Happy Thanksgiving Shrunken First Semester chapter 29 by maximally

By Thanksgiving, Max had stopped counting days.

He lived in Victoria's bra. That was the short version. The long version was that he lived in her bra, and the back of her underwear, and the jewelry tray on her nightstand with the silk scarf, and sometimes, when Izzy asked nicely and Victoria was feeling generous, in Izzy's bra for an hour of TV. The legal pad was gone. Bea's spring spot had been declined in September, with a phone call Victoria made standing at the kitchen island with him against her chest, saying thank you, Bea, but Mama's got it handled, and Bea had laughed on the other end and said something he couldn't quite hear, and Victoria had gone pink and hung up.

He never went to Ventus. The twenty-third came and went. Somewhere six hours down the road, Zeke Torres moved a mini-fridge into a double with some kid off the waitlist who got Max's bed and Max's meal plan, and Max didn't think about either of them much anymore.

What he thought about, mostly, was the heat of her. The heartbeat. The smell of cocoa butter and skin. Being wanted. Being held. Being done.

*

Thanksgiving smelled of turkey and cinnamon and Lupe's beans, and the Sunnyvale house was full.

Victoria had put him in her black lace bra before anyone arrived and buttoned a holiday sweater up over it so only she and he knew. He rode against her left tit through dinner, his back to her skin, her heartbeat under him, and every time she laughed he bounced.

There were six of them at the table, not counting him.

Victoria at the head, berry lipstick, claw clip, the sweater doing its best. Izzy on her right in a black dress she'd borrowed and never returned, scrolling under the table until Lupe slapped her hand. Lupe at the foot in a red blouse and her gold cross, braid over one shoulder, serving beans with a ladle the size of Max's torso. Artemis across from Izzy, new septum ring catching the light, purple hair grown out another inch of black at the roots, and next to her Juni, her partner, in overalls, who ate everything vegan and called Artemis babe once under their breath. Miguel at the corner by the wall, as far from Victoria as the table allowed, in a clean white tank top and a gold chain that still looked green, both hands on his plate, eyes down.

*

"Pass the potatoes, mijo," Lupe said to Miguel.

Miguel jumped. "Y-yes, ma'am. Your—uh. Yes."

"She means you," Izzy said, without looking up.

"I know who she means," Miguel whispered, and slid the bowl down the table without making eye contact with Victoria. Victoria watched him do it over the rim of her wine glass and said nothing. Miguel went a shade paler.

Max felt her laugh start in her chest before it came out. He bounced.

Artemis snorted into her sparkling water. Juni patted her arm. Izzy had her phone under the table again. Miguel was trying to become one with the wall.

*

They ate. They talked over each other. Lupe told a story about Zumba and Marco that made Izzy put her face in her hands. Artemis argued with Victoria about oat milk versus real milk until Juni quietly said, "Babe, let it go," and Artemis let it go. Miguel said almost nothing except "yes, ma'am" and "no, ma'am" whenever Victoria glanced his way, and once, when she asked him to pass the gravy, he whispered to Izzy, "your mom is looking at me," as if Victoria were a weather event.

Max rode through all of it.

He felt every laugh in her chest. Every swallow. When she leaned forward to reach the rolls, he slid down an inch into the lace and she hooked a finger in and nudged him back up without looking, the way you'd adjust a necklace. When Lupe asked if he was eating enough, Victoria said, "Mama feeds him, Mamá, don't start," and slipped a crumb of turkey under the sweater with two fingers, and he ate it against her skin, and nobody at the table except Lupe and Izzy and Artemis saw her do it, and they all pretended not to.

He felt settled. Not happy in the bright way. Held. The dread that had lived in his chest from July through August was gone, and what was left was this: the smell of her, and the noise of her family, and the knowledge that tomorrow he'd wake up in the jewelry tray or her bra or her hand, and the day after that, and the day after that.

Izzy caught Artemis's eye across the table once, during the pie. Artemis raised her glass a half inch. Izzy raised hers back. They didn't smile, exactly. They didn't look away.

Juni, under their breath: "Your cousin's less of an asshole than you said."

"I can still hear you," Izzy said.

"Good," said Juni.

 *

After the pie, people scattered.

Miguel escaped to the driveway to "check on Big Mama," which meant stand next to the Charger and smoke and not come back in until Izzy texted him the coast was clear. Juni helped Victoria with the dishes, quiet and competent. Izzy sat on the kitchen counter and stole whipped cream out of the can.

Izzy waited until the can ran out.

pfft

She frowned into the nozzle, set it down on the granite, and slid off the counter. Victoria was at the sink rinsing the gravy boat. Juni was drying.

"Mom," Izzy said. "Can I hold him."

Victoria didn't turn around. "Who do you ask?"

Izzy sighed. Then her voice came from right outside the knit, level with the third button. "Max. Can I hold you. For, like, two minutes. I'll put you back."

He thought about saying no. He'd been saying no to her in his head for four months. It turned out it was less fun when she asked.

"Two minutes," he said, through the sweater.

Victoria dried her hands on the dish towel, undid the top buttons and fished him out of the bra with two fingers. She set him on Izzy's palm. Then she went back to the gravy boat, three feet away, and scrubbed it without looking at them at all, which was how Max knew she was listening to every word.

Izzy carried him to the far end of the counter, by the toaster. She held her hand flat and still, the way you'd hold a full cup of coffee, and she smelled of whipped cream and Victoria's perfume, which she'd also borrowed and never returned.

"Okay," she said. "So."

She reached into the front of her dress and came out with a black square.

It was his socks. Both of them, folded and folded again into a neat little block, and it was still bigger than he was. She set it on the granite next to her hand. It smelled of her closet, which was mostly dryer sheets and vape.

"You kept them in your bra," Max said.

"I didn't have pockets. Don't make it weird." She nudged the block toward him with one fingernail. "There. Now you can't bring it up anymore."

"I'm going to bring it up forever."

"Yeah. I know." She looked at the toaster instead of him. "I'm not sorry about the list. I want that on the record. The list was good. Some of that stuff was genuinely creative."

"Iz."

"But the beer." She stopped. Her jaw did something. "I'm sorry about the beer. I shouldn't have done the beer."

Max climbed off her palm and sat down on the socks. They were his. They were the right height for it.

"I'm still mad," he said.

"I know."

She didn't say anything else, and neither did he. At the sink, Juni handed Victoria a dry plate and said nothing either, very loudly.

After a minute Izzy scooped him up, socks and all, and held him out at Victoria's shoulder. "Two minutes," she said. "Returned. Undamaged. Mostly."

Victoria took him and tucked him back into the lace, the sock block wedged in next to him against her left tit, and buttoned the sweater over both of them. Then she picked up her wine and went to the couch. Izzy got back up on the counter and shook the empty can, as if it might change its mind.

Artemis found Max by finding Victoria.

Victoria was on the couch with a second glass of wine, sweater still buttoned, him still in it. Artemis sat down on the far end, long legs folded up, and looked at the lump in her tía's sweater for a long time.

"Tía," she said. "Can I."

Victoria hesitated. Then she unbuttoned the top two buttons and took him out and set him in Artemis's palm.

Artemis held him the way she had in August: two hands cupped, careful, a little scared of her own size. Her new septum ring clicked when she looked down. Up close she smelled of weed and oat milk and oil paint.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

She glanced at Victoria, who was watching without watching, and at Izzy on the counter, and at Lupe in the kitchen doorway. Then she turned her back a little and brought him closer to her face.

"So," she said, quiet. "For real. Are you happy."

He looked at her. At the freckles. At the green eyes behind the purple bangs. At the girl who'd driven down from Oakland and asked him if he wanted to go back, and who'd hung up when he told her the part of the truth he was willing to give her.

He thought about the bra. The tray. The heartbeat. Lupe's kitchen. Izzy's fist on the couch. Tomorrow, and the day after that, and no Ventus, and no spring spot, and no list.

"Yes," Max said.

Artemis looked at him for another second. Then she nodded, once, the same way Izzy had nodded in the doorway in August, and put him back in Victoria's hand.

"Okay," she said. "Okay."

Victoria closed her fingers around him and brought him home against her chest, under the sweater, against her heart. It was going steady. Outside, the Charger coughed once in the driveway. In the kitchen, Izzy laughed at something Juni said.

Max closed his eyes.

He was home.