with him; another part is repulsed by his pathetic justifications. Surely we have a moral obligation to Monica, to Dylan, and also to Beth, to report what we know.
“All I’m saying,” he resumes after a few seconds, “is that we don’t need to ruin Josh’s life just because of this one… episode.”
“It’s an episode that’s lasted for six months.”
“But it’s over.”
Is it? I can’t make myself voice that doubt. It isn’t even the drugs, such as they are, that bother me the most. It’s Josh’s attitude, that slight curling of his lip, the sneering tone, the defiant stance. He isn’t sorry at all about anything except being caught. But I don’t want to voice that, either.
“So what?” I ask eventually, weary now as I lean back against the pillows. “We just leave it all? Move on and hope for the best?”
“We give Josh some space to get his act together. He’s got prospects, Ally. A future. This is nothing more than a blip.”
“It’s a pretty big blip.”
“Still.”
We’re both silent again, and I feel too tired to press for one outcome over another. I don’t really want to tell Monica, or anyone, about Josh. And it isn’t as if Josh has the drugs in the house. When he was at school, I did a complete sweep of the room and found nothing. It’s not as if Dylan is at risk from him, either. But now I am the one justifying, and it feels as pathetic as Nick’s attempts did.
“Fine,” I say as I reach for the book-club novel I really don’t want to read. “Why don’t we give it until next semester? There are only three weeks left in this one, anyway, before Christmas. Then we’ll see.”
“Okay.” Nick nods, a man given a reprieve. “That sounds like a plan.”
I am expecting Thanksgiving to be nothing more than a gritting of teeth with the way things are—Emma gone, Josh sullen and distant, although I suppose he is no more than before, but now it has a different, darker flavor—touched with arrogance, steeped in deceit.
Surprisingly, the holiday isn’t a complete washout—and that’s because of Dylan. He is filled with wonder at the smallest things we do—picking pumpkins, swirling whipped cream on top of a golden-crusted pie. I do the things with him that I’ve done with Emma and Josh years ago—those precious, childhood traditions that seem so sorrowfully sweet now my own children have no interest in them.
We make handprint turkeys, painstakingly writing out what we are thankful for on each finger. Dylan’s writing is a barely legible, phonetic disaster, but I make out food, Lego, puzzles, and Ally. The pinkie finger is left blank, and Beth is conspicuously absent from his list of blessings, which I note but don’t mention. I am so touched he’s written my name, and when I hug him after I read it, he wraps his arms around my middle and I close my eyes, savoring the moment. I don’t get many like it these days.
Although the holiday isn’t what I had planned or hoped, I find it incredibly soothing, to stand in the kitchen with Dylan the morning of Thanksgiving, sunlight slanting through the windows, and help him sprinkle cinnamon sugar over an apple pie. Josh is still asleep, Nick in his study, the house quiet and seeming very un-Thanksgiving-like, and yet right now, with Dylan, I find peace.
His head is bent over the pie, his dark lashes fanning his cheeks as he sprinkles the sugar with painstaking concentration. Every few seconds, he looks up at me, a shadow of anxiety in his eyes, to check that he is doing it correctly, and I lavish him with praise—he soaks it up like a sponge, basking in it like a cat sleeping in the sunshine.
As he finishes the pie, I take the risk of doing the unexpected and dot a bit of cinnamon sugar on his nose. He blinks in surprise, and then shyly touches his nose, catching the sparkling grains of sugar, before licking them off his finger. I smile, and he laughs—the first time I’ve heard him laugh—the sound as pure and crystalline as a ringing bell.
“Again,” he says, and I am so shocked that for a second I simply stare. Is he even aware that he spoke?
He waits expectantly, and some deep instinct tells me not to make too much of this moment.
“Okay, Dylan,” I say casually, and I dot another bit of sugar on his nose. He wipes it off again and licks his