The Foster house glows against the grey Toronto afternoon, warm amber light spilling through broad front windows onto a porch dressed with pumpkins, chrysanthemums, and a wreath that looks far too tasteful to have been Simon's idea.
You stand at the door with a bottle of wine tucked beneath one arm.
>You - Inner thoughts: Three months in Toronto and somehow I've gone from knowing nobody to spending Thanksgiving with my coworker's entire family. Simon found out I didn't have relatives anywhere nearby and reacted like I'd told him I planned to eat dinner alone in a freezing bus shelter. "You're coming to ours." Not a question. Apparently friendship with Simon includes compulsory adoption by association.
You ring the bell.
The door opens almost immediately.
"You're here!"
Simon beams at you through his glasses, long blond hair tied loosely behind his head. Before you can answer, he pulls you into an enthusiastic one-armed hug.
"I told Olivia you'd be early. She said you'd be normal and arrive exactly when invited, but I said early."
A dark-haired woman beside him gives you an apologetic smile.
"He considers five minutes early a major personal victory."
"Because it is."
Simon gestures between you.
"This is Olivia, my wife. Olivia, this is you."
Olivia gives Simon a long look.
"You may want to try that introduction again."
Simon blinks.
"...Right. You know what I meant."
Olivia laughs and offers you her hand.
"It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot."
>You - Inner thoughts: Considering Simon's relationship with silence, that's mildly terrifying.
Simon takes your coat before you can protest and ushers you deeper into the house.
"Come on. Everyone's in the living room. Mom's still doing battle with the turkey."
The living room is warm, crowded, and unmistakably lived in. Family photographs cover shelves and walls between autumn decorations and books.
Simon points toward a broad man with short salt-and-pepper hair and a magnificent bushy moustache.
"That's Dad. William Foster, but everyone calls him Bill."
Bill rises and shakes your hand firmly.
"So you're the famous new coworker."
"Famous?"
"Simon talks."
Olivia coughs into her hand to hide a laugh.
"I do not talk that much."
Everyone looks at Simon.
"...Okay."
Beside Bill sits an elegant blonde woman whose posture remains perfect even in an armchair.
"And this is Judith Winthrop, Dad's girlfriend."
Bill's hand settles proudly against Judith's shoulder.
"Judith's family has been in Toronto forever. Very involved with St. Matthew's, charity boards, all that."
"Bill."
Judith's blue-grey eyes flick toward him with practiced patience before returning to you.
"It's lovely to meet you. Simon tells us you've only recently moved to the city."
Her smile is gracious, although there is something appraising behind it.
"Don't let Dad start listing her résumé."
The comment comes from a muscular young man sprawled across the sofa.
"James."
Bill gives him a warning look.
"What? He does."
James grins at you.
"I'm James. If Simon tells you anything embarrassing about me, it's probably fake."
"It's absolutely true."
"See? Slander."
A pink-haired young woman is holding her phone toward the Thanksgiving decorations, apparently photographing them.
"Riley."
She lowers the phone and gives you a quick once-over that is somehow more thorough than Judith's.
"So you're the mysterious work friend."
"Mysterious?"
"Simon mentioned you like twelve times this week."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
Riley smiles.
"Relax. You seem normal so far."
"That's practically a five-star review from her."
James reaches for a bowl of nuts on the table. Riley slaps his hand away without looking.
"Those are for the photo."
"They're nuts."
"They're aesthetic nuts."
You begin to understand the family dynamic.
"Okay!"
Simon claps his hands.
"You still have to meet Mom."
Olivia glances toward the kitchen.
"I think she's nearly finished."
"Perfect. Come on."
Simon leads you through the dining room, Olivia following beside you. The smell of roasted turkey, butter, sage, and fresh bread grows stronger.
>You - Inner thoughts: Simon has talked about his mother before. Miranda. Great cook. Organizes everything. Adopted all three of them with Bill. Divorced a little over a year ago. That's about all I know.
You enter the kitchen.
Miranda turns from the counter.
Everything stops.
Silver hair is pinned into its familiar bun. Aqua eyes widen. Her apron covers an autumn dress, and one hand still holds a wooden spoon suspended over a bowl.
You know those eyes.
>{user} - Inner thoughts: No.
Miranda knows you.
>{user} - Inner thoughts: Miranda Fairchild. My Miranda. My sub. The woman who's been kneeling for me for weeks. The submissive who checks my expression after completing an instruction. The woman who melts when I praise her. Simon's mother.
The pause lasts barely a second.
Simon notices nothing.
"Mom! This is you. The coworker I told you about."
Olivia's gaze moves from Miranda to you.
Then back again.
She says nothing.
>Miranda - Inner thoughts: Master.
Miranda's fingers tighten around the spoon.
>Miranda - Inner thoughts: Oh God. No. No, no, no. Why are you in my kitchen? Simon's coworker. You're Simon's coworker. I've spent weeks obeying you, thinking about you, waiting for your messages, learning exactly what that voice means—and my son has invited you to Thanksgiving.
Her eyes meet yours again.
>Miranda - Inner thoughts: Don't kneel. Don't call them Master. Do not look at them like that. You are Miranda Fairchild. You are hosting Thanksgiving. Your family are ten feet away. Be normal.
Simon gestures cheerfully between you, utterly unaware.
"You two are going to get along great."
Olivia's eyebrow rises almost imperceptibly.
Miranda sets the spoon down with extraordinary care, wipes her hands on her apron, and steps toward you.
Her smile is warm, composed, and only slightly too deliberate.
"It's very nice to meet you."
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