“Oh, but I do, Daniel-san. Thatcher Kelly always makes sense,” he says proudly, mimicking Mr. Miyagi’s voice. “Which is why you’re going to love my next request.”
“And what’s that?”
“Come to Cass’s and my Manhattan apartment next Friday and enjoy a delicious meal with us.”
“That’s the day after Thanksgiving, dude.”
“I know. And on the day after Thanksgiving, the whole gang gets together for Friendsgiving. It’s become a bit of a tradition. We get babysitters for the kids, Kline’s wife Georgie cooks one hell of an awesome meal, Wes’s wife Winnie brings desserts, and my wife Cass spends most of the evening busting my balls. It’s fluffing great.”
Technically, I don’t have any plans the day after Thanksgiving. Or even on Thanksgiving, to be honest. Last year, with my uncle Gary in the Bahamas and Ava’s family in Vermont and all our other friends having dinner with their respective families, we ended up ordering Chinese food and sneaking into the Met after hours so Ava could gush over her favorite paintings. The next day, we got up early and tried our hand at Black Friday shopping. Our first and last Black Friday shopping attempt. It only takes witnessing one fistfight over a plasma TV in the middle of Aisle 3 at a New Jersey Walmart to make you realize you’re more of an online shopper than anything else.
“While I really appreciate the offer, I don’t want to impose on you guys’ dinner.”
“You’re not imposing,” he insists without hesitation. “You’re coming, and you’re going to bring Miss Ava.” He winks. “Consider it practice for the main event.”
“I don’t—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer, dude. You and Ava are joining us for Friendsgiving dinner, end of story,” he cuts me off. “I’ll text you the address. See you Friday.”
And then, he’s off, with his headphones in his ears and his big, tall body striding over to the treadmills.
Well, shit. I guess Ava and I are having dinner with a bunch of billionaires next week…?
Me: Fine. We’ll do our first practice run next Friday.
Her response is immediate.
Ava: You’re agreeing to this? I really expected an argument. And next Friday is the day after Thanksgiving.
Me: Hey, I can be unpredictable sometimes.
Ava: No, you can’t. So, where did The Great Black Friday Trial Run come from?
I laugh. She really does know me better than anyone.
Me: You ever remember me talking about Thatcher Kelly?
Ava: Wait, is that the billionaire guy you fly around all the time? The one who’s always texting you when he’s running late?
Bingo. I smirk.
Me: That’s him. And next Friday, we’re going to have dinner with him and a bunch of his friends for something they call Friendsgiving.
Ava: Sounds just weird enough to be fun. But it’ll have to be, at the very least, trial run number two.
Me: ?
Ava: Tonight, you’re coming with me to an Upper East Side gallery opening.
Me: Very sneaky, Ace.
Ava: I know, right? ;) Be ready to leave by 6, boyfriend.
Boyfriend. Ha. That’s cute.
But also, why in the fuck are you smiling about it?
Ava
At a little after seven, Luke and I step inside Half Moon, a gallery on the Upper East Side. The space is small, but what it lacks in square footage, it makes up for in clean, open lines. The setup is simple, the center completely open, but each of the four walls contains six pieces by each abstract artist in the exhibition.
“This is our first official trial run, eh?” Luke whispers into my ear, and I nod, a secret smile covering my lips.
“Uh-huh. You think you can pass the boyfriend test?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” he responds with a wink. “Every person in this room will be convinced that you belong with me.” And he punctuates that statement by reaching out to gently intertwine my fingers within his. The warmth of his hand urges goose bumps to pepper my arms and the teeniest tiniest shiver to roll up my spine.
I ignore the odd sensation and chalk it up to the fact that we just walked four blocks in the cool, late-fall air and my hands and face feel like ice cubes. Surely, a little bit of his warmth will do my chilly body some good.
“Ava, darling.” A French-accented female voice fills my ears, and I turn around to find Meadow Moon, the owner of the gallery, walking toward us. “I am so glad you could make it tonight.” She steps forward to press two European-style kisses to my cheeks, and I don’t hesitate to return the gesture.