She’d been able to enjoy the meal they’d ordered last minute from a local grocery store—which Jamar had insisted they eat in his formal dining room because it was tradition—without that cloud of anxiety hovering in the air. And now she was looking forward to relaxing on the couch in a tryptophan-induced daze while suffering through whatever football game was on television.

She carried the turkey sandwich and two bottles of apple juice out of the kitchen. She was moving less awkwardly now that she was no longer wearing the ankle splint, but she still took care as she made it from the kitchen to the living room.

“I know we just ate like two hours ago, but Thanksgiving means turkey sandwiches,” Taylor said. She plopped down next to him on the couch and frowned at the home improvement show on the television. “Why aren’t you watching the game?”

“How do you know there’s a game on?”

“Even I know that Thanksgiving means football. My dad, brother, and brother-in-law always cram together on the couch in my dad’s man cave, screaming at the TV.” She gestured at the seventy-five-inch LCD above the fireplace. “Why don’t you have it on?”

Taylor sensed his reluctance as he switched from the home improvement show to the game.

“What’s going on here?” she asked. “For someone who’s trying so hard to get back into the NFL, you don’t seem all that interested in it.”

“It’s not the game,” he said. “It’s this game in particular that’s hard for me to watch.” He looked over at her, one corner of his mouth tilted up in a sad smile. “I was hurt in the Thanksgiving game against the Lions.”

“Oh,” was all Taylor could manage. Why hadn’t he said that before she goaded him into switching the channel? “We don’t have to watch,” she said, but he didn’t seem to hear her. He’d focused in on the television screen, and if the intensity in his eyes was anything to go on, his attention would remain there.

Taylor sat through a stretch of interminable, tension-filled silence before deciding she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she blurted.

“What? The game?” he asked, motioning to the television.

“Not this game. The other game. The one where it happened.” She gestured to his knee. “Maybe talking will help.”

He sat back on the couch and stretched his arms across the back of it.

“There’s not much to talk about,” he said. “I mean, other than the fact that watching this right now makes me want to lose my Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Jamar—”

“I’m joking,” he said. “Honestly, Taylor, I’m fine. Watching it just…it just brings back some not-so-good memories.”