“Phil, this is Hannah,” Cindy says cheerily as she settles on the plush loveseat next to Phil’s chair.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Graham,” I say politely.

He nods at me.

That’s it. A nod.

I have no idea what to say after that, and my palm goes clammy in Garrett’s hand.

“Have a seat, you two.” Cindy gestures to the leather sofa near the electric fireplace.

I sit.

Garrett remains standing. He doesn’t say a word to his father. Or to Cindy. Or to me.

Oh fuck. If he’s planning on keeping up this silent routine all night, then we’re in for one long and awkward Thanksgiving.

Absolute silence stretches between the four of us.

I rub my damp hands on my knees and try to smile, but I feel like it might actually be a grimace. “So…no football?” I say lightly, glancing at the flat screen mounted on the wall. “I thought that was a Thanksgiving tradition.” God knows it’s all my family does when we go to Aunt Nicole’s for the holiday. My uncle Mark is a rabid football fan, and even though the rest of us prefer hockey, we still have a good time watching the all-day game fest on TV.

Garrett, however, refused to show up any earlier than he had to, so the afternoon games have already been won and lost. I’m pretty sure the Dallas game is just starting, though.

Cindy is quick to shake her head. “Phil doesn’t like football.”

“Oh,” I say.

Cue: more silence.

“So, Hannah, what are you majoring in?”

“Music. Vocal performance, to be exact.”

“Oh,” she says.

Silence.

Garrett rests his shoulder against the tall oak bookcase near the door. I sneak a peek in his direction and notice that his expression is completely vacant. I sneak a peek in Phil’s direction and notice that his expression is the same.

Oh God. I don’t think I’ll be able to survive this night.

“Something smells wonderful—” I start.

“I should go check on the turkey—” Cindy starts.

We both laugh awkwardly.

“Let me help you with that.” I practically dive to my feet, which is a big oh-no-no when you’re wearing four-inch heels. I sway for one heart-stopping moment, terrified I’m going to topple over, but then my equilibrium steadies and I’m able to take a step without falling.

Yep, I’m a terrible girlfriend. Uncomfortable situations make me nervous and itchy, and as much as I want to stick by Garrett’s side and help him through this hell of a night, I can’t stomach the thought of being trapped in a room with two males whose animosity is tainting all the oxygen in the room.

Shooting Garrett an apologetic look, I trail after Cindy, who leads me into a large, modern kitchen with stainless steel appliances and black marble counters. The delicious aromas are stronger here, and there are enough tin-foil-covered dishes on the counter to feed an entire third-world country.

“Did you cook all this?” I exclaim.

She turns with a shy smile. “I did. I love to cook, but Phil rarely gives me the chance to do it. He prefers to dine out.”

Cindy slips on a pair of plush mitts before opening the oven door. “So how long have you and Garrett been seeing each other?” she asks conversationally, setting the enormous turkey pan on the stovetop.

“About a month.” I watch as she lifts the aluminum foil off the massive bird. “What about you and Mr. Graham?”

“A little over a year now.” Her back is turned to me, so I can’t see her expression, but something about her tone raises my guard. “We met at a charity event I was organizing.”

“Oh. Are you an event planner?”

She sticks a thermometer into the breast area of the turkey, then the legs, and her shoulders visibly relax. “It’s ready,” she murmurs. “And to answer your question, I was an event planner, but I sold my company a few months ago. Phil said he misses me too much when I’m at work.”

Um. What?

I can’t imagine ever giving up my job because the man in my life misses me too much when I’m at work. To me, that’s a red flag if I ever saw one.

“Oh. That’s…nice.” I gesture to the counter. “Do you want me to help you heat everything up? Or are we not eating right away?”

“Phil expects to eat the moment the turkey is ready.” She laughs, but it sounds forced. “When he sets a schedule, he expects everyone to follow it.” Cindy points to the large bowl by the microwave. “You can start by heating up the potatoes. I still need to make the gravy.” She holds up a gravy mix packet. “Usually I make it from scratch using the turkey juices, but we’re strapped for time, so this will have to do.”

She turns off the oven and places the turkey on the counter before turning her attention to the gravy. The wall over the stove is covered with hooks of pots and pans, and as she reaches up to grab one, her lacy sleeves ride up, and either I’m imagining it, or there’s bluish-black bruising on the undersides of both her wrists.

As if someone grabbed her. Hard.

Her arms come down and the sleeves cover her forearms, and I decide that the black lace was playing tricks on my eyes.

“Do you live here with Mr. Graham or do you have your own place?” I ask as I wait for the mashed potatoes to finish nuking.

“I moved in with Phil about two weeks after we met,” she admits.

I have to be imagining things, because there’s no way that chord in her voice is bitterness, right?