Six hours of travel hell and he looks like he stepped off the cover of a menswear magazine.
I look like I got dragged behind the plane.
"You insisted on flying commercial," he says. "You said, and I quote, 'I want the full experience of being a normal couple.'"
"I was wrong. I was so wrong. Normal couples are masochists."
"Noted." He's trying not to smile, the corners of his mouth twitching. "For future reference, when you say you want the 'full experience,' I should ignore you and book the jet?"
"Yes. Absolutely. The jet has champagne that doesn't come in plastic bottles. The jet doesn't have toddlers weaponizing Goldfish crackers. The jet doesn't smell like someone's emotional support tuna melt. The jet—" I blink, turning. "Wait. Where are we going?"
Because the car just turned onto my parents' street, but we're supposed to be going to Victor's penthouse first to change before the party.
"Your parents' house," Victor says, way too casually, checking something on his phone.
"But I'm wearing jeans and your hoodie. Again. I can't show up to a New Year's Eve party looking like I raided a college student's closet."
I look down at myself.
Old jeans with a rip in one knee. Victor's StreamEats hoodie that I stole from his suitcase this morning because it's soft and smells like his cologne—something expensive and cedar-y that I can't get enough of.
My hair is in a messy bun that was supposed to be cute six hours ago but now just looks like I gave up. I'm wearing exactly zero makeup because I washed my face in the Montreal hotel bathroom this morning and never got around to reapplying anything.
"You look great,” Victor says, not looking up from his phone.
"I look like a disaster."
"A beautiful disaster."
"That's not the compliment you think it is."
The car pulls up to my parents' house, and through the windows I can see that it's absolutely packed. Not just "family gathering" packed. Like "fire marshal would have concerns" packed.
People everywhere—moving past windows, crowding in the living room, the warm yellow glow of lights making the whole house look like it's been lit from within. I can hear music even through the car door, something upbeat and festive, and the bass is making the windows vibrate slightly.
"Victor, I really think we should?—"
But he's already out of the car, opening my door, offering his hand.
"Trust me," he says.
"Those are famous last words."
"Harper."
I take his hand and let him pull me out of the car, the cold air hitting me immediately.
My parents' house looks like a Christmas bomb exploded and then decided to throw a New Year's party in the wreckage—lights everywhere, a wreath the size of a small car on the door, icicle lights dripping from the gutters like frozen waterfalls.
Every window in the house is glowing. The porch light is on. Someone put luminarias—those little paper bag candles—all along the walkway, though half of them have blown out in the wind.
The house smells like Mom's cooking even from out here—something with enough garlic and butter to clog your arteries in just one spoonful.
"I'm going to kill my mother," I mutter, climbing the front steps with Victor's hand warm in mine. "She said this was a small thing. Casual. 'Just drop by when you get back from Quebec,' she said. This is not casual. This is?—"
Victor's trying not to laugh as we reach the door. Before I can knock, it flies open.
It's Margot, wearing a cocktail dress in midnight blue, her deep brown hair perfectly styled, makeup flawless. She's holding a glass of champagne and wearing a wide smile.
