Parallel

caught me off guard, surprising me enough to give me pause. Am I in love with him? How is a person supposed to distinguish between Love and Very Strong Like? Is the distinction all that important? Here’s what I know: I like being with him. I like the way he makes me feel. I like waking up next to him, fully clothed, and that being okay with both of us, on his flannel plaid sheets. Do those things add up to love? I think so, but I’m not sure. Which is exactly what I told Caitlin. She responded with some cryptic “trust your instincts” comment and wouldn’t elaborate.
    Ding! A new text appears on my screen.
    Michael: HAPPY T-DAY. CANT WAIT TO C U LATER.
    I’m smiling as I reply: DITTO. DONT FORGET TO TEXT ME UR ADDY!
    The next text I send is to Tyler. He’s been acting weird the last few weeks, enough to make me wonder if he’s mad at me for something. He and I talked for over an hour the day after Halloween, but since then, I haven’t been able to get him on the phone, and when he responds to my texts, it’s always with a one- or two-word reply. Not that Ty is a particularly loquacious texter, but I can usually count on him for some dry wit or not-so-veiled sarcasm.
    U HOME? I write. CAN WE HANG OUT TOMORROW?
    “Abby!” my mom is calling from the kitchen. “ I need your help down here!”
    “Coming!” I shout. I toss my phone on the bed and head down to the kitchen, where Mom is up to her elbows in turkey (literally). Dad is holding the bird while she stuffs it.
    “She tricked me,” he declares. “Used the ol’ ‘come here a sec’ routine.”
    “This turkey has to bake for six hours. It’s already eight twelve.” Mom is rapidly shoving handfuls of celery and onion into the hollow chest cavity. “Abby, there’s a ball of twine somewhere in the pantry. Can you see if you can find it, please? And there’s a bag of lemons in the fridge. I need those, too.”
    “Sure.”
    “So what time’s the boyfriend coming over?” Dad asks.
    “Not sure yet. He doesn’t have a car, so I’m picking him up.” I emerge from the pantry with the twine. “How long a piece do you want?”
    “I don’t know, check the recipe,” Mom replies, wiping away an onion-induced tear with her sleeve. “It’s on the counter over there.”
    “So are things serious with this guy?”
    “Dad.”
    “What? You’ve never invited a guy for Thanksgiving before. It feels like a big deal.”
    “Well, it’s not,” I insist, even though it feels that way to me, too. “He’s not that close with his family and doesn’t have any friends here because his parents moved after he was in college. So I invited him to eat with us. That’s it.”
    “Why isn’t he close with his family?”
    “I don’t know. But let’s not ask him that over dinner, okay?”
    “Maybe you should give me a list of approved talking points before he arrives.”
    I stick my tongue out at him. “Don’t you have a parade to watch?”
    “Have you talked to Josh?” Mom asks when I hand her the twine. The question stops me cold.
    “Uh, no,” I tell her, suddenly very interested in the burlap bag of cornmeal on the counter. “I should call him,” I say, because that’s what people say.
    “You should,” Mom is saying. “I obviously don’t know what happened between you two, but he was always such a nice guy. If you can save the friendship, you should.”
    “And next time you sever ties with an ex-boyfriend,” my dad pipes up, “clue us in, would ya? I had to hear from Josh that you stopped speaking to him. Over email, nonetheless.”
    My head jerks up. “What?”
    “When I sent you both that article about Lewis Carroll writing Alice in Wonderland in a rowboat,” he says. “A couple weeks ago. I asked if we’d see him while you were home, and he wrote back and said you’d stopped returning his calls.”
    My heart begins to pound. A couple of weeks ago? My reality hasn’t changed since Halloween, so if my dad sent me an email, I should remember getting it. “I don’t think I got an email from you about Alice in Wonderland ,” I tell him.
    “Hm,” he says, puzzled. “That’s weird.”
    “Will you forward Josh’s email to me?”
    “Sure,” he replies.
    “Done!” my mom announces, stepping back from the turkey. “Put that sucker in the oven,” she instructs, then walks to the sink to wash her hands. I open the oven door for my dad, and he puts the bird inside.
    “Could you do it now?” I ask him as soon as the oven