Page 32 of Your Rule to Break

I’m greeted with the smell of rosemary and freshly baked bread—a recipe from my grandma that’s only ever made for special occasions—and hang my heavy winter coat on the door. Late November in Michigan is always a gamble, but this year it’s brutally cold. My mom walks to the foyer, probably after hearing the door shut.

“Surprise!” I say, a little more enthusiastic than I know she likes, but hell, I’m excited.

Instead of hugging me, she puts her hands on her hips.“Emilie, I thought you couldn’t make it.” Her brows scrunch in confusion.

I step in wrapping her in a hug, kissing her on the cheek. “I made it work. Ugh, it smells so good in here. Hopefully I didn’t miss dinner.” I’m walking into the dining room, my mom following me.

“I really wish you would’ve called,” she says, something on the edge of her voice that I just can’t place.

“I mean, do I need an invite to come home?” I ask, looking over my shoulderat her.

“Well, it’s just…”

I don’t hear what she says next. I’m one foot in the dining room when I see them: Eliza and Mitch. Eliza leans into him, and he’s playing with the end of her perfectly straight strawberry blonde hair.

Mitch? Eliza. Mitch and Eliza. No. How? What?

My stomach flips, and I feel like I might throw up.

Their eyes are bigger than the dinner plates set in front of them. Eliza slowly gets herself upright, locking eyes with me for a single second before looking back to Mitch.

She doesn’t say anything.

“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice like something that’s been run over and pressed into the gravel.

Mitch clicks his tonguebefore shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t think you’d be here. Listen, we wanted to tell you, but it’s still new and—”

“Not that new. You’re at my house. For Thanksgiving.” I look around the dining room which has housed some of my happiest memories.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I was going to call you.”

“To convince me that us breaking up was a mistake or to tell me you were dating my sister? Two conflicting ideas there,” I say and try to catch my breath. I want to cry but I absolutely will not give this man any more of myself.

“I’m sorry,” hereplies in a way that feels for show, as he stands at his hands in his lap. There isn’t a single emotion behind it, kind of like a kid who is being told to apologize but doesn’t know what they’re apologizing for.

“What about you?” I look at Eliza. Flawless Eliza. She couldn’t look more unbothered.

“It’s not like it was planned,” is all she says before getting up and sauntering to the kitchen. She doesn’t tell me she’s sorry. She doesn’t do anything.

“Perfect timing, Emilie. Dinner time,” my dad chimes in, walking into the dining room, holding the platter of turkey.

“I don’t know if I should stay.” My voice is quiet, and I hate it.

My mom puts her hands on my shoulders, not to console me but to lead me toward a place at the table that she’s set while I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this whole thing. “Emilie, this is your home. Sit down. Eat.”

And that was it. We didn’t have any more conversations about the fact that my sister was dating my ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t that surprising, considering my parents are terrible communicators and would rather avoid than address.

There havebeen many small shifts over the years but sitting here, at a time that’s supposed to be full of connection and joy, I know this is going to be major. I’ve worked on allowing myself to take up space, in almost every avenue of my life, but I don’t think I have it in me to do it here. There truly isn’t any space for me.

I spend the last Thanksgiving, in the only home I’d ever known, fighting back tears.

My phone buzzes, a message from Keegan.

Keegan

disaster at the store currently

need to raincheck our cooking class