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And we were still going to make it work.
People had to know, accept, and move on with it.
The other reason I dragged her ass to Todos Santos was Trent. Jaime and I promised him we would get Vicious to agree to switch branches. The fucker was going to Chicago with Millie and the baby whether he liked it or not. I knew he wasn’t going to go down without a fight—hell, fighting was one of our favorite pastimes—and I was ready for battle.
Rosie’s meeting with my parents was supposed to be low-key and intimate, but when my mom realized I was bringing a girl home for the first time since…well, ever, she got a little too excited. And by “a little too excited,” I mean goddamn crazy. She called my sisters, and what do you know? Keeley planned a visit from Maryland, anyway, and Payton was just around the corner in NorCal, and this was how a quiet brunch with my folks and girlfriend turned into the mother of all shit-shows, hosted by yours truly.
“I’m so nervous I’m about to puke all over my cleavage.” Rosie clutched my hand when I parked one of Vicious’s cars in front of their house. “The bright side is, at least it will cover my tits. Looking gross is better than looking like a floozy, right?”
“Did you just use the word floozy?” I chewed on my right cheek to contain my smile.
“Weird, huh? I think it’s the nerves.”
“Holy shit, Baby LeBlanc. I didn’t know things were that bad.”
She’d never met any of her past boyfriends’ parents before. Never went this far with anyone else. It was almost like we waited for this moment so we could experience it together. We weren’t kids. I was kissing thirty. She was twenty-eight. We were emotional virgins, and it was like she just handed me her V-card.
This time I asked for it.
This time I took it.
And I loved that we got to experience a few first-times together.
“Just be you. I’m sure it’d be good enough. And, if not,” I shrugged, popping my minty gum, “I’ll replace you. You have a hot cousin, right?”
I punched the doorbell as Rosie shot daggers at me with her lake blues. Any other time, I would breeze right in, but she needed those few seconds. Her palm was sweaty, and she had a coughing fit she tried to tame by gulping deep breaths. Rosie had no idea that she already impressed my parents simply by dealing with my crazy ass and accepting me for who I was. I wasn’t going to reassure her of that just yet, though. I loved watching her make an effort. She wore a formal blue dress under her huge coat—and no, the cleavage wasn’t half as generous as she thought it was—and had braided her hair. That whole good girl act was a complete fucking sham, and watching her lie for me in that goody-two-shoes dress was a turn-on.
My mother opened the door, wearing her signature lime-green pastel cardigan and syrupy smile. She threw herself at Rosie and hugged her like they’d known each other forever, and Rosie melted in her arms, her stiff body shielding its armor. My dad shook Rosie’s hand and offered her a grin, the kind he saved only for his children. He then proceeded to pat my back and whispered something entirely inappropriate into my ear about my girlfriend. Payton and Keeley stood at the door like two stage-ten stalkers and complimented her dress. They then turned their attention to me.
“You’re still working out.” Keeley’s tone was borderline accusing. She tossed her dirty blonde hair.
“What, no gyms in Maryland?” I brushed my shoulder past her and squeezed her biceps playfully. Keeley had no time to work out, and even though she was a little on the fuller side, it suited her just fine.
“Oh, look, our brother is still super funny.” Payton elbowed her. I rolled my eyes, and my sister gasped. “What, no sense of humor in New York?”
Juvenile sparring aside, things started off on the right foot.
Rosie and I were led into the dining room, where White Trash Hash, cowboy breakfast bowls, bagels, and brownie cupcakes were waiting on the rustic modern table. Orange juice, coffee, and milk were sprawled, ready to be demolished. Rosie’s mouth almost dropped to the floor, her tongue rolling like a red carpet, and I wasn’t sure if it was because she was starving or because of what she was seeing. I suppressed a chuckle when I thought about how she’d probably imagined my family. A bunch of snotty assholes who only ate French-named dishes and lived in a mansion like Vicious’s.
Truth was, my parents came from a town on the outskirts of Birmingham, Alabama. My dad was a senator’s son, but my mom was the Rosie type. Her parents worked on a farm. They’d met when she cleaned his room to cover for her sick mama. His parents hated her, and she hated them, but neither of them gave a rat’s ass.
