Mikasa
"Your dearest uncle hauls ass, all the way up from West Virginia, to spend Thanksgiving with you, and you don't even have the courtesy to offer me a beer?" Kenny Ackerman huffs, hanging his hat on a coat hook.
"No shoes," Levi snaps when Kenny's boots clack against our hardwood floors, following us into the kitchen, where we unload our Costco haul. "Mikasa, do me a solid. Give this guy a couple lagers, hack off some chicken, and send him packing with a doggy bag, will you?"
Kenny shrugs aside this empty threat and claims a spot at the table. He winks at me. "How are you holding up, darling? Big Apple chewing you up and spitting you back out?"
Kenny's presence has always been punctuated by Thanksgiving appearances, ensuing firestorms, then radio silence for the next 364 days. Over the years, Levi, Hange, and I have compiled a list of taboo dinner topics, starting with politics. Another losing battle: issues of social justice. The same goes for the matter of Levi's sexuality, as well as my ethnic heritage. The game plan is reducing the number of landmines Kenny could careen into, while cushioning ourselves with nice, boring discussions centered on the Dallas Cowboys and fly fishing.
But who are we kidding? Each and every year, Kenny has had a consecutive winning streak; he never fails to leave one of us quivering in rage. In 2017, he broke Hange with a mind-numbing debate over evolution. Two years ago, he invented a racial slur for me and kept referencing The Karate Kid, as if it were my cultural manifesto. And the worst of the worst was that one time Levi's then-partner surprised us with cinnamon rolls. A total mess.
"I need a week to mentally prepare for you," Levi grumbles, stiffly handing his uncle a plate and a set of silverware. "Meditate, squeeze in one more therapy session—all that mindfulness crap."
Levi, Hange, and I play a tight defensive formation under the table, where we keep each other in check. Hange squeezes my knee when I overdo the sarcasm. I kick Levi's foot when he veers into taboo territory. Levi stomps on Hange's toes when she gets too quippy. Thirty minutes in, the roast chicken is 75% polished off, and we're about to break out the pies. Kenny has fired off at least four racist comments, but we're going strong, hell-bent on shepherding him back towards the topic of his fixer-upper of a Ford Raptor, scoring us at least ten minutes of mildly acceptable discourse. At the hour-mark, we migrate to the living room and preoccupy him with a football game. So far, so good—but it's just the warm-up. Traditionally, hour two is when we get sloppy. Our patience wears thin. It doesn't help that we're one too many drinks in.
And, more pressingly, it also doesn't help that Eren and I keep texting about, well, explicit activities.
It started off sweet. It's only been a couple of days, but he misses me, especially because the heater in his childhood bedroom is faulty, and the nights are chilly. Yesterday, we FaceTimed, and he flipped through a photo album, showing me the various versions of Eren through the ages. I melted at smiley preschooler Eren, though several shots captured him in mid-tantrum. Eren, the adolescent, lived on the soccer field and looked squirmy in homecoming photos, as if he itched to change back into sweats, pronto. Frat boy Eren smirked with a flock of sorority girls.
"The girl you fucked… while Armin was 'sound asleep' in your dorm room…," I said, asking him to hold his phone camera steady over this photo from college. "The redhead. She was your fall from grace, right?"
"Anyways, here's a pic of me at my white coat ceremony…"
From there, we've been texting each other updates. I unload about Kenny's unsolicited commentary about climate change. Eren vents to me about his latest spat with his frazzled mom. I continue to complain about Kenny. Eren shares noteworthy moments from the "lessons" he's been imparting to Falco.
And then, out of the blue: I bet you look so pretty today
Debatable, I respond, after excusing myself from football to the kitchen to refill my drink.
Wish I could kiss you rn
A daring impulse drives me to reply: Where?
Your favorite places, he says.
Not if I beat you to yours first
But I have you pinned down
Easy problem to solve
How'd you do it? Tell me
Pull on your hair. Reach down and curl my fingers around your d—
"You're not pulling any weight," Levi growls, materializing out of nowhere, cornering me between the sink and the fridge. To my horror, he swipes my phone and waves it in my face. "Hange and I have been carrying the team all evening, making small-talk, talking about the weather, waxing fucking poetic about trucks and trout and God knows what else, while you—" He points my phone at me. The screen is still aglow with my half-composed text message. "—have just been glued to this slab of technology. I'm confiscating this. Jesus, it feels like you're in high school, going through puberty again. I thought we moved on from those Dark Ages—"
In his hand, my phone buzzes, signaling the arrival of another incriminating message.
Eren
"Subtle," Zeke comments, when I crash into my spot at dinner, almost knocking over a wine glass. Across from us, Falco's staring off into space with a stupidly giddy grin. He bursts out laughing, for no reason at all.
"Yo, keep it together!" Laughing, I chuck a biscuit at him. It smacks him in the face, and seconds later, we're doubled over, cackling like idiots.
"Speak for yourself," Zeke mutters, crossing his arms.
But when Mom and Colt walk in with an enormous turkey, it's time to fake composure. Our lives depend on it. Falco's eyes are a little red, but luckily, his seat is slightly angled away from Mom's place at the table, so I'm confident we're safe on that front.
"Looks amazing, Mom," I say, extending an olive branch.
Which she swats aside. "Yeah, thanks for all the help," she sniffs. "It was a team effort."
"Lay off, will you? You were in such a nasty mood—"
Dad shuffles in, rubbing his stomach. "Smells great," he remarks.
Mom helps him to his seat—but not without shooting me a glare. When I roll my eyes, Zeke elbows me in the ribs.
Mom's obsessed with the idea of a traditional Thanksgiving, which means doing that incredibly cheesy thing where halfway through dinner, we take ten minutes to talk about what has us feeling thankful this year. She stands up, clanging a fork against her wine glass, which makes everyone shut up.
"Hey, everyone," she says. "I know some of you guys think this might be 'cheesy'—" She puts up air quotes and looks directly at me, almost accusingly. Before I can think of a comeback, she continues, "But you all are family to me, and I know I say this every year, but I'm thankful for each and every one of you guys. Sure, there's an ungodly amount of testosterone in this room, since I'm the only female here, but I want to thank everyone for spending the holiday with me. Love you all, and happy Thanksgiving!"
And so, we go around in a circle, rattling off our spiels. Zeke always goes on a long, eloquent tangent about the philosophy behind gratitude, which makes my two generic sentences about food and family sound pathetic. Colt always talks about having a Canadian passport but still feeling included on Turkey Day, and Falco kinda plagiarizes his brother's spiel about being from North Montana, except he packages it up in fancier English major words. And finally, we get to Dad.
"Grisha? What about you?" Mom asks. She reaches over to squeeze Dad's hand.
"What's that?" Dad says.
"It's Thanksgiving, hun. What are you thankful for this year?" Mom says.
"What am I thankful for?" Dad repeats, thinking for a moment. "Well, it makes me happy to see my two sons all grown up. And, of course, I'm sure this goes without saying, but I'll forever be thankful for my wife." He leans over to kiss Mom's cheek. "I love you so much, Dina."
The room is dead silent. Blissfully unaware, Dad reaches for a breadstick and starts munching. "Delicious," he says warmly. "Did you add rosemary, Dee?"
Next to me, Zeke tenses up. "Dad," he grits out. "You mean Carla."
"Carla?" Dad chews, squinting in confusion. "Who?"
I hate a certain laugh Mom has. It's often paired with this super orchestrated smile, where every muscle is in its right place. Any onlooker would be fooled into thinking that it's genuine. She waves the moment off like it's some dumb joke, and she offers Falco a turkey leg. She pours wine for Zeke, and she scoops mashed potatoes for Dad. She starts telling us a story about a funny argument she witnessed on the subway. Colt chuckles. Zeke relaxes. Falco—well, Falco's stuffing his face.
But I never buy it.
After dinner, while everyone else is watching football, I find Mom alone in the kitchen washing the dishes. I grab a towel and start drying the plates.
"Go keep Falco company," she tells me quietly. "He needs a chaperone."
"Sorry, what?"
When she gives me a sidelong look, I can't help it. I unsuccessfully stifle a laugh, which is the equivalent of pleading guilty. "Unbelievable," she sighs, shaking her head. "Eren Jaeger, don't get me wrong. You're the apple of my eye, and I love you so very much… but Jesus, you drive me nuts."
"You knew, all this time?"
"I've known," she corrects me, "all these years."
"Lemme help," I insist. "It's the least I can do after being a prick this morning."
"You sure Falco's not gonna freak out or anything?"
"He's conked out in the living room. I think he's in his happy place right now."
Mom cracks a smile—a small one, but at least a real one. "I'm jealous," she remarks.
We don't say much. Mom hands me bowls, and I wipe them off before sticking them back into the drawers. We wrap up cleaning a little after halftime, but instead of joining everyone else, Mom circles the kitchen for more chores to do. They've always been a distraction for her. We grease the cast-iron pan, even though it's already clean. We sweep the spick-and-span floors. For the hell of it, we spray down the refrigerator.
"Eren?" she says suddenly when we're tying up the garbage bags.
"Yeah, Mom?"
But before she can say anything, there's a crash from the foyer. Yelling and shouting. Scuffling and commotion. Mom puts down the garbage bag, closes her eyes, and counts to five in her head. I follow her towards our front door, where Zeke and Colt are blocking the entrance, holding back a thrashing Dad. There's a shattered vase on the ground.
"I just got paged!" Dad howls, clawing for the door handle. "Head-on collision! Spinal injuries! They're not gonna make it unless I get there, so get the hell out of my way—"
"Stop it," Zeke says firmly, restraining one of Dad's arms. "You're retired—"
"I swear to God, Zeke. If I don't get into the OR, immediately, someone's going to die out there," Dad rasps. "Someone's blood will be on your hands, Zeke. Someone's going to die. Someone's going to DIE—"
"Grisha, it's okay," Mom cuts in, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Shh, it's going to be okay—"
"Out of the WAY! I need to operate!" Dad bellows. "I said, GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY!"
"Grisha—"
"DINA, where are you?" he wails, through ragged breaths. "DINA?! Come back, please come back. You'd get it, right? You'd let me go? OUT OF MY WAY!"
"Shh, it's okay," Mom continues. She strokes the crown of his head. "It's time for bed, isn't it?"
Reeling in Dad's tantrums—it's something she can do in her sleep at this point. Slowly but surely, he stops struggling against Zeke and Colt, and soon after, we have him tucked into bed upstairs. Mom puts on a Bob Dylan album and sits next to him, patting his back, reassuring him that everyone's okay. Colt passes her Dad's evening medication and a glass of water. And before long, we leave him to doze off to "Forever Young."
An hour later, Colt leaves with a drowsy Falco in tow. Zeke departs shortly after but not without first pulling Mom aside. By now, he and Mom have had this conversation a million times, and then some. He launches into an infomercial about this assisting living facility, yapping away about how they do poker nights and field trips to Central Park, and Mom plasters on that laugh that I hate so, so much. She and Colt are a caretaking dream team, she tells him, winking, patting his arm.
But when Zeke disappears around the block, headed for the subway station, she shuffles back to the kitchen, where collapses into a counter stool. I slide into the seat next to her and hand her an ice-cold beer. Bob Dylan is still playing upstairs, in Dad's room.
"How frequently has this been happening?" I ask, drumming my fingertips against the kitchen island. "These episodes."
"Several times a week," Mom says numbly, after taking a long swig. I swallow uneasily. These tantrums used to come only once or twice a month.
"Was this the first time he mentioned Zeke's mom?" I press on.
Mom shifts uncomfortably and doesn't answer.
"Mom?" I ask.
When she looks up at me, tears are rimming her eyes. "Eren," she says with a shaky voice. "He hasn't called me 'Carla' for the past month."
I sit with Mom until she hugs me, tells me she loves me, and drags herself upstairs to resume crying in her room, alone. I take her unfinished beer and head up to the roof.
The roof of our building was the place of a lot of firsts for me. I had my first kiss up here after freshman year homecoming in high school, and a couple of days later, my first foray into second base with the same girl. I had my first hit of a joint up here, laying back and looking at the moon, and I moped about my first breakup here, listening to blink-182 while watching taxis go up and down the street. In the distance, Manhattan's all lit up, but tonight, I find myself looking towards the Jersey skyline.
I pull out my phone. Ten text messages from Mikasa, typed out in a long, frantic string. Evidently, she screwed up, big-time. I can picture her face. She has this incredibly derpy look when she does something silly, like when she gets off at the wrong subway stop or when she used to stick her head outside the bathroom door, mid-shower, sheepishly asking me to grab a forgotten towel. (Nowadays, she just parades out, full-steam ahead.) Or that one time when she was reading an article on her phone while making breakfast but failed, epically, at multitasking. She ended up sticking a whole egg in the microwave, and a minute later, the thing straight-up exploded.
Class act, I text her, and moments after I hit send, she's calling me.
"More like, total nightmare," is the first thing she says when I pick up. She informs me that we're never sexting again, ever. Even though the Jar's been out of commission for God knows how long, she's adding this new amendment to our House Rules list as soon as she gets back. But then she tells me about her Uncle Kenny, who sounds like classic crazy uncle at Thanksgiving—except on steroids—and she regales me with some of his best hits of the night, which is a cocktail blend of every sort of prejudice possible. The Mikasa who rambles away on the phone now is a far cry from the Mikasa I met all those months ago at the bar. Those first couple of weeks as roommates, I asked a lot of questions, and I initiated most of the conversations (unless she was complaining about my sloppiness). Learning about her likes, dislikes, hot takes, and backstory—it was an ice fishing expedition.
"I hope your Thanksgiving was less chaotic than mine," she says. "Did you and Falco get dinged?"
"Sadly yes," I reply, shaking my head. "Mom doesn't miss a single, fucking beat."
"I told you it was a terrible idea."
"Got off on a slap on the wrist. It's no biggie."
"How is she? Your mom?"
I watch a taxi stop two buildings down the street from my place. An old man gets out of the passenger seat, and he stretches out an arm, helping his wife out of the car. She clings to his arm, and together, they totter across the sidewalk, making their way back home. Before they enter their building, the man leans over to say something to his wife. She throws her head back, laughing.
"Eren, you okay?"
"Yeah, it's all good," I say. "Mom's doing totally great."
A/N: So it's been a minute. Not gonna lie, a bit rusty after not writing for a while, so I'm gonna get back into the swing of things with this shorter chapter. I checked my inbox after what's been, like, a bazillion years, and I got hit by this super intense feeling of gratitude seeing all the nice, thoughtful comments from all you guys, both long-time HTCE readers and newcomers (howdy!)—God, I've missed writing this, a lot. I do think I owe you all an explanation for dropping off the face of the earth for the past year-ish and disappearing from AO3 for a smidge. This past year has been batshit nuts. A whole load of personal stuff came up, and usually, I get a lot of release from real-world matters via fic, but one day, I got a bombshell of a message that was straight-up shitty.
Don't get me wrong. I don't mind criticism. If anything, I welcome it with open arms. I've learned so much about pacing through reader reviews, and I can't thank you all enough for that, so keep those critiques coming.
This one message, however, was devoid of constructive criticism, and its sole intention was to broadcast hate. Normally, this stuff doesn't dent me. I get messages like these from time to time. It's usually the same-old griping and groaning about that one chapter in "Washed-Up & Rundown" (which I'll eventually reupload to AO3... one of these days, but it's on FF in the meantime, if anyone's curious), which featured an apparently taboo pairing that summons hellfire from some folks in the fandom. (Side note: I still stand by that plot decision, FYI.) But for some reason, this message left me feeling super despondent and, quite frankly, resentful, so one day, I decided: "To hell with it." And then made a beeline for the delete key.
After doing a ton of thinking, I've realized that this was ridiculously unfair to those of you guys who were so kind to me over the years. You guys took actual time out of your actual days to give my work a read, and as an added bonus, you all left messages that helped me grow tremendously as a writer last summer. Some of you left whole-ass ESSAYS, which left me speechless. I got comfortable with my written voice last year, after finishing WUARD and starting HTCE, and you all helped me craft my style and build my confidence. To that, I'm so fucking grateful, and I do apologize, from the bottom of my heart, for taking these fics down, despite all that you've done for me.
So here's the deal. To those profoundly lame losers who have nothing else better to do but spew hatred, just for the sake of spewing hatred: Hit me with your best shot.
But to everyone else: I don't know if I can do that ~8K words per week grind again from last summer (what the hell was I on...?), since life can get in the way, but rest assured, HTCE's an active, in-progress fic. I'm dusting off the cobwebs from those old planning docs, and I'm revving up the engine again, so strap in your seatbelts. Let's get this show back on the road.