Page 41 of The Holiday Makeover

“Come on.” Rory tugged on my hand, knowing exactly how hard this was for me. “You got this. And for this trial period today, I have you.”

Had I mentioned what an idiot I was to let this woman go?

Together we trudged up the snow-cleared stone path. The closer we got to the door, the more it felt like something heavy was pressing against my chest. It wasn’t the past weighing me down as much as the thought of letting the past go—of trying to forge a different kind of future with my family. One where I was okay being me.

Whoever me was.

I wasn’t sure I knew anymore.

All I knew for certain was that I wasn’t the superstar they thought they’d raised.

I knocked on the French doors, already adorned with real pine wreaths. Through the glass, I could see the entryway—the hand-carved sideboard my mother had shipped from France, and a Christmas tree decorated in muted tones that matched the house perfectly. It felt strange to knock, considering this was my childhood home. I wasn’t even sure I still had a key. It said something that I did still have one to Coco’s place.

Our warm breath curled into the cold air as we waited for my parents to answer.

It was ridiculous for a man my age to be this nervous about Thanksgiving dinner with his folks.

I couldn’t even muster excitement for what I knew would be an incredible meal. Both my parents were amazing cooks. And no doubt the dining room table was decorated to Martha Stewart standards.

Come to think of it, Martha Stewart had actually been to our home once.

My parents sauntered toward the door, dressed to the nines—my mom beaming like she’d been waiting all day for this moment, my father wearing his usual stoic expression. Not stony, exactly, but intimidating even when he smiled.

My mom was in one of her tailored holiday dresses, the kind that probably came from a boutique back east, her hair perfectly smoothed, not a strand out of place. My dad wore a charcoal sweater over a crisp collared shirt. It was the kind of effortless, understated look that somehow made him seem even more imposing.

People always told me I looked just like him. And I supposed they were right. We were both tall with athletic builds. His hair was more salt-and-pepper now, which only made him look more dignified. More put together. More like the man I’d spent my whole life trying—and failing—to impress.

I probably should have worn something nicer than a Henley and jeans. But I’d just thrown a few things in a bag after Lily’s call, not thinking I’d be staying long in Aspen Lake. I should have known the pull Rory would have on me. Besides, Thanksgiving was better when it was casual. My favorite one was the last one I spent with Rory.

We didn’t even have turkey that year. I grilled steaks, and we spent most of the day curled up on the couch bingeing our favorite nineties classics. Watching her watch a movie was better than the show itself. She had the best facial expressions, so animated and unfiltered. She felt everything, and she never hid it.

I squeezed Rory’s hand just before my dad opened the door, his lips pressed together. If I had to guess, it looked like he was holding back some kind of criticism. Odd. Normally, he had no filter.

But it all made sense when Mom clapped her hands together, her gaze dropping straight to Rory’s and my clasped hands. She smiled, but didn’t comment on it. What she did say was telling.

“You don’t know how happy we are that you decided to come. This is going to be a special day. There will be no talk of work or of . . . anything,” she said, stumbling over the last word.

Translation: Check your vulnerabilities at the door. They aren’t welcome here.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Chapter Fourteen

Rory

“Please tell me you and Tate are back together,” Veronica whispered as she helped me out of my coat and hung it in the entryway closet.

I knew the question was coming the second we showed up holding hands. Veronica had lasered in on that. She’d probably mistaken Tate clasping my hand so tightly for him being afraid to let me go again. And honestly, she wouldn’t have been totally off base. Our connection was still so strong. So deep. Holding his hand felt like holding on to a piece of myself I’d thought I’d lost.

I wasn’t ready for it. For him. But I wasn’t ready to let him go either. How do you let go of a piece of yourself?

But the real reason he held on so tight was that he wanted to be vulnerable with his parents, and he didn’t know how. He so desperately wanted their approval, and he always felt like he was one misstep away from losing it. And with his show not doing as well as he’d hoped, I knew he dreaded telling them. The inevitable disappointment.

His show had given him the legitimacy he’d been searching for. Which made my refusal to join it feel like a betrayal to him. For that, I felt awful. Truly. But Tate was right—we’d blurred lines. And I never knew where I really stood. Then he left, and I felt as if I had my answer. Maybe I was wrong.

But I didn’t know what he was going to do if he lost this show. What would that mean for us? Could Tate be okay with himself—without the spotlight? With just us?

I glanced over at Tate and his dad, who honestly looked like twins thirty years apart, and let’s just say it was the picture of awkward. Both of them stood with their hands shoved in their pockets, nodding as if they didn’t know what to say.