exchange Christmas presents. A Pepper nameplate necklace from me to her like the one Carrie wears on Sex and the City. An engraved harmonica from her to me. She left yesterday, and I miss her already.

“So I heard you and Bristol will see Petra in Chicago in a few weeks,” my father says, chewing a delicately seasoned piece of fish.

I give Bristol a long look. She better not be spying on me for my parents, reporting my activities to give them something they can use to get back in with me. She shrugs like it’s no big deal. With a marble-hard look, I let her know we’ll talk about it later.

“Yeah, probably.” I give my father a brief glance and swirl my spoon in the bisque.

Seeing his face that looks just like Grady staring back at me, but with hard, calculating eyes and a tight mouth that rarely smiles disconcerts me sometimes. Amazing how two physically identical people can be so completely different where it counts. I glance over at Grady to make sure he’s still there, still real, and not some carbon copy of the cold man at the head of this coffin table.

“That will be nice,” my mother offers.

She sits to my father’s left, but they may as well share a seat, they are always so in sync. I don’t know that it’s ever been a love match between them, but it’s a damn good partnership. Her eyes, seemingly the only physical attribute Bristol and I inherited, consider me down the length of the table.

My mother, Angela Gray, is a beautiful woman. She may have nipped and tucked a few things, and the vibrant, red hair is surely aided by the bottle, but for the most part, she remains as I have always known her. Slim. Expensively attired with pearls at her neck and ears. Perfect and proper.

“Petra, I believe, is touring soon, yes?” Mother raises an asparagus spear to her neatly outlined mouth.

“So I hear.” I push a bit of food around on my plate.

“She’s doing Europe next year.” Bristol takes a sip of her Sauvignon Blanc. “We’ve talked about getting her into a few of Rhyson’s shows on the tour.”

Invisible screws turn, tightening the muscles in my back and shoulders. This is exactly what we should not be discussing. Any talk about my music, about my work, could toss a lit cigarette into the pool of gasoline on the table. Am I the only one who realizes this? I look around the table, catching Grady’s eyes. He already wears a troubled frown.

“Maybe we should . . . this bisque is delicious.” Grady spoons some into his mouth. “Bertie made this, Angela?”

“Yes, Bertie’s a marvel.” Mother waves the question off with a slim hand. “Bristol, have you considered a full reunion tour of sorts? Celebrating the tour Rhyson and Petra did together when they were younger?”

Bristol bends her head over her plate, steadily lifting forkfuls of bisque, but I know she feels my stare, heavy as stones. If this family dinner reunion is actually part of some grand plan to re-infiltrate my parents into my career, into my life, I will fire my sister without blinking. I will write her off and ruthlessly, mercilessly cut her out of my life like a malignant tumor. She knows it too.