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Up until this point my dad has been hanging back. He steps up and extends his hand. “Hi, I’m Jake, Queenie’s dad. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
“Oh, yes.” Hanna’s eyes move from his face all the way down to his polished dress shoes and back up, slowly. “Hello, Jake.” She slips her fingers into his open, waiting palm. “I’m Hanna, Ryan’s momster . . . I mean sister. I mean mom. I’m actually both. Well, biologically I’m his mother, but we were raised as siblings.” She grimaces. “I am so sorry for that excessive overshare and terrible introduction. There’s a reason I’m not a public speaker and work in an office most of the time.”
My dad laughs and winks. “I can imagine it’s not necessarily the easiest thing to explain.”
“No. Definitely not.”
They’re still shaking hands, staring at each other.
“So . . . should we go in and introduce Queenie and Jake to the rest of the family, or . . .” Kingston trails off.
Hanna drags her gaze away from my dad. “What’s that?”
Kingston motions past her. “We should come inside.”
“Oh! Yes! Of course!” Hanna’s eyes go wide and her cheeks flush pink, but she finally releases my dad’s hand and steps back to let us in.
The noise level in the house grows exponentially as we walk down the hall. Kingston jams his hands in his pockets and blows out a breath, rolling his shoulders back. The first thing I notice when we enter the kitchen is that it’s not neat and tidy like Kingston usually keeps everything. In fact, it’s pretty much bedlam. And his family is congregated around the island, talking over each other.
“Hey, guys!” Kingston says, but they’re so loud they don’t notice him.
Hanna brings two fingers to her mouth and lets out a shrill whistle.
Kingston’s brother—I’m assuming, based on his age—drops to the ground and covers his head with his hands. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Get up, Gerald. Hanna, was that really necessary?” King’s mom-not-mom props a fist on her hip. “You know how much Gerald hates whistles. Oh! Hi there!” she says when she notices us.
I lift my hand in a wave, and my dad mirrors me. I don’t know what to think about the gong show that is currently happening in my boyfriend’s kitchen. I’m not sure what I expected from his family, but this sure isn’t it. Maybe I thought they’d all be polo-and-khaki-wearing rule followers. However, it appears as though Kingston might be the only one who fits that bill.
“Mom, Dad, Gerald, this is my girlfriend, Queenie, and her dad, Jake.”
Kingston’s mom-not-mom looks from me to Jake and back again, clearly assessing the age difference between us. Or lack of age difference.
“It’s so lovely to meet you both!” Kingston’s mom-not-mom pulls me in for an aggressive hug. She then holds me at arm’s length, like she’s performing some kind of inspection. “Oh yes, I can see why Ryan is enamored with you. I’m so sorry about Jessica. I thought I was doing the right thing, but as it turns out I’m actually pretty good at doing the wrong thing. Like not telling Ryan I’m not his mother until the cat was already out of the bag.” She grimaces and squeezes my shoulders.
“But in my defense, he’s always been such a good boy. And I was really quite worried about how he would take the news. Gerald has been to jail more than once: not for anything serious, but still. And, well, you know all about the Hanna situation, so . . . I’m sorry. I should know better than to question Ryan’s judgment.”
“Uh, Mom, this isn’t a therapy session or confessional. It’s dinner and an introduction. You can save some of our family secrets for another day.” Kingston rubs the back of his neck, cheeks red and his expression reflecting his embarrassment.
Over the next several hours I discover that Kingston is the most normal member of his family. I have no idea how he turned out the way he did. Gerald has been to prison not once but twice for stealing semis while intoxicated. Hanna is probably the second-most grounded in her family—teen pregnancy and recent divorce aside, which is ironically very familiar.
I’m regaled with stories of Kingston from his teen years. Apparently, he was frequently friend zoned by girls in high school because he was so hyperfocused on hockey that he failed to realize they were interested in him until it was too late.
I also find out why Kingston doesn’t usually drink, thanks to his brother, Gerald, who seems to be the most off the hook. “When King was seventeen, me and our cousin Billy took him camping and fed him all kinds of drinks,” Gerald tells me, wearing a huge grin.
“I thought it was just soda.” Kingston swirls his white russian around in his glass, making the ice tinkle. “Not spiked with copious quantities of alcohol.”
