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beginning of the evening, except to reach for the joint.
    Aesthetic , she thought. Such a fine face, regal, almost . And sensual, too, the way he was playing with the nap of the carpet with those hands, those hands…
    He looked up and met her eyes for a moment. She looked quickly away.
    In the back of the room, Martin continued to study, resolutely alone. Somewhere along the line, he’d left the room to find candles, and they flickered now on the table in front of him, washing his face in soft light. Robin was reminded again of a monk in his solitary cell. If he’d just loosen up…just come over and sit down with us ….
    And then there was…
    She turned her head to look, then sat up slightly, frowning around the room. No, of course there were only five of them. Why had she thought there was a sixth?
    Across from her, Patrick casually leaned over and picked up Lisa’s wrist, held it provocatively as he examined the knotted red yarn. His husky voice sounded far away, barely awake.
    “What’s the string for, Marlowe? One knot for every guy you fucked last night?”
    Lisa snatched her hand away. “Kabbalah,” she said loftily. She caressed the string on her wrist.
    To Robin’s surprise, Martin snorted from the back table. “The Kabbalah of Madonna,” she heard him mutter.
    Lisa didn’t hear, or ignored him. “It’s protection from the evil eye,” she informed Patrick. “And horndog jocks.”
    “Damage’s been done, babe.” Patrick leaned back, grinned at her lazily. “Might as well take it off.”
    His tone was so suggestive, Robin was almost sick with jealousy.
    Lisa stretched languidly. Her raveled sweater rose to just below her breasts. “Keep dreaming, cowboy.”
    Patrick took a deep toke of the roach he held, then suddenly turned and put his hand on the back of Robin’s neck and drew her head to his. He put his lips over hers and slowly blew smoke into her mouth. The rush was unbelievably sexy. Robin dissolved, rode waves of dizziness and desire as the smoky kiss went on and on.
    Patrick turned her loose and stretched back down on the floor. Robin sat back against the armchair, sinking into the rose carpet again, floating into a daze. The floor beneath her seemed to rock like a boat. Lisa’s eyes gleamed in the dark.
    The six of them were silent again.
    Robin sat up in confusion, as if jolting awake.
    Six .
    There were only five of them. Why did she keep thinking six?
    She looked around the room, just to be sure.
    Five of them, and it seemed almost inevitable that they were here.
    As if reading her mind, Patrick suddenly spoke to the ceiling.
    “You know why we all are here? ‘Cause we all’ve figured it out. What’s Thanksgiving anyway? You kill a big bird and you stuff it and you eat it and you fight with the fam, and when the blood’s cleaned up and no one’s talkin’ to anyone anymore, you sit around and get wasted and watch the game. So I say, fuck the turkey, stuff the family, and cut to the game.”
    Robin gazed at him, riveted, and thought she had never felt so close to anyone in her life.
    Cain laughed from the couch. “You are so full of shit.” He took a toke of the joint Lisa had just passed him, gazed around at the rest of them. “We’re all here because it sucks at home.”
    A silence fell, thick and hot. All of them dropped their eyes, avoiding one another’s gaze. The fire seemed to roar behind them, flames crackling. Robin felt flushed all over with heat—and shame.
    And then Patrick laughed shortly, extended his bottle, and clinked with Cain’s. As their eyes held this time, there was no testing between them, only acknowledgment.
    Robin surprised herself by reaching in and touching her own bottle against theirs.
    And behind them, Lisa spoke softly. “Hear! Hear!”
    Hunched over the table in the back, Martin was still.
    Robin felt a sudden wild elation—at the knowing that for the first time in her life she was not alone. Patrick locked eyes with her, a raw, hungry