Young Writers Society

Thanksgiving arrived in a whirlwind, beckoning us to embrace togetherness. Because of this, Zeke and I planned to go to my family’s home. My nervousness grew as he drove my car through the gate and up the winding drive. My foot bounced up and down on an invisible pogo stick, and he gripped his hand over my knee.

Finally, my family’s estate loomed over us as we parked. He unbuckled his seatbelt, and his shoulders tensed as he leered at the property. There was a touch of uncertainty in his expression. He took it all in. The rich, aged, cream brick structure colossally expanded with a matching staircase leading to the long dark-wash wooden porch and white cylinder marble columns. At each pillar were elaborate potted rose bushes. Intricate engravings and polished brass embellished the large, black double doors. The towering windows, each framed with handcrafted moldings, the cobblestone driveway that wound through the meticulously kept lawn–it was all enough to make even another of high status grapple to be in such luxury. It starkly contrasted with what I knew about Desolaria, and I felt a twinge of remorse for bringing him into this world.

Suddenly, a wry smile tugged at his lips. “Well, this is a far cry from the streets I’m used to.”

His candid reaction was so charming that it made me laugh softly. “You’ll find that my family has a taste for the finer things.”

I tried to open my car door, but he stopped me by putting his hand over mine and shutting my door back. “No, let me.”

Exiting his side of the car, he strode confidently around the front, opening my door with a grand gesture. I shot him a glance, amused. He offered a quick reply. “What? Chivalry isn’t dead.”

As I stepped out of the car, my hand instinctively sought to ground myself with his. James welcomed us in the entryway. His neatly tailored uniform was symbolic of the formality that saturated the atmosphere.

We removed our coats, and he gracefully accepted them. He extended his gloved hand to Zeke, who shook it with a blend of politeness and more force than necessary. “Welcome back, Miss Abigail,” James greeted us, his voice as refined as his appearance.

“Thank you, James. This is Ezekiel. Zeke, meet James.”

Zeke’s gaze met James with reluctance, but then respect. This was out of his element, but he was trying. “Nice to meet you.”

James nodded before turning his attention back to me. “Your family has gathered in the drawing room, Miss.”

I swallowed a knot of nerves and nodded, guiding Zeke there. The polished marble floors sparkled beneath the chandeliers that dripped with crystals. As we walked, the sense of entering a world foreign to Zeke became more palpable. My home was a maze of rooms, each more extravagant than the last. Priceless artworks, including my mother's collection and her own pieces, adorned the walls throughout, along with family portraits. Down the main hall, we arrived at the drawing room. Its massive double doors stood ajar, inviting us in.

As we entered, Zeke’s eyes swept the room. The ample space had crisp cream furnishings and plush carpets, a shiny granite fireplace stretched along one wall, and elaborate light fixtures hung from the towering ceiling. Damask wallpaper with a muted gold and cream pattern gilded the walls. Large windows, dressed in heavy burgundy silk curtains with intricate tassels, allowed natural light from the garden to filter in. In the center of the room, a tacky Persian rug sat. My mother loved that awful thing. The semi-circle arrangement of plush armchairs and sofas around the central coffee table created a cozy seating area.

Zeke’s eyes glinted around. “A little too fine for my taste.”

I stifled a grin, marveling at his capacity to laugh even in such instances. “Yes, it’s quite contrived, isn’t it?”

Our entrance didn’t go unnoticed, and my mother smoothly sauntered over to us. She wore a knee-length emerald A-line dress–the green matching her eyes–paired with a thin, cognac-brown leather belt that cinched at the waist and had a gold buckle, undoubtedly real. With loose waves that framed her face, her auburn hair had a slight grey tint and perfectly complemented her pearl drop earrings.

“Abigail, dear, it’s lovely to see you.”

Her eyes flicked towards Zeke, and although her smile didn’t waver, I could see she was assessing him. Her gawking moved up and down, evaluating his black borrowed suit that was somewhat too small and scuffed dull loafers. His unease, because of the suit or her stare, showed as he pulled the white collar of his button-up away from his neck. It was likely both.

I reassuringly squeezed his hand, silently reminding him I was there. My mother reached out to hug me, her expression warming. My arms stretched, and although we were usually the same height, her brown high-heeled ankle boots made her taller than me when we embraced.

“It’s good to be home for the holidays, Mother.”

She released me and shifted her attention back to Zeke. “And who is this charming young man you’ve brought with you?” Her tone may have been polite, but her words had an edge.

I stepped closer to him, our hands entwining again. “Mother, Ezekiel. Zeke, my mother.”

Zeke extended his hand with a friendly smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Winslow.”

My mother’s demeanor softened as she accepted his handshake. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled, and a tenderness came over her features. “Likewise, Ezekiel. But, please, call me Rebeccah. Only yuppies call me Mrs. Winslow.”

His posture relaxed. “Sure thing. No yuppies here. Call me Zeke.”

Her laughter bubbled up at the playfulness in his tone, but the introductions from my sister and extended family cut the moment short. While the atmosphere remained cordial, I could sense the subtleties. Unexpressed judgments loomed beneath the surface, betrayed by lingering stares and subtle changes in tone. He navigated the dance of mingling with an unassuming charisma. His well-placed but strained smile reminded me of his being an outsider.

As we had finished our last introductions, my father entered, and the mood immediately quieted. He demanded a room’s attention with his presence alone. He was only a hair taller than Zeke, but his military posture and the sharpness of his shoulders made him seem bigger. His icy blue eyes surveyed the room. His expression remained cold, even as he smiled at me.

“Abigail!” He called as he approached us, wrapping an arm around my neck when he was close. His gaze shifted to Zeke. For a moment, there was a calculated pause as he sized up the person standing next to his daughter.

I inhaled slowly, wanting peace for Zeke’s sake. “Father, this is Ezekiel. Zeke, my father, Mr. Winslow.”

Zeke extended his hand, his confidence not faltering. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

My father’s handshake was firm, his eyes penetrating as they locked onto Zeke’s. “Likewise,” he replied curtly. His scrutiny stood in his straight and upright posture, his shoulder squared. It expanded in his lingered observance of the secondhand and worn cufflinks at the end of Zeke’s jacket sleeves.

“Abigail, may I have a word with you in private?” His eyes swiftly meeting mine with masked pleasantry.