Into You Series: The Complete Collection

7. Nia

CHAPTER 7

NIA

Eight years ago

“ N o, Mom, we are not having tofu for Thanksgiving!”

“You ruined it.”

“I offered to bring moose.”

“Ew, geez, Jamie!”

“Are the potatoes ready yet?”

People all around the United States make jokes about how Thanksgiving dinners force you to spend time with your otherwise distant family. These jokes are my reality. The eclectic, the self-proclaimed political pundit, the nostalgic—every family has them, and with me being the fifth out of six children, we have just about everything.

“The potatoes will be ready when they’re ready!” shouts my sister Sarah, lifting her oven mitt and shooing two of our brothers out into the living room.

“No, not on the carpet!” I yell over their continued conversation on football. “Shoes off!”

“They didn’t hear you,” Harry says, a black coffee already resting in the palm of his hand as his other fingers loop around the handle.

“You think?” I snap, glaring at him. He holds up his free hand in surrender while I grab the tiny vacuum off the wall.

I trudge into the living room and shove the portable vacuum against my brother Jamie’s chest.

“Shoes. Off,” I demand.

He’s too busy showing off his new Chacos to acknowledge me. This is the same brother who denies it is winter in Georgia and says things like, “Being from Alaska, this is real cute.” He grins and walks away with his damn shoes still on. I seethe the entire way back to the kitchen.

“Lighten up, Nia,” Harry says, swinging his arm over my shoulder.

“I’ll lighten up when I can afford to.”

Thanksgiving is the only time we all get together, and as our family has grown, my parents’ one-floor ranch home simply doesn’t do the job anymore. So, this year, I offered to host. I just bought my first house, which has an open floor plan and is only a few miles down the road from them. It cost me a pretty penny—a pretty penny that also paid for those new carpets currently being ravaged by my brother’s sandals.

“Move,” demands Sarah, using her hips to nudge Harry out of the way before ripping the oven door open.

“Ouch,” he says in mock offense, chuckling and cupping his coffee mug tighter while stepping out of the way. He takes a sip then sticks out his bottom lip in disappointment. “Nia, would you mind making more?”

“Sure,” I say, tired of being idle anyway. I move to the opposite side of the kitchen and whip open the fridge to grab coffee grounds.

A head peeps over the top of the door, and when it closes, I see my oldest brother, Grant, examining the bag in my hand as if scanning it for anything that could be wrong. And he will find something, because he always does.

“No whole bean?” he asks.

Faster than The Flash, this one.

Grant does this thing where he places one hand in his pocket, leans in the opposite direction, and squints as if considering whether his next comment will be clever enough to say out loud and make him sound like the smartest person in the room. Everything is about image with him. He once had blond hair like the rest of us but has dyed it a deep auburn. He’s not fooling anyone, though. That patchy attempt at a beard is blond through and through.

“If you’re going to be picky, you don’t get any,” I say.

“Yes, but I’m always picky,” he says with a grin, as if being self-aware will make his statement cute somehow.

“Wow, imagine that. Then no coffee for you, Grant.”

“She put the tofu in again!” Sarah groans in front of the oven. “I’m going to kill her. This is turkey day, damn it!” And off she goes—storming past the three of us and into the living room, no doubt in search of either my mom, who will insist on tofu, or my father, who might throw out a half-assed pun like how we could gobble up the tofu or something.

Turkey humor. That’s what I’m dealing with these days.

“What’s so bad about tofu?” Grant shrugs, still eyeing the offensive ground coffee that dares to be in his presence, presumably determining if he will deign to consume it.

“It’s not turkey,” Harry says with a chuckle.

“If you close your eyes, it’s the same thing,” Grant says, running a finger through his thick locks. Our dad had a massive bald spot by the time he was thirty-six, and it’s highly suspect that Grant, the spitting image of our father, namesake and all, does not have one.

“Did you get plugs?” I ask, narrowing my eyes and reaching for his hair.

Grant scoffs and takes a step back, combing through it again. “All natural, baby.”

“Maybe if you close your eyes.” Harry chuckles. “Are plugs the big new thing out in L.A.?”

“If you ever left this town, you would know there’s so much more out there,” Grant croons, his nose pointing up a bit higher than what I’m comfortable with. Last year, Grant moved himself to the opposite side of the country, where he works as a defense attorney for celebrities, goes to movie premieres, and looks at the Hollywood sign or something. Who really knows.

“You’re stockpiling money, Harry. I know you are,” Grant says. “Just come out to California. We’d love to have you.” As if it’s some exclusive club. I glance at Harry, who looks down into his coffee cup with a small smirk. True to form, he seems unfazed by our brother’s comments, but I can’t help being slightly offended on his behalf.

While I just bought a new house, Harry is still living with our parents and trying to get his mechanic career off the ground. He has a dream of opening his own shop, but he keeps that dream pretty close to the vest, along with the money he’s saving to open it.

“Yeah, maybe, I guess,” Harry says with a shrug and a lopsided smile. “But then how would I get to see Nia all the time?” he asks, throwing me a wink.

“Nia, I’m talking to you too,” Grant says, leaning his weight against the fridge, knocking over a magnet and sending a picture swishing down toward the floor.

“Pick it up,” I immediately demand. It wasn’t supposed to come out as harsh as it did, but Grant can bend his L.A. ass over and get the damn thing.

Grant sighs as if it’s such a ridiculous inconvenience to pick up something he himself knocked down, but eventually he leans over and grabs it.

“Who are these people?” he asks, examining the photo. “Wait a second, is this your office ?” He lets out a cackle, and I roll my eyes.

“Some of us don’t mind corporate life,” I say, filling the carafe with water and dumping it into the maker before clicking on the power. It immediately rumbles to life.

“Did you guys make a Christmas card?” he asks, flashing it in front of me with a smug smile. I snatch it away and slide it back under the triangle magnet, straightening it in the process. The picture has the whole company gathered together in our back warehouse clutching beers, wearing tacky holiday sweaters, and grinning at the camera. I’m standing off to the side with strands of my hair poking out every which way. I had just run into frame after setting the camera on a timer. I didn’t think it was possible to sense how out of shape someone is through a picture alone, but there I am.

“Yikes, that guy is tall,” Grant says, pointing at the handsome dark-haired man in the back.

“That’s our in-house lawyer,” I say. Ian does stick out like a sore thumb, and not just because he’s tall. His grin is the widest in the picture, and he’s undoubtedly the most attractive. It’s not that the rest of the office isn’t, but let’s just say he’s a stallion among one-eyed sheep.

He seems ecstatic to even be there and, like myself, he’s the only other person not holding a beer. I remember him toasting my water with his. It was a weird intimate moment only made more exciting by his boyish grin. I smile at the memory. In the picture, his hands are raised high in the air, exaggerating his height even more, and right in front of him, throwing a thumbs-up with an almost equally excited grin, is our new junior designer, Cameron Kaufman. He’s only been working at Treasuries for a couple weeks, but Ian has taken to him really quickly.

Grant laughs. “He seems like a good time. Shouldn’t corporate lawyers be stiffs? Or is that just reserved for HR?”

“And independent attorneys are better?” I deadpan.

“We get shit done. Does this lawyer guy get shit done?”

“Okay, enough questions,” I say, shaking my head and going over to the cabinet to grab an additional mug for myself. I spot the handle of rum in the corner and consider spiking my drink. I even laugh to myself a little. I’ll definitely need it with a day like today. It isn’t until Grant pushes past me with an “Ooh!” and snatches it that I think, On second thought, maybe not.

“Hiding it from us?” he asks, unscrewing the cap and taking a large swig that’s almost impressive. Though, based on how little it phases him to chug it, I sense red flags. When I glance at Harry, he seems equally concerned.

“Apparently we’re having tofu!” Sarah rushes back into the kitchen with her girlfriend following behind her, arms crossed. The new girl is young, beautiful, and new to this whole Thanksgiving thing. She is clearly at a loss for where to go, and I’m willing to bet my mom has run out of small talk about tofu or Days of Our Lives .

“Too many cooks!” Sarah says, her eyes darting between all of us, lingering for a moment on Grant.

“We’re waiting on coffee,” Harry says, holding his mug in the air. I do the same. Grant shoves the handle of rum behind his back.

“Well, I was just making Thanksgiving dinner, but what do I know?” Sarah throws her arms in the air before bolting out again, going who knows where.

“She’s just a bit stressed,” her girlfriend says apologetically. We all nod, unable to say much else until she waltzes her way out.

“A bit stressed?” Grant scoffs, bringing the bottle back around to take another swig. “How long have they been dating again?”

“Who knows.” I shrug. “Also, none of us are really drinking, Grant.”

“Funny, I figured I was,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows and throwing his head back to swallow the tipped rum. He smacks his lips and sighs. “Well, she’s not just stressed because of the turkey or tofu. I also told her I’m not coming next year.”

Harry and I jerk our heads to him, and Grant’s eyebrows rise as if surprised the attention of the room shot to him so quickly, though I’m willing to bet that’s the exact reaction he wanted.

“Why would you say that?” I ask, the question more of an accusation. Harry pats me on the shoulder and holds out his coffee mug. Even though Grant and Sarah are the real twins in the family, I’ve always known Harry and I have a much closer connection than the rest of the siblings. I relax my shoulders and pull the gurgling coffee pot from its holder, pouring some into his offered mug.

“Because I’m moving to Italy.”

“Italy!” I bellow, and Grant instantly shushes me with his hand. “Why tell Sarah now? It’s Thanksgiving, for God’s sake.”

“Well, it would come out eventually when I didn’t stroll in next year with a turkey in hand.”

“You didn’t even do that this year!”

“See? Expectations are already lowered.”

“I like that you were just going to just wait until the ‘Whoops, where’s the turkey?’ moment.” Harry chuckles.

“You’re ruining Sarah’s Thanksgiving!” I hiss, darting my eyes to the living room, where she’s sitting on the couch with her arms crossed.

“She took it well enough.” Grant shrugs.

“Why are you moving?”

“Work, opportunity, adventure.” He shrugs yet again. “Does it matter?”

To Grant, probably not. Nothing ever matters when it comes to our family. When he went off to college at an Ivy League school up north, he promised to call us daily. After the first month, the calls went from daily to weekly, eventually fading to never. When he received a scholarship to study abroad, we said, “Bon voyage!” with our various instant messaging apps open for communication. In six months’ time, we received not one message, and when he moved across the country saying he would simply text us, we didn’t believe him anymore. We were right.

“Whatever. You can do whatever you like,” I huff. “You’re an adult.”

“Ever the pragmatist,” Grant says, lifting the handle to his lips once more.

“Stop it,” I say, snatching it from him and shoving it back in the cabinet with a bang! He reaches in to grab a mug and fills it with coffee from the pot.

“Oh, are you going to join the commoners with our ground coffee?” I say, flattening my palm against my chest. He grimaces at me, but it only lasts a second before Sarah is blasting through the kitchen again, opening the oven, groaning, and then leaving with only the remnants of her irritation remaining. The no-name girlfriend walks in for a moment, sees us, peeps out some noise that’s a mix between “Oops” and a whine, then exits.

“Seriously, what is her name?” Grant whispers.

“I think it’s Sara,” Harry says with a straight face.

“Get real,” I laugh. “Sarah and Sara?”

“Maybe if you lose your biological twin, you have to date another,” Harry says, lifting an eyebrow at Grant, barely making it through the sentence before breaking out in a smile.

“See? I’m so replaceable,” Grant says. “Anyway”—he turns his body toward me—“when are you going to bring someone to Thanksgiving?”

This is why everyone hates the holidays.

“Why me?” I shoot back. “Why not ask Harry when he’ll get a girlfriend?”

“Leave me out of this,” Harry says.

“We’re talking about you, baby sister,” Grant insists. I rest my weight on my hip, assuming a Watch what you say stance because if I know anything about my brother, it’s that his filter is nonexistent. “You must have someone you can bring. You’re pretty now.”

There we go.

Harry lets out a low whistle.

“ Now ?” I ask. “What do you mean now ?”

“Come on, you can’t have your controlling personality without it being paired with looks,” Grant says, drinking his coffee nonchalantly as if he didn’t just call me out.

“I have more than that going for me,” I say through an exhaled breath. “And most other women do too.”

“Nia is studying for her HR certification, actually,” Harry jumps in, throwing an arm around my shoulder again.

“That’s good!” Grant says, but it still feels patronizing. Last time I checked we were having Thanksgiving in my new house paid for by me , not that it matters to Mr. Italy-bound.

“Yeah, so I don’t really have time for dating right now,” I say, not hiding my hint of a sneer.

Grant smiles, and I’m not even sure he’s picking up on how condescending it looks.

“Everyone has time for dating,” bellows a deep voice. Our middle brother, Lawrence, comes in with his football jersey draped over his muscled shoulders, rifling through the cabinets.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Snack,” he grunts.

“We’re about to eat!” I say, slapping his hand off the cabinet door, hoping to close it before another brother of mine steals my rum.

Lawrence shakes his wrist in mock pain. “Not according to Sarah,” he says, nodding his head over to the living room where Sarah’s head is in her hands. Other Sara strokes her back.

“Fruit of my loins!” Our dad comes around the corner, the thick sleeves of his cross-stitched sweater rolled up to his elbows and his hands raised in the air like a messiah ready to liberate his people.

“Gross,” Lawrence mumbles, scrunching his nose.

“Your mother wants to order pizza instead,” Dad says.

“She what?!” I throw out my hands. “No, I am not going to spend my first time as holiday host playing the role of a glorified pizza-ordering operator!”

“You won’t,” Dad says innocently, tossing his thumb over his shoulder. “The place down the road will.”

“Why pizza?” I groan. “It’s Thanksgiving. What about home-cooked food?”

“You’re starting to sound like Sarah,” Harry mumbles over his coffee, and I shoot him a glare.

“Which one?” This from Grant.

Harry moves his mug over his mouth to hide his laugh.

“Because…” My dad shuffles in, his hands still raised as if continuing to declare his presence. He pulls the oven door open and looks back to us. “The tofu looks gross and your saintly mother insists on pizza.”

“Father Grant,” Lawrence says, slinging his arm over our dad’s shoulders. “Please tell me we can have pineapples on this pizza.”

“That’s where we draw the line,” he replies, taking Lawrence’s face into his hands and tilting it down to kiss his forehead. “Nia, dear, will you call it in?”

I moan. “Sure.” One by one, the boys shuffle out into the living room, Grant taking another mug full of coffee, leaving only me and Harry.

“Just think,” Harry says, “it could be worse. Dad was just waiting for someone to call out Grant’s name so he could pretend he’s confused.” Harry’s eyes grow wide and he looks from side to side, pointing at his own chest, mimicking our father.

“Very true. He thinks that’s absolutely hilarious.”

“Hey, Nia?” he asks.

“Yeah?”

“You really should get back out there.”

“I’m studying?—”

“I know,” he says. “After your test, I mean.”

It’s been a while—one year, really—since my last ex and I parted ways, and he was quite a doozy. Note to self: tattooed men are beautiful, but they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Well, at least that man was. No offense, beautiful, nice tattooed men of the world.

In any case, I spend too much time at work to focus on dating. The only eligible bachelor near me nowadays is that designer Gary who just sits in his corner desk eating junk food. Oh, and Ian Chambers.

Damn. Ian Chambers. He makes me want to punch a wall, and I don’t even think I’m a particularly angry person. He’s like Grant: egotistical, sarcastic, and thinks he’s much too clever for his own good.

“I’m not really into dating right now,” I say, pulling open a drawer that already contains a disproportionate amount of takeout menus considering the short time I’ve lived in this house.

“Just a thought,” Harry says.

“I’ll put myself out there, but only if you do the same. Or, even better, look into that lot nearby.” I rise up on my toes, poking at his chest. “I think you could get it for a steal right now. Your own shop? Finally?”

I want my brother to find a place for his dream mechanic shop much more than I desire a man in my life.

“Well, that’s the plan,” he says. “You get your certification in HR, gain all the employment knowledge in the process, and then I can just use you as a consultant for my business.”

“Was that the plan all along?”

“Of course.” He winks.

I smile and pick my phone up from the counter, tracing my finger across the menu for the number.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Harry says, lifting his coffee cup to me. I roll my eyes and dial the local pizza place. He laughs. “Remember: tofu, not pineapple.”