The Thanksgiving He Sent Away

I opened the shopping bags.

Both cashmere coats had been unwrapped. The tags were cut off. A dark red smear of dried cranberry sauce stained the sleeve of the pale gray coat.

I stared at the stain and suddenly thought it looked like my marriage.

Respectable from a distance. Marked by someone else as soon as you looked closer.

"Who opened them?" I asked.

Roman paused and lowered his voice. "Cassia thought they were for her parents. She didn't mean anything by it."

"She opened them, stained them, and you brought them back for me to give my parents?"

The little guilt in his eyes disappeared under irritation.

"What else should I do? The tags are gone. They can't be returned. They're your parents' sizes, so no one else can wear them."

No one else. If Cassia's parents could have worn the coats, I would never have seen them again.

I shoved the coats back into the bag. "You deal with them."

I turned toward the study, but Roman caught my wrist. "Enough. I booked dinner. It's Thanksgiving. Can we not spend the entire holiday fighting over this?"

He pulled me out before I even changed.

When we reached Velluto, I learned his apology dinner wasn’t for me alone. Cassia was already sitting by the window.

The host led Roman straight to the rear booth without checking a reservation. In that restaurant, the DeLuca name worked better than a key.

She wore a black satin slip dress, small pearl earrings, and soft curls that looked planned down to the last strand. Even her lipstick matched the warm gold light of the restaurant.

I wore an oversized knit sweater and jeans. I had clipped my hair up with an old barrette.

Roman stood beside me in a flawless suit. He and Cassia looked like lovers who had made a reservation weeks in advance.

I looked like the extra guest someone had dragged along.

Roman pulled out my chair and explained as if it made perfect sense. "Cassia couldn't go home this year. She always spent Thanksgiving with us when we were kids, and today hit her hard. I asked her to join us."

He leaned closer and dropped his voice. "She's more fragile than you. Be the mature one and let it go."

I looked at him. Cassia and I were the same age. I was even three months younger. In his mouth, she was always Cassia, the fragile girl everyone had to protect.

I was always Elena, the woman who had to be mature, reasonable, and quiet while she swallowed every insult.

After the waiter brought the menus, Roman and Cassia sat on the same side. Their shoulders nearly touched.

"You like pistachio gelato," Roman said. "Let's order one."

Cassia smiled. "You like it too. Let's get two."

"What about the hazelnut ravioli? They do it well here."

"Ro, you still remember hazelnut is my favorite?"

"You stole an entire jar of hazelnut spread when you were nine and got a stomachache all night. How could I forget?"

They moved through the menu with the ease of old habits. Only when they were finished did they seem to remember a third person sat at the table.

Roman cleared his throat. "We ordered enough for three."

Cassia tilted her head and smiled at me with sugar over a blade. "Mrs. DeLuca, I'm sorry. Ro and I lose track when we talk about the old days."

Ro.

I repeated the name in my head.

During two years of dating and three years of marriage, I had once jokingly called him Rome. He frowned and told me not to be corny.

Cassia called him Ro, and his eyes went soft.

The dishes arrived one after another. Hazelnut ravioli. Beef tartare. Rare lamb chops. Pistachio gelato. Almond cake.

Roman cut the lamb for Cassia with practiced care and slid the plate toward her.

She thanked him in a small voice. Her eyes carried the smug glow of a woman who knew she was favored.

Only then did Roman look at me. "Why aren't you eating? The hazelnut ravioli is here."

"I'm allergic to tree nuts," I said evenly. "I never eat hazelnut or pistachio."

His hand froze for a second.

Then he blamed me with his eyes. "I didn't remember. Why didn't you say something earlier? And if you can't eat nuts, there is beef tartare on the table."

I looked at the plate of raw beef.

He used to know I didn’t eat raw food. At some point, he had forgotten all of it.