Page 44 of The Holiday Makeover

Tate let out a heavy sigh before he paused. His facial expressions shifted and twisted, like he was wrestling with himself.

I could feel the internal struggle radiating off him.

I gave his hand a little squeeze, hoping to give him the courage to be vulnerable. To say the hard parts out loud. Even though this was the most awkward Thanksgiving dinner of my existence. But Coco used to say sometimes things had to get awkward before they could get better.

And I knew things had to get better between Tate and his parents.

Maybe if they could accept him for who he was, he could finally accept himself. He just needed their love. He needed to see that his worth wasn’t tied up in his career or how successful he was. In reality, he’d been very successful, but that was never enough for him. And I knew it never would be, until this was fixed.

Veronica made one more feeble attempt to salvage her perfectly scripted, no-real-feelings day. “How about pie? Let’s do dessert first.”

Poor Veronica.

And poor me. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get any dessert. Which was tragic, because I was almost certain she’d made her famous spiced apple crumb pie.

Tate finally steeled himself and looked his dad squarely in the eye. “You know what you taught me? That I’ll never live up to your expectations or be the son you always wanted.” He pushed back from the table and stood, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood. “Thanks for the reminder.”

While his voice was steady and cool, I heard the heartbreak. I’d heard that same tone the day it was all over for us.

Could we come back from that day?

Veronica stood paralyzed, a serving spoon raised in midair. Tears pooled in her beautiful eyes.

Dominic’s expression hovered somewhere between thunderstruck and incredulous. As if this were brand-new information and he couldn’t believe Tate was questioning his parenting. After all, Dominic had won Aspen Lake’s Father of the Year award during Tate’s and my senior year. Regardless, judging by his clenched fists, he wasn’t happy about this revelation.

I, on the other hand, was proud of Tate for finally speaking up. So I stood alongside him. He and his dad were locked in a fierce staring contest. The tension in the room was palpable, and have I mentioned awkward? Not the happiest of Thanksgivings, I’ll tell you that.

But for some reason, I could hear Coco cheering it on. I pictured her with a bowl of popcorn, enjoying the show.

“Tate, we love you,” Veronica cried, cutting through the heavy silence.

Tate broke the raging stare-down with his dad and let out a heavy breath. With it came the words, “You have a funny way of showing it.”

When neither of his parents said anything, he grabbed my hand and tugged me away.

I turned my head as we walked and watched his parents look as if a freight train had barreled through their beautiful, perfect home and left them standing in the wreckage. They had no idea what to do or say. I expected them to stop us. To tell Tate they were proud to have him as a son, that they wanted to work things out.

Instead, Veronica’s lower lip just quivered, and Dominic sat there in stunned silence.

“Uh, thanks for inviting us,” I said lamely. Then I turned around and leaned into Tate. My heart broke for him. And . . . possibly for us. Again.

Chapter Fifteen

Rory

Tate wedged the pry bar behind the upper cabinet and leaned into it, the muscles in his forearm tightening with the effort. The wood groaned, then gave way with a sharp crack.

He didn’t swear. He didn’t smile. He just breathed—a rough, uneven sound that said more than words ever could.

I stepped closer, steadying the cabinet so it wouldn’t fall. Our hands didn’t touch, but the heat of him was right there, pulsing between us.

He pried again, harder this time.

“You don’t have to finish all of this tonight,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear over the roar of Def Leppard blaring in the background. I didn’t dare complain about his choice of music. Not that I didn’t like Def Leppard—I was just more of a big-band-era kind of girl. I blamed that on Grandpa Sam. So many nights he’d let me stay up past bedtime listening to his old records while he talked about days gone by—about the first time he danced with Coco to “Come Fly with Me.” It was so romantic.

“Yeah,” Tate murmured, eyes fixed on the wood. “I do.”

We’d hardly spoken since we got home from the disastrous Thanksgiving dinner. I knew to give Tate his space before we talked about what had or hadn’t happened. So I mostly just watched him and helped where I could, removing the cabinet doors one at a time. I’d teased that he should just use a sledgehammer, but he was too professional for that. Sledgehammers were for show.