Dale raises his eyebrows but doesn’t look particularly surprised. “Fast work for someone who used to scream at the sight of a daddy longlegs.”
“He’s not—” I start to object, then catch the teasing glint in his eye. “Very funny.”
Dale slides out of the booth. “I should get back to the station. Tell your boyfriend I said hello, and good luck with the move.”
As he walks away, I shake my head in wonder. It’s amazing how quickly people can change.
But then again, if someone had told me I’d be moving in with a twelve-foot-tall spider monster who makes me pancakes in bed and cuddles me in silk hammocks, I’d have had them committed.
Life gets weird sometimes. Especially when you start dating outside your species.
“Are you certain this isan appropriate offering?” Riven asks for the third time, examining the bottle of wine with all six eyes narrowed in concentration. “Your Internet sources provided conflicting information on dinner rituals.”
We’re in my truck, parked outside my dad’s house, and Riven has been second-guessing everything for the past fifteen minutes.
“It’s just dinner, not a ritual sacrifice,” I assure him, reaching over to squeeze one of his upper arms. The hard exoskeleton is warm beneath my palm. “And Dad’s not picky. He’d be happy with a six-pack of beer and a frozen pizza.”
“That would have been significantly easier to procure,” Riven mutters. “Your species’ social protocols are needlessly complex.”
“Well, come on,” I say, hopping out of the truck. “Time to wow my dad with your charming personality.”
As we make our way up the sidewalk, Dad opens the door before we even knock, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he sees me. “There’s my Junebug!” He pulls me into a bear hug, then cranes his head to look up at Riven. To his credit, he barely blinks at the sight of the massive arachnid on his porch. “And there’s the hero of Pine Ridge! Come in, come in.”
Riven has to duck considerably to enter the modest house, and once inside, he seems to take up half the living room. He presents the wine to my father with formal precision. “I’ve brought a traditional offering for our shared meal consumption.”
Dad accepts the bottle, eyebrows raising as he reads the label. “Fancy stuff! I usually drink whatever’s on sale at the Gas-N-Go.”
“I can acquire that beverage for our next gathering if you prefer,” Riven offers earnestly.
Dad laughs. “This is just fine. Thanks. Now let’s eat before June starts getting hangry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s hangry.”
“I am familiar with her food-deprivation aggression patterns,” Riven says solemnly. “They are most pronounced at approximately noon and 6PM.”
Dad bursts out laughing while I sputter in indignation.
“I do not have ‘food-deprivation aggression patterns’!”
“Your delivery efficiency decreases significantly when you skip lunch,” Riven counters. “And you once threatened to, and I quote, ‘commit war crimes’ if I didn’t hand over the last donut.”
“Traitor,” I mutter as Dad leads us to the dining room, still chuckling.
Our dining table was designed for humans, not twelve-foot spiders. Riven eyes the wooden chair dubiously.
“Perhaps I should stand—”
“Nonsense,” Dad interrupts. “We’ll make it work.”
After some awkward maneuvering, Riven ends up sitting on the floor with his legs folded beneath him in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable. His torso still rises high enough that he can easily reach the table, but he looks like an adult forced to sit at the kids’ table at Thanksgiving.
“I apologize for my incompatible dimensions,” he says stiffly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dad says, serving the lasagna. “Next time we’ll eat at your place where the furniture fits you. Or we can eat outside at the picnic table.”
Riven blinks in surprise at the casual acceptance of future family meals. Something in my chest tightens at the small gesture of inclusion from my father.
Dinner is a study in endearing awkwardness as Riven attempts to use human silverware with his mandibles hovering anxiously near his plate. Dad, bless him, acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world, passing Riven seconds and asking him about his weaving business.
“June tells me you make those fancy textiles they sell in that gallery in Missoula?”
