Who: The Collins + significant others(?) + Mom + Carl What: Thanksgiving Where: Moore residence When: Way too early Rating: Meh.
The sun had managed to crack through the darkness along the horizon just as the headlights of Scout's car swept across the gravel drive of his mother's house, highlighting the stupid little statues she kept littered in her garden. He yawned, jaw creaking, as he forcefully shifted the car into park and unfolded himself from the cramped cab. He was wearing his Thanksgiving best: a crumpled gray shirt, covered by a worn navy cardigan, and a pair of faded red slacks. His hair was a mess. It was painfully obvious that he had just woken up, rolled out of bed, pulled on pants and shoes and peaced. But he wasn't trying to impress anyone. It was fucking Thanksgiving, for Christ's sake. Really, his mother ought to be pleased he'd come at all. Or so he figured.
Scout pushed open the front door with one palm. The screen snapped shut behind him. Only one other car was in the driveway and he knew what that meant. His already precarious mood soured more. Today was going to blow. Even when Boo and Gem showed up. He just knew it. That's how Thanksgiving with the Collins-Moores always was. Boo would radiate hatred toward Carl. Gem would make snarky comments throughout. Ian would sit stiffly in his seat, the usual whatever-the-fuck up his ass. And Carl and his mom would spend too much time and effort trying to make everyone get along. And Scout would have to endure all of it.
Fuck family. He should've had a shot or eight before coming.
"Mom," he called loudly as he walked into the apparently empty living room. His ran a hand through his hair and over his face, annoyed. Had he seriously gotten up at the asscrack of dawn to fucking sit around his mother's house? At least there was a touch of tequila left in the bottle under the front seat of his car. If things got desperate. Which they would. "Carl?"