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“You ready for this?” he murmurs as I lock eyes on my mom.
She’s sitting beside Dad, both of them having moved their chairs closer together and I hope it’s from nerves at seeing me again, and not because they, I dunno, don’t want to catch the gay or whatever.
They notice us a second later, their gazes flicking from me to land on Émile.
Instead of answering him when I’m not sure exactly how I’m feeling, I say, “Thanks for coming with me.”
“What are fiancés for?”
“Regular orgasms?” It’s a joke to try and stop the tension from suffocating me.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Your table, sirs,” the server says, before leaving us to the dry greeting of my parents’ stares.
I clear my throat. “Uh, hey.” They’re the only two words in my brain, but luckily Émile jumps in as though there isn’t a glacier building in my gut.
“Mr. and Mrs. Kilpatrick. I wish I could say it’s an honor to meet you both, but I’m not fond of lying.”
“E-excuse me?” Mom asks.
Fuck. “Uh, Mom … Dad … this is my, umm—”
“Fiancé.”
I almost laugh at how fast he fills in that word considering what he just said about lying. “Yes, fiancé. Émile.” Then I hold up my hand with the ring on it like I’ve been told to prepare evidence.
Mom nods, gaze still sizing him up. I can’t see either of her hands, but I know exactly the way they’ll be linked in her lap, thumbnails driving into the sides of her forefingers.
I’ve seen it so many damn times. I hate that I remember the details.
Émile pulls out a chair for me, and I hurry to sit, hoping it will help with the nerves.
It doesn’t.
Neither does taking a gulp of the water Émile pours me, and it’s evenlesshelpful when I dribble the water down the front of me.
“Shit.”
What does help is Émile’s soft chuckle, the one he’s always holding back, and the way he gently dabs my shirt with a napkin. “It’s only water,” he reminds me. “I know it’s milk we’re not supposed to cry over, but the message here is the same.”
I allow some of his calm to take over me.Make them work for it.
Dad still hasn’t said anything, and Mom is scowling. I can feel the way Émile is trying to sink into the background to let us have this moment, while making sure I know he’s still here. For me.
Because I deserve it.
And hell, I’m still not sold on that, but with each painful, silent moment that passes, I’m looking at these people, and instead of the relief I’d expected at being here again … all I am is pissed off.
Dad’s got new glasses, and Mom’s more blonde now, but Dad’s moustache hasn’t changed and Mom’s eyes are still as deceivingly warm as ever.
And I wonder if they look at me and see the familiar and the different and ache for the lost years the way I do.
“Perhaps we should look at the menu,” Émile suggests.
“That’s a great idea,” Dad rumbles, and the fact he’s said more about a menu than to me is what it takes to push me over the edge.
“Why did you message me?”
