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Life is a series of decisions, and so many of them are hard. I’m grateful to Emerson for not forcing me to make this one.

In another part of the house, a timer beeps loudly.

“That’s dinner!” Patrick declares, hefting his big, strong bulk off of the couch. He pulls Penelope with him.

Emerson and I likewise rise.

We all converge on the kitchen, where we grab what we can of dinner and set it at the table, almost overflowing the long wooden top with how many dishes there are, broken only by place settings and a vase bursting with the second bouquet from Emerson, gifted to his mother upon our arrival. Judging by the sheer amount of food, Penelope and Patrick are no stranger to how much Emerson eats, even if he hasn’t lived at home in a long, long time.

I eye Patrick, with his broad shoulders and his soaring height.

I eye the table, where I know there’s enough food for Emerson, but two Emersons… I’m not so sure.

Penelope appears with a third casserole dish full of something topped with tater tots, and I exhale in relief.

As we settle around the Wright’s dining room table for our feast, a surge of happiness and gratitude swells in my chest. These are good people who raised a good son, and soon, I’ll get to call them my family. I smile at the table and grab Emerson’s hand beneath it, squishing with all my might.

He squishes back and kisses my temple.

Then we eat dinner with his parents while they tell me stories of my fake-boyfriend-real-fiancé as a boy and regale me with facts of puzzle competition scandals. Emerson keeps one hand on me throughout, squeezing my thigh or draped over my shoulder.

No one brings up Eris again, unwilling to allow her dark cloud to cover the memory we build. At the end of the night, it’s a memory so beautiful that I get Emerson and his parents to come in close while I take a photo of us to commemorate it—our first Meet The Parents, gone well.

Now we just have to get through my family, and the wedding bells can ring.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

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Wow, there sure are a lot of people here.

Almond

Our second Meet The Parents is a lot less stressful for me. I approach my parents’ house having done zero organizing all day. Impatience scratches at my nerve endings.

“We could skip this,” I suggest. “You’re right. We already know they like you. We could turn around right now, get back in your car, and head straight to Judge Banner’s house. He could have us married lickity-split.” We went to the courthouse on our lunch breaks today to fill out paperwork and make sure we’re all set, so that lickity-split really could be so lickety.

“Baby,” Emerson laughs. He drops an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his chest as we walk. Pink rose petals brush against my cheek from the bouquet he holds at his chest, ready to pass to my mother. A bouquet of white roses sits on my counter at home, occupying the last vase available in my house. At this rate, Emerson alone will keep our local economy alive, starting with the florist.

“You were all for skipping parents yesterday,” I point out, blowing a flower away from my face. “I see the wisdom now. Totally.”

He lifts me when my feet start to drag, carrying me up the path with laughable ease—as in, it is easy, and he is laughing while I pout.

“This was important to you yesterday,” he ripostes, unyielding in his journey onward. “Which means it’s important to you, period. I had time to think about it last night, when I was in bed alone and cold, wishing you were tucked into my side. As much as I wanted you there, though, I don’t want you to look back on these few days with a single regret. If I have to be cold for a few extra nights, then that’s a price I’ll gladly pay for the knowledge that we checked off every important box.”

I sniff, though my insides are melty gooey mush at his consideration. “Fine,” I allow, graciously, pretending my words are magnanimous and not watery. “I guess we can go see my family tonight. But let the record show that I offered to marry you, and you decided that being respectful was more important.”

He hums, amused. “Noted.”

We stop on the stoop of my parents’ farmhouse-style home, and Emerson knocks on the navy-blue door.

Poem opens it, takes one look at my face, and bursts into a cackle. “Tried to back out so you could get married today, huh?” she asks once she’s regained most of her composure.

I stick my tongue out at her.

She grins, steps to the side, and waves us into the house.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask. “Emerson got her flowers.”