Kyran shakes his head. “I told you that you didn’t have to.”
What?
“I did anyway.” My mother opens an arm to me. “Get inside. It’s freezing out there.”
Ushered in, I watch as my…parents…hug Kyran…and he hugs them. Like it’s all normal. And well. And good. Like they…already know each other?
“Dad, make sure you clean up the mess you made,” Mom says before securing my hand and dragging me up the entry hall covered in my childhood photos. My gaze catches on a picture of Talira and me, and my stomach knots before I drag my attention down and off it. Behind Mom and me, Kyran trails, hands tucked in his pockets as he takes in the space. Dropping me off in the kitchen, as though a decorated dining room isn’t just beyond the archway, my mother slips on her oven mitts and removes a warm chocolate cake from the oven. “So. Mora,” she begins, “how’s married life treating you?”
My heart jumps. “Wha…”
I tense.
Then I turn, slowly, toward Kyran, who is rather invested in the popcorn ceiling.
“You got my parents’ number from Mae andtold them before I could?” I hiss.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Momo,” Dad says, coming up last and dumping streamers in the trash by the fridge. “He gave us his business card at Mae’s wedding.”
“Hank, please,” Kyran protests. “It was my personal card. Mybusinesscard is a bit different.”
Dad snorts, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and sifting through his collection of business cards. “Well, I suppose I would certainly hope so. Wouldn’t want this circulating with other parents.”
He procures one all black and ice blue card, presenting the sleek design to me.
On one side, it says:
Hi, I’m Kyran.
I think I’m falling in love with your daughter.
On the other, it declares:
Call or text me if you’d like to connect.
(XXX) XXX-XXXX
My brain, obviously, shuts down. He…made a business card before Maelin and Zakery got married? He planned all of thisthatfar in advance? He’s been preparing to be serious about me to the extent of making an effort to connect with my parents…from the start?
I blink, and a teardrop falls onto the card.
“Oh, honey,” Dad murmurs, burying me in a hug. “What’s wrong?”
Voice quivering, I say, “I have no idea.”
Mom hums. “Well, whatever’s wrong, cake will fix it. Kyran, sweetie, can you get the ice cream out of the freezer?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Trying to control my emotions, I find myself settled at the dining room table beside my husband, staring at a black bowl filled with fresh, warm cake and melting vanilla ice cream. Soothingly, Kyran rubs my back while I try, desperately, to process what’s going on. “You’ve…been talking to my parents.”
“Yes,” he says.
Dad serves himself a massive scoop of ice cream.
“How…often?” I inch my fingers toward the spoon beside my bowl.
“Fairly regularly, right?” He turns a look toward my mother.
