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The Fakes don't get together often, but this year, all of them made time for a family Thanksgiving.
Lindsay and Michael are hosting in their sprawling house on the edge of town. It's expected that the party will go late, and that some people will stay to sleep it off, but they've also rented a floor of a nearby hotel in Gavin's name in case any couples or larger groups want a little more privacy.
None of them are monogamous, and Trevor and Jack's immortality machine will take care of any disease, so the couples may not be established ones.
Ray comes over early to work with Michael on the basics: roast stuffed turkey with its cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, sourdough bread. Lindsay knits at a furious pace and barks orders to the pair.
The guests trickle in. Geoff and Jack bring roasted Brussels sprouts (Geoff's specialty). Gavin brings a vase of flowers with what looks like a severed human finger in the base.
“It's a fake,” he explains cheerfully.
Michael squints. “Whose?”
“Well, you see, it was mine. But now it's everyone's! See, it'll be like a centerpiece.” He winks. “Human flesh makes excellent fertilizer. I figured it'd help keep them alive.”
Geoff sighs. “If it starts stinking up the place, it goes.” Gavin nods agreement.
Matt brings biscuits. Alfredo brings sweet potato casserole. Fiona brings a single can of corn chowder.
“Whatcha got there?” Lindsay asks Trevor. Gavin is sitting on their lap, but Lindsay is still in full command of the kitchen and its contents.
“Thought I'd bring some meatloaf,” Trevor says, aiming for casual and landing squarely on sus.
Alfredo sighs. “Of course you did.”
“I don't care what you put in it as long as it's tasty,” Gavin says.
“It's not human!”
“See, that's an awfully specific denial,” Alfredo says. “One might be forgiven for wondering if perhaps—”
“It's cat.”
“I've always wanted to try cat!” Gavin and Fredo turn as one to Jeremy, who raises his hand sheepishly. “Trevor, this is my girlfriend Liz. Liz, this is Trevor, a friend of mine.” Jeremy points out people as he introduces them. “The one babysitting the gravy is Ray. And in the chair there is Lindsay, who's hosting along with their husband Michael, I told you about them?”
Liz waves shyly. “Nice to meet you, uh, Trevor, Ray, Lindsay, Michael.”
Gavin laughs. “Nah, I'm Gavin. Michael is, uh...”
“He's taking a break,” Fredo supplies. “He's been working hard, you know how it is. He'll be down soon, though. I'm sure he'll be happy to meet you.”
“I didn't catch your name?”
“Alfredo.”
“Nice to meet you, Alfredo. I'm Liz.” Jeremy laughs, and Liz blushes. “You already knew that, though. Sorry.”
Jeremy told her not to eat beforehand, but the food isn't ready yet. “Are you sure?” Liz whines.
“I mean, no, but if it was ready, wouldn't people be eating?”
This logic is persuasive. Jeremy gets in a cheerful political debate with a guy who has full-sleeve tattoos and looks dangerous, and Liz tries to join in, but they've got statistics and in-jokes and Liz doesn't really have strong opinions about that stuff anyway, it'd be nice if people just got along.
She meanders over to the other couch, where a punk teen with impressive hair is talking to a bite-size man with a deadpan expression (Jeremy definitely introduced him, fuck) while a large guy (she doesn't think she's met this one) looks on and offers commentary. Their conversation is nearly impenetrable, involving, amazingly, what sounds like advanced medical terminology, and the punk and the large man are laughing while the short guy, Trevor, that was his name, sits there and watches her inscrutably.
“There's not that many big arteries,” Trevor says. “Are you sure you're not double-counting? Flip the cadaver over and you can see them from the front and the back.”
“If you're examining individual organs and you're not careful with the orientation you could theoretically get confused about three directions,” the punk says. “Only do that one on necrotic tissue, though. Huge liability issue.”
“All three directions lead to Our Savior, Jesus Christ,” the other man intones.
Aw, fuck, he's one of those people. Liz has nothing against Christians, it's just... embarrassing. She goes to church on Easter Sunday or when older relatives are visiting and that should be enough for anybody.
“Really?” the short man says. His voice barely changes tone with the question. “I thought up and down were the important ones.”
“Up, down, east, west—hope, in vain; fear, for nothing. Heaven is not found on Earth,” the Christian says. “See 1 Kings 8:27.”
“Hold up,” the punk says, and gestures at Liz. “Explain yourself, this poor girl's going to feel left out.”
Liz smiles nervously. “Um, I can look it up...”
Her hand is already in her purse when the Christian comes over and claps her on the back.
“No need, no need,” he says. “Jeremiah wrote Kings. Like your man Jeremy—the prophet, Jeremiah, who foresaw the new covenant. In Kings 8:27 he asks, 'But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, the heaven and the heaven's heaven cannot contain you; how much less this temple I have built?'”
Liz stares at him with an utter lack of comprehension. Perhaps detecting this sorry state of affairs, the Christian continues.
“It's a rhetorical question. Jeremiah is saying that God is larger than heaven, so of course He can't fit into earth, let alone into a single temple. He can be found anywhere so long as one's heart is bent to Him, through His son Jesus Christ.”
That, Liz understands, even if it doesn't sound right. “So God isn't any more in a church than He is anywhere else?”
“A valid concern,” the Christian says in his booming voice, seeming to genuinely mean it. “And it's true that a church is a place of great spiritual power, but God is not in the building. God is among the congregation. As it is written, Exodus 25:8, 'Have them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.'”
Liz makes her excuses and flees to the kitchen.
“How's the food coming?” Liz asks awkwardly. Lindsay looks up at her with a severe expression. The men from earlier have switched places: Ray is in the chair with Lindsay, and the other one—Michael?—is peeling an avocado with a knife.
The standing man—Gavin, that's right, not Michael but Gavin—sets the peeled avocado on the cutting board with a flourish. Liz tries not to stare at it. Fuck, she's hungry.
“Conversation not doing it for you?” Gavin asks. “Craving something a little more filling?”
There's no way that was intentional. Liz's eyes wander back to the avocado. “Is that, uh, up for grabs?”
“There's garlic toast in five minutes,” Lindsay says.
Gavin scoffs and points the knife at Lindsay. “Come on, girl's hungry. You know what that's like.”
Liz gingerly picks up the avocado. It's... slippery. She's never had one served like this. She takes a bite out of it like an apple and it gets on her nose. Tasty, though.
“Love the squelch.”
Liz looks up like she's been caught at something, which is ridiculous. He's the one that was defending her.
Gavin smiles, unafraid to meet her eyes. “That's how you know it's a good one.”
Liz goes into the bathroom, drinks water in cupped hands, and washes what's left of the avocado off her face. She dries her face with toilet paper—there's only one towel set out, and people are going to be washing their hands—and then actually uses the toilet, somewhat to her surprise.
She pulls out her phone while she's there and checks her socials. Somebody's posting depressing vagues about political disagreements with family. Someone else is posting glamour shots of their restaurant-worthy turkey.
It hits her that she ate before the meal, and Jeremy told her not to, and she's going to have to tell Jeremy before he finds out from one of the people in the kitchen. Fuck.
She heaves herself to her feet. Maybe he'll be in a good mood. She knows he's missed his friends. Regardless, it's not going to go better if she delays.
“Just got a glimpse of your white whale,” Gavin says, “fed her an avocado.”
Jeremy looks up from his conversation with Alfredo, signing “sorry” as he does. They'd been talking about strategic uses of alcohol in work and play. “Did she ask for it?”
“May've made her beg.”
Alfredo looks up, too. “For an avocado?”
“Real squelchy one, yeah.”
Geoff sighs. “Will you shut up about the squelch.” (Fiona is still looking at the checkers board between them, and ignores him.)
“Last I knew she was coming this way and her face was covered in it, so keep an eye out for the Hulk, yeah?”
“Listen,” Alfredo says aloud, and continues in sign: “She's already coming.”
Jeremy squints. “Water.”
“Yep,” Fredo confirms. “No Hulk here. You get any pictures before she ruined her makeup, Gavvy?”
“I mean not on purpose,” Gavin says, “but—”
“Yes,” Fiona says, without looking up from the board.
The Fakes rearrange themselves according to an unspoken consensus: Gavin scrolls through his phone showing Jeremy memes, while Alfredo kibitzes Fiona and Geoff's game.
Gavin keeps stealing glances at the door, up until Jeremy grabs his hand and pins it down hard enough to hurt. “Stay with me,” he orders.
Gavin gulps. “Yes, sir.”
Jeremy grins and releases him. “Scroll down, I wanna see the next one.”
When Liz arrives she's flushed and bedraggled. Jeremy looks up from Gavin's phone and smiles at her. “Having a good time?”
“Uh—yeah. Hi, Gavin.”
“You clean up nice,” Gavin says.
“Lay off her.” Fiona seems ready to fistfight Gavin. “She looked fine before.”
“Hey, hey,” Jeremy says, making a lowering gesture. “Fiona, it was a compliment. Gavin... just shut up.”
Gavin touches a hand to his forehead in a mock salute.
“I'll do you one better.” Fiona glares at Gavin. “Get over here.” Gavin scuttles over to Fiona, who grabs his wrist and hauls him across the room.
“Oi!”
“Don't mind me, just taking out the trash.” With her other hand, Fiona scoops up the can of chowder from its place of honor next to the checkerboard. “Might be a while, just so you know.”
The pair vanishes into the hall, Gavin still protesting.
“D'you think he's, like, okay? Should we go after him?”
Jeremy lays his hand over his heart in an act of florid melodrama. “In my professional opinion...” He laughs and redirects. “Gavin will be fine. Not like this is the first time Fiona's gotten a little rough with him.”
“So this is a regular thing?” It's sort of none of her business, and Jeremy clearly knows both of them better than she does, but... it doesn't seem right. Sometimes things get bad so slow, people don't notice until there's an escalation—a fight that leaves injuries, a death threat, a threat to someone outside the relationship...
“Oh. Oh, no, it's not—god, Liz, I wouldn't let that happen.” Jeremy is... blushing? “Gavin, uh... Gavin doesn't mind.”
“Look, Jeremy's trying to say... Gavin's a known painslut.” Liz's eyes jump to Alfredo. “And Fiona might act mean, but she's really a big softie under the tough girl act. They'll be fine.”
Liz drops it, casts around for a new topic. “When's dinner?” she asks, then wishes she'd stuffed her hand in her mouth instead.
Jeremy looks at her with concern. “Fuck, you haven't eaten yet, have you? There's gotta be something.” He takes her hand and heads for the kitchen. Liz stumbles after him.
The room is quiet.
Alfredo looks at the board. Geoff looks at Alfredo. The board looks at Fiona. Alfredo looks at Geoff.
Geoff clears his throat. “Wanna play?”
“Sure do.”
“About that, uh...”
Jeremy stops in the hall. (Fiona and Gavin are nowhere to be seen.) “Yeah?”
Liz experiences a powerful urge to cover her face. “Uh, earlier, I was in the kitchen, and there was an avocado...”
“You stole an avocado from the cooks?” Jeremy probes.
“Not stole. Gavin, um. Gavin... gave it to me.”
Jeremy looks at her skeptically. “Did he 'give it to you'? Or did you bother him until he let you have it to get you off his back?”
“I was really hungry,” Liz confesses. “I'm sorry.”
“I mean, yeah,” Jeremy says, “but...” He opens the door to the kitchen. “Hey, Lindsay!”
Lindsay jumps out of their armchair like a cat that's been caught on the counter. “Yeah?!” Ray, who was slumped in the chair (what were they doing?) pulls himself upright.
Jeremy waves a hand generously. “My girl was concerned she might've been harassing the cooks.”
“The thing with Gavin?” Lindsay shrugs. “You know how much he likes being bullied.”
“There, see?” Jeremy says. “You're fine. How much longer on the sauce, doc?”
Ray gives the pot a considering stir and Jeremy a toothy grin. “It's done.”
Dinner still isn't ready, but Jeremy gets her a plate and shows her the garlic bread, and Liz has to stop herself from taking enough to eat her fill. She can't make it all this way and then leave no room for the turkey.
She takes one slice, instead, and tries to eat it slowly.
She realizes afterward that she doesn't know what to do with the plate, so she stands around awkwardly with it until Lindsay comes in, lays their phone face-down at the head of the table, and says “put it down, girl; anywhere's fine” in a tone that is dismissive but not unkind. Liz sets the plate down near the foot of the table with relief and flees to the kitchen.
Jeremy and Ray are transferring food between a bewildering array of containers. Lindsay, meanwhile, folds napkins from a barstool. “Plates and water,” they order without looking up.
Liz looks to Ray beseechingly. He opens a cabinet and points out an array of tumblers and a stack of large plates. Liz gamely takes out two of the tumblers, glad to have something to do.
She drinks almost the whole first glass, and guiltily tops herself up before setting it down next to her plate. The second goes to Lindsay. After that she does the other end of the table and the seat across from hers, to cover up that she took hers early, and works her way up until she's served water to everyone.
Ray and Jeremy are bringing food in, now, and Liz's mouth waters. She tries to swallow inconspicuously.
“Hang in there,” Jeremy says cheerfully.
“We've all been waiting,” Ray adds. “It's not like we want to be late.”
Liz ducks her head.
Lindsay sets the last of the elaborately folded napkins on the table. “Where is everyone?” Horribly, their eyes alight on Liz, who's been hovering next to her seat trying not to draw attention to herself. “You, Liz, go find them.”
Liz takes the opportunity to flee, and only afterward realizes that now she has to go looking for people.
Calm down, she tells herself. You're telling people the food's ready. How controversial can that be?
She retraces her steps to the room where the Christian had been—where Fiona had been—and finds the man with the tattoos playing checkers with someone who Liz saw earlier but can't pin a name to.
Neither of them seem to notice her until she's right next to them. “Yeah?” the tattooed man says at last. Liz tries not to flinch.
“Um—Lindsay says it's time.”
The man who doesn't have tattoos gives the tattooed man a friendly shove. “Can't believe other things have the temerity to happen while you're thinking.”
“Thank you, Liz,” the tattooed man says, leaning back from the board and fixing her with a piercing look. “Am I correct in assuming that Lindsay has deputized you to cry in the town square?”
He says it with complete sincerity. Liz has no idea what he's talking about.
“Yes?” she hazards.
He doesn't get any less scary when he smiles. “You're probably wondering where Fiona and Gavin are.”
“Y-yeah?” She'd love to avoid them, but the best she can realistically do is be sure to knock.
“Go toward the kitchen, but turn right before you reach it, then go to the end of the hall. They'll be on your left.”
“I'll get them,” the tattooed man's companion says. “One less thing on your plate.”
Liz's stomach rumbles.
Liz searches the house, which she should maybe start calling a mansion because that's what it is, with increasing desperation.
There's no one there.
Eventually she goes through an upstairs bedroom (she knocks) to what might be an attached bathroom (she knocks, waits, and knocks again). The second knock sets off a small sound, but no reply, and the door isn't locked. She steels herself and opens it.
It's not a bathroom, but a workout room. “Home gym” might be more accurate. Her first assumption is that it's Michael's, but she scolds herself for that; just because he's a man and Lindsay... isn't, doesn't mean this has to be his. Probably they share it.
She wanders in, looking around at the equipment. Out of the corner of her eye she sees something that doesn't fit—
“Hello there!” the Christian says, popping up from behind a large hunk of metal. Liz screams.
Not very much. Just a little scream.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, and bites her tongue. But it's a reasonable question. Isn't it? People don't usually hide behind... whatever that thing is. Behind stuff. In someone else's house.
Another man, this one a little beanpole, springs up from behind a different machine. “Havin' a little fun!”
“Who are you, what are you doing here, what the fuck,” Liz blurts out without pausing for breath.
“Are you okay?” the beanpole asks. Trevor. Fuck. “You weren't who we were trying to prank.”
“What, so you were just hiding in here to terrify the next person who came in regardless of who it was?” Shit fuck she needs to deescalate she needs to shut her pretty mouth before it gets her hurt.
“The point was to not get caught,” Trevor corrects.
“Yes, yes,” the Christian says. What's his name? She can't keep calling him that, it's rude. “We were just” (he hefts a roll of quarters) “taping these to the undersides of all of Michael's muscle machines.”
Trevor shows her the corresponding roll of tape.
Liz bites the inside of her cheek, forcibly calming herself down. “Do you know where Michael is, by any chance?” she asks.
The pair exchange a look.
“He went for a walk,” Trevor says.
“Why, Lindsay looking for him?” the Christian asks.
“Uh, yeah, they—they said I should get people. For dinner. Uh. It's ready.”
“Why didn't you say so at once!” the Christian says, so animated that Liz is moved to follow. “You as well, young lady,” he adds.
“What's your name?” Liz asks.
“Matt!” he says, still big and friendly, and Liz's shoulders sag with relief. Matt. The Christian is named Matt. Like a welcome mat, welcoming people to the church. She probably shouldn't tell him that.
“...D'you think God is okay with pranking?” she asks, because she still can't keep her mouth shut.
“Laughter is of the Lord,” Matt proclaims, and that's the end of it.
They troop downstairs. Lindsay is comfortably seated at the head of the table, having apparently mashed together turkey and sweet potatoes into an impromptu stew on their plate. Ray is seated and served next to them, with meatloaf and mouthwatering gravy and peas.
A steaming tureen heralds turkey. Liz restrains herself from lunging over the table at it. There's buns, gravy, cranberry sauce, a jar of dark jam, garlic bread, corn on the cob, avocado dip...
It all looks good. She wants all of it. She digs her nails into her palms and counts to ten in her head to keep from reaching for the closest victual.
Lindsay taps the side of their glass with a spoon. The table goes quiet. “Blessing to the land and to the powers of the land,” they say; “to the city and to the powers of the city, that we may live our lives in peace.”
“Blessing,” several people say. Everyone else just nods.
Finally they eat.
Fiona and Gavin reappear while Liz is still buried in her plate. She doesn't know how she missed them coming in; when she looks up, they're just there, seated next to each other by the head of the table.
Fiona's between her and Gavin. She's not sure if that makes her feel safer.
On Liz's other side is an empty place, and across from her is Jeremy. Two down across the empty place is the beanpole, Trevor.
The foot of the table is also empty. Trevor is out there in a void. The Christian, Matt, is talking at him from across the table about some point of theology that Liz is unequipped to understand, and Trevor is returning his monologue with the most deadpan grunts imaginable. She should intervene. She can't stop eating.
“You're going to get sick,” Jeremy says.
Her fork pauses on the way to her mouth.
“Lay off her,” Fiona says next to her.
“No, he's right, I should slow down,” Liz says, trying to laugh. It comes out forced. “At this rate, I'll have no room for dessert.”
Fiona jabs her fork toward Jeremy. Mercifully, it doesn't reach. “That was rude. Don't be rude.”
Jeremy looks... scared? Rueful? “I'm sorry,” he says. “Liz, that was untactful.”
It was untactful. But it's none of Fiona's business. “It's okay! It's fine, really.” The last thing Liz wants is to start a fight at her boyfriend's holiday dinner.
He drops it. For her part, Liz puts down the fork and tries to pay more attention to the conversations happening around her.
She's been rude, too.
Gavin, Ray, and Lindsay are talking about contractual obligations, of all the bizarre topics. Gavin has a fit of giggles that he tries unsuccessfully to play off as coughing. The remark that instigated it remains as opaque as the rest of it to Liz.
She turns her attention back to Fiona guiltily. “We just don't have enough foxes for all the rabbits,” Fiona is saying. “Ordinary cats can't deal with them. They're out of control.”
“Then get more foxes,” the man across from her says.
“Easier said than done, Fraidy,” she retorts. “Foxes are inelastic, supply's not there.”
“Then train more cats,” the tattooed man says.
“They've got to have the aptitude,” Fiona says. “Most cats can't. Besides, cat training takes time. These bunnies are eating up my whole farm.”
“You have a farm?” Liz asks.
“An app,” Jeremy explains. Well, that makes more sense. “Personally, I'm not sure the devs thought this one through.”
“Oh, shut up,” Fiona says. “There's got to be a solution. You play this game.”
“With very different goals,” Fraidy puts in.
“Have you tried a snake?” the tattooed man asks.
“I'm listening,” Fiona says.
“Snakes might scare them off,” Fraidy explains. “Something about small mammals, they can't stand the hissing. Either that, or let them eat down the farm and die off. Get all of them at once.” He clicks his tongue like he's cocking a gun. “Rabbit season.”
The conversation is interrupted by the door opening.
Every head turns. Two people Liz has never met stride in, a burly man and a tall woman with red hair. “Sorry I'm late,” the man says.
“Welcome home,” Lindsay says.
“We just took so long at the store,” the woman gushes.
“What did you get?” the tattooed man asks.
The woman blinks. The man next to her digs in his pocket and pulls out a travel shampoo bottle.
“Sit,” Lindsay commands.
The man of the pair sits next to Liz. The woman takes the seat at the end of the table. Lindsay glares down the table at her.
“Liz,” Fiona says loudly, “this is Michael. Michael, Liz.”
Michael, Michael... Oh shit, this is Lindsay's husband.
“Nice to meet you,” Lindsay's husband says.
“Nice to meet you too,” Liz says. The angle is weird for shaking hands, but they do it anyway.
Where were you is the question she's not going to ask. So instead she asks, “Hey, do you have that app, uh, Fiona, what's it called?”
“Match Farm,” Fiona says.
Michael laughs. “Yeah, I keep my hand in the game.”
“I don't play,” the tattooed man says across the table.
“I do!” Gavin chimes in.
Liz nudges Fiona and whispers “who's he?”
“Bullshit you don't, Geoff,” Fiona says, not in a whisper. Liz nods thanks. “I see your stats.”
“I have no idea what's going on,” Liz confesses to Michael.
“They're talking about a farming simulator,” Michael explains. “Planting, watering, harvesting. Diversifying into animals, buying, raising. Breeding.”
Geoff smiles across the table. Liz feels her hair stand on end. “Slaughtering.”
“How was your shopping trip?” Matt asks.
Jack leans back in her chair with a sigh. “Oh, it was wonderful,” she says, closer to her usual register than the performance at the door. “Michael's so attentive, you know?”
“You didn't buy anything,” Trevor says. “No, the shampoo doesn't count. Window shopping?”
“For a while. But no. We definitely went inside.” She got off too well to put effort into her metaphors, and Geoff is doing full cop glare at anyone who'll listen. Jeremy's girlfriend is distracted. And even if she wasn't... she could learn a thing or two.
“I see,” Trevor says. “You didn't get anything you were willing to show in front of the table.”
“I think I showed the table very effectively.”
“No,” Geoff is saying to Michael in an authoritative voice. “I will not be mocked. I am taking my wife and I am going home.”
“He really gets into the jealous husband thing,” Jack says. “Michael spoils both of us. I wonder what Liz is going to think?”