**

Claire and I keep our new designated spots. It wouldn't make sense to switch again, although I want to.

Sebastian and I maintain our distance, knees tilted in opposite directions, elbows below the table, heads turned away from each other. Sebastian is visibly upset from Claire's blessings; he drinks his wine slowly, savoring the flavors as if it's the only cup he'll get to enjoy, to avoid having to acknowledge her presence across from him.

Food is passed around like an assembly line. I watch the two different platters of macaroni and cheese in rotation. I know which one is mine—cream-tinted glass dish, sunflowers lining the sides, the color of the flowers fading from constant wash and use. Claire's is green—seafoam green. It looks brand new, bought for the occasion.

To be generous, everyone gets half of each; they know we're watching. Mine takes a little more effort to scoop out since I broiled mine, leaving the top crisp but not burnt; breadcrumbs. A staple.

"Asparagus?" Sebastian says to me. I nod, and he's generous enough to place some of the green vegetables on my empty plate. Then next is the pot roast, the garlic chicken, the mashed potatoes with bacon bits. I accept a little bit of each; Sebastian basically makes my plate for me.

"I can make my own plate, you know," I whisper, toying with him.

"I know. I'm just being a gentleman."

"A gentleman would know not to give me a child's scoop of mashed potatoes."

Sebastian raises a brow at me, spoon in mid-air. We joke with our eyes until he obliges with more mash on my plate. I smile gratefully.

"That's better," I say, grin unable to leave my face. Eventually, he laughs. Intentionally quiet; low enough for only myself to hear. I want to continue talking to him, bantering with him, in this way. I want to tell him the three words that I told myself I'd tell him. But I know now isn't a good time. Any time other than this, I'm unsure would be better. But now will never be.

The dish is in my hand. I give Rachel mashed potatoes myself. She asks for more, much more, but Margot scolds Rachel with her eyes, making her slump back in her chair. The mac and cheese is next. Sebastian is smart enough to grab a little of both, and I do the same, not to please Claire, but to critique.

After five minutes of rotation, we all start to eat. We're subject to small groups of conversation down the table. Four of us speak about the weather, another four or five talk about celebrity gossip, these four or five occasionally glancing at Sebastian as if he can confirm or deny the rumors they're speaking about; as if he personally knows every celebrity they talk about.

I eat my food quietly because silence is better than saying something wrong. Knife slicing roast, fork puncturing roast, watching the juices spread out, then placing a piece in my mouth. It's good. A bit undercooked, but at least flavorful. I eat and eat, staring down at my plate and listening to the conversations happening around me. I take my time around my plate; I eat each food separately, taking pride in the fact that they're not touching on my china. I notice Sebastian is doing the same thing I'm doing—not eating his food in a clockwise manner, but keeping to himself. People try to get his attention, holding it successfully and reeling him into their conversations like an unlucky fish. But he always ends up the same way again: eating quietly, picking at the vegetables like a child. I watch him shamelessly as he finally tastes the macaroni and cheese.

He tries mine first.

"Leslie," Claire says before I can ask Sebastian how he likes my cooking. "Why didn't you invite your boyfriend over for Thanksgiving?"

She sips her wine nonchalantly and waits for me to answer, and as she does, I chew the rest of my chicken slowly and swallow it in the same fashion, processing her question; shocked yet not surprised at the same time.

Don't, Sebastian mouths in her direction, but I decide to indulge in her little game.

"I did invite him. Unfortunately, he couldn't make it."

That should be the end of that. But it isn't. Claire, knowing that more people are growing interested in our dialogue, presses me further.

"Is he busy with work?" she asks me.

"I'm pretty sure."

"That's too bad. How could he let you come here alone?"

Alone. That fucking word.

I try not to let it bother me. Next on my plate are the mashed potatoes. I start eating them.

"She didn't come alone," Sarah says, failing at hiding how irritated she's become. "She came with Lucas and me."

"I thought it was you and Lucas that came together? Leslie came on her own."

The amount of people listening has grown. Considerably.

Claire drinks her wine again and shrugs. "Well, I just thought you'd be coming with someone. I know Alejandro spent some time in Colombia, right? What was it, three months?"

"Yes." My smile is strained. "It was. He had a family emergency."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She isn't. Not at all. "I actually admire you because if that were me in your position, I don't think I'd be able to stay with him after that. Who knows what he was doing over there, you know?"

I want to classify her comment as a victim of word vomit, but frankly, this was all premeditated. When she got dressed this morning, while she baked her watery, bland, sub-par macaroni and cheese, when she got into Sebastian's car and when she hugged me upon arriving, she was planning this all in her head, letting it cook until it was at perfect temperature. And I could be angry or upset at her for humiliating me at the dining room table, where at least a dozen people are now listening in at her patronizing me, (me, a twenty-seven-year-old being talked down to by a twenty-one-year-old) but what catches my attention more are two people: Sebastian and Claude. They were uncomfortably silent once Claire began speaking, but the moment she mentions Alejandro and his three-month long expedition to Colombia, they're facial expressions change noticeably.

"Claire..." Sebastian says in a warning tone, never finishing, assuming she gets the idea without having to add more to her name.

But she doesn't. She wants to add salt to the wound; she thinks she's poking the bull by talking about Alejandro, but really what she's doing is lifting the veil for me. And Sebastian doesn't want that, so he suddenly drops his fork and knife on his plate.

"Claire," he says again, calmly like a ticking bomb waiting to detonate. "Just change the subject."

Claire actually shuts up. Really, she actually stops talking. Whether it's because of Sebastian's order to cease and desist or because there are roughly 35 pairs of eyes on her, she doesn't utter another word. Every utensil stops cutting; scooping. The table is quiet like a hollow echo, just waiting for whatever should come next. What that is, we don't know.

Her face slowly blushes to the same color as her hair. She thinks Sebastian was defending me. I'd like to believe that, too. But I think he was really defending himself.

"So, this is how it is?" Claire asks Sebastian as if their conversing in private. "You're going to defend her now?"

She can't be bothered to refer to me by name. I don't have that privilege in her eyes.

"I don't want to talk about this here," Sebastian tells her. Really, he doesn't want to give everyone here a show. Even I know that.

"I'm not an idiot" She wags her manicured finger between Sebastian and I. "I know what you guys did in Scotland together. I just know it. You think I don't see how you look at her? How you drool over her like a dumb little puppy? How your eyes just drink her in wherever she walks?" her hand waves at Rachel, Rachel wide-eyed that she's suddenly part of this. "Even a child can see that you're in love with her, Sebastian!"

"Claire!" he shouts. Everyone jumps; Rachel is jarred. "Stop it!"

It's been a while since I've heard Sebastian shout like that. I almost forgot how nerve-rattling his voice is when he yells, making your skin crawl like a relentless chill. I feel this relentless chill, but for more reasons than one. Honestly, I just feel numb. A little nauseous, too, but mostly numb. Everything Claire said about me and Sebastian is starting to hit me; my mind clocked out while she spoke, maybe in an effort to save myself. But now, I feel it. I feel everything. The numbness is subsiding.

No one knew before Claire said it. No one except Claude and Sarah. No one else knew for sure. I'm certain several at this table assumed Sebastian and I were sleeping together, but no one else knew that he was in love with me; sex and love aren't synonymous. One is an empty action while the other is a full feeling; a lot of people have sex, but the same can't be said for being in love.

There is a plethora of shocked faces at the table. Fiona is one of them. I would think she out of anyone else here would have had some kind of idea, but apparently, she didn't. Her eyes are red and reflective. Sad. Happy. I don't know.

Other people are shocked like I'd be the last person Sebastian Harrison would gather enough interest in to be in love with. Many of them don't know me save for probably having heard of me. Claire, to them, is the more realistic choice.

Sebastian is clearly embarrassed that his secret was outed in such a public, animus way. Maybe he didn't want anyone else to know; I hadn't reciprocated these feelings to him openly, so perhaps he's reminded that it's a one-way effort on his end. He stares at one of the centerpieces—a small glass vase with asters and orchids, pink and purple. It's an attempt to ignore all of the people staring at him, waiting for a rebuttal or even a confirmation about Claire's accusations.

What's the point? Everyone knows it's true.

I see Claire slouching in her chair, crying silently. I don't know why she's crying. Does she regret saying what she said? Does she have legitimate feelings for Sebastian? It wouldn't make sense, the last option, because they both agreed to this fake relationship. But I start to wonder if Claire was even aware that their relationship was nothing but a façade? She had to be aware of this.

Right?

Sebastian scoots his chair out and gets up slowly. Eyes mirror his movements, everyone watching him leave. Even the children are silent, except for an occasional cough and "mommy, what happened?" followed by an abrupt shh by their parents.

I would like to go after him, but I can't. I won't. I want to, though. Badly. Claude holds a hand out to me like he's trying to give me a high-five from the other side of the table and gets up to go after him, so I sit still a. Claire is still crying, frozen in her chair. I feel bad for her then; this is the first time.

I want to eat again and pretend like everything is fine and dandy and perfectly normal. I haven't even gotten to my turkey, but looking at it only stirs my nausea. My throat tightens; I want to cry, but I can't. Not like this. I can't cry now, I can't.

I get up, too. I exit the dining room in the opposite direction.

**

The breeze outside is cool and crisp. The trees rustle together, dancing and brushing against.

I watch the water sparkle in Fiona's pool like dull diamonds. I didn't know where else to go, so I'm here, outside in Fiona's backyard. Sitting on the porch steps, the valley is wide and expansive, hills with little tiny houses on them from where I sit; they look like game pieces. The silence is nice this way; I wonder why Fiona doesn't just live here in California? There's more to do, and she'd be closer to her children.

Then I remember the sweet isolation Tennessee provides. No one to bother you, no one to worry about. Voluntary loneliness. The best kind.

I hear the back door open but choose not to look back. I'm scared of who I'll find approaching me—Claire. Sebastian. Maybe Claude telling me that this is all my fault and I should have just kept my distance like he warned me in June when I got involved with Alejandro. I hear a drawled groan followed by a creak and decide to turn around. Oma sits in one of the chairs on the porch and sighs. I stare at her, and eventually, she looks at me.

"Come," she says to me. I don't know what she could want with me, but I oblige and walk over to her. She hits her cane against the chair beside her. I sit.

"What hand you write with?"

"My right," I answer.

"Give me that one," she says. The last time we touched hands, she didn't ask. I hold my palm out and watch her frail fingers turn it over before pressing her palm on top. She squeezes it, turns it over, squeezes it again, then dissects my skin, pressing in, sliding her thumb across, pressing in again. I study her face as she does this, seeing things I didn't see before—she has a small scar on her lip, and her nose is a little crooked. Her skin matches the chair she sits on—tan, hints of darker brown. She smells familiar, like unscented lotion or mothballs.

"Is everyone still eating?" I ask her.

"Shh," she snaps, still looking down. "Why you so worried about everyone else?"

I laugh, then press my lips shut. Finally, she looks up.

"You," she begins, "will live long life. Healthy. Strong." Her index finger drags and curves down from the edge of my palm towards my thumb downward. "That's good. Life line is long."

I don't know what to say, so I settle for nothing and listen instead. Her finger then drags down the middle of my palm.

"Unhappy with career?" she says; asks. Is it a rhetorical question? I don't answer either way. "Line is faint," she purses her lips like a duck. "Hmm..." she hums. Not like she's thinking, but like she disapproves of me.

"Love line," she says quietly. I almost want to pull away from her when she says this. She takes her time with this one, humming to herself, frowning then raising her brows, her finger painting across the rigid line above the others. I'm nervous and I don't know why.

"You keep your feelings to yourself," she tells me, her free hand a firm fist over her heart. "Inside. You let them sit there." Her finger taps my palm in a scolding way. "That's not good."

"I know." Do I really know?

"You also..." she trails off like she doesn't want to tell me. "You also have known heartbreak—no. You will know heartbreak." She hums again, but this time it's almost a pitiful hum; a mournful one.

"What do you mean?" I look at my hand like I could possibly understand better than she can. She tries to explain—the gap in my love line indicates heartbreak. I have a lot of gaps and forks. Triangles, too. She's a little taken back by this.

Accidents. Interventions. Setbacks. Hardships. I remember these four words the most from her.

"You have faint line underneath, too," Oma says. She's fascinated by this.

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"Two relationships?" She hums again, disapproving. I suddenly feel the need to defend myself—as if I believe in the art of palm reading—but she grabs my hands. Both of them. I suck in a breath and wait.

"Be careful," she warns me. "Lots of hardship. Heartbreak, too. I feel...dark around you. Not because of you, but because of your future. Near future is very dark, many decisions. Trust me, Gypsies know." Her head shakes ruefully. "Bi Lacho."

She lets go of my hand; I feel cold without it. I watch her get up, gradually, then walk to the back door into the house. I have so many questions. So many. I don't understand the purpose of what just happened or how it was supposed to help me after what happened in the dining room. I've never been one to believe in palm reading, even if it is from a wizened Romani woman. I'm quite practical. Too practical, sometimes. Though it seems practically has been an ailment for me lately. Still, I can't help but feel this sense of enlightenment from her.

I know I'd be a fool to just let her guidance go unnoticed.

**