“Dig in!” he says excitedly, scooting his chair closer to the table. He plunges his spoon in the ramekin in front of him and then stops, looking back at me with anticipation lighting his brown eyes.
I take my first bite and he smiles in satisfaction as a quiet moan emits from my throat. The cake is warm and velvet soft. The chocolate is rich and satisfying as it melts against my tongue.
“See? Foodgasm!” he cries with a grin. “Here, drink this with it.” He slides a coffee cup topped with a decorative pattern of cream to me.
“What is it?”
“Just try it.”
I normally only ever get drip coffee; it’s a lot cheaper than the fancy drinks like this one. I swallow my protest as his eyes widen into a hopeful expression that I’ve become more resistant to disappoint and bring the cup to my lips. Fitz’s face lights with a smile again as I take a long sip of the mocha that is irrefutably a delicious change of pace.
“Are you doing this because I just went and saw a shrink?”
“You didn’t see a shrink. You went and spoke to a counselor.” My head falls back on my shoulders as I reach for my spoon again. “H, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. People talk to counselors all of the time. You had a rough year, babe. You need some help talking through the emotions. That’s all.”
I scoff at him and take another bite of cake to ease the discomfort rising in me.
“What was she like?”
“She goes by Kitty.”
Fitz raises an eyebrow. He knows, completing medical school himself, how serious most people take their title of doctor. “Well meee-ow. Does she look like a cougar?”
I laugh in response. “I don’t know. She seems very proper. She reminds me a lot of my mother.”
Fitz leans closer, his smile faltering, and his hand loosening around his spoon, making it dip. I never mention my mother. It sort of just slipped out, and for some reason I continue, “She’s from Texas and was raised to always look perfect.”
“Do you look like her?”
I shake my head and turn my attention to the small alcove that often serves as an impromptu stage.
Fitz doesn’t continue with his line of questioning, knowing with this small gesture I’m done sharing.
The following Wednesday I’m back at Kitty’s, telling her about the different classes I’ve taken through my brief college career.
“What made you decide on medicine?”
“I want to help people,” I reply with practiced grace.
“You can help people by doing all sorts of things. Becoming a translator, a teacher, road construction … Every job helps and assists in some fashion. Why medicine specifically?”
My eyes focus on her green ones that have been perfectly swept with mascara and eyeliner. I shrug.
“You don’t know why?”
I look at the clock on the wall that tells me I still have twenty-five minutes left and then without looking back, I leave.
The next morning at work Fitz beats me to the lab, something that’s only ever happened once.
“New hypothesis?” I ask, unbundling from my winter gear. The snow has yet to come, but it feels like it gets colder each day.
“What are you doing next week?”
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to answer a question with a question? Especially when you aren’t responding to said question?”
“Thanksgiving is next Thursday.”
I’m acutely aware of this. I’m also aware that next Saturday is Max’s birthday. I’ve been struggling with a constant debate in my head about whether to send a card or a text—something to signify that I remember. But what would that say? What exactly am I remembering? Simply that it’s his birthday? Or that I am remembering how we spent his last one?
“You’re not spending Thanksgiving like you did your twenty-first birthday—alone in that craptastic apartment of yours.” Fitz’s voice has a slight edge to it that I’ve rarely been on the receiving end of. If this was about anything else, I would be rapidly working to mould into what he’s looking for, but I can’t. He’s not just discussing the possibility of me having to face my first Thanksgiving without my dad; his proposition is leading me to seeing him … on his birthday. Last year that day was a wonderful and tragic day that led to me realizing how much I truly cared about Max.
I shake my head with the resolution there’s no way in hell I’m going to send something to Max for his birthday. I’m not showing my weakness, especially when he hasn’t.
“I’m not flying to California.” My voice is defiant, and at some point my shoulders have squared.
“Then you’re coming home with me.”
My chin tilts and my muscles slowly begin to relax. “Fitz, Thanksgiving is a family holiday.”
His chin lowers as his eyes grow increasingly mocking. I wave my hand a few times, indicating for him to stop as I get my iPad ready for notes, trying to queue him to the fact that I’m done discussing this.
“We’re leaving Wednesday morning at ten.”
“Leaving? For where?”
“My mom’s.”
“Fitz…”
“H, you’re coming home with me. I’m not avoiding this.” I can tell by the rigidness of his body, and the intense look behind his brown eyes, that he’s serious. I’m so relieved that California hadn’t been his intention my entire body seems to be sighing as I slouch in my seat.
“Where does your mom live?” I ask with a resigned breath.
“New York.”
“As in where the Thanksgiving Day parade is?”
“That place is a zoo,” Fitz says, shaking his head rapidly. “People camp out on the sidewalks for days. And if you think it’s cold going from here to your car, you’ll die—” His eyes flash to mine, and his face is tight with a wince that makes my heart constrict with guilt.
“But we could see Santa in person!” I tease in an attempt to brush away the awkwardness.
Fitz smiles gratefully and then sifts through some papers. “Remember to tell Kitty today that you need to reschedule next Wednesday.”
That afternoon, I pull up to Kitty’s and take a deep breath. I don’t know how she’ll react to me since I walked out on her last week. I can’t recall a time I’ve done something so blatantly rude, especially in a setting like this.
My gloved hands wring as I wait for her to answer the door. I see her dark hair first, followed by her smile. It’s warm and inviting, an exact replica of the one she’s greeted me with previous weeks.
“I think you may be in for your first Delaware snow,” she says, holding the door open.
My body shivers from the contrast of her warm house to the cold air outside as I follow Kitty down the hall to her home office.
“I’m sorry that I left.” The words fall from my mouth as I turn toward the couch. When she doesn’t immediately reply, I glance up to see her sitting in front of her desk once again, her green eyes bright and focused on me.
“Are you sorry you left because you feel like you did something wrong? Or are you sorry you left because you’re ready to actually start talking about why you’re here?”
“Because it was rude of me to have left like that.”
“Harper, no one’s going to force you to discuss something you’re uncomfortable with here. With that being said, unless you’re willing to open up and actually discuss something with a little bit of substance, you’re never going to overcome the initial reason that brought you here.”
“I just need some time. Everyone thinks I should be over things already, and I can’t. I’m not. I don’t work like that. I just need some time.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Everyone!” I cry, waving an arm out to the empty room. “I just needed some space.”
“From whom?”
“Me … I think.” Kitty’s eyes are wide, but relaxed, conveying that she’s listening patiently to my words, not expecting me to go faster or reveal more than whatever I’m willing to give.