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Dad rolls his eyes at my mom but reaches across the table and pats her hand. The look they share says they might not be burning bright as the sun anymore in the physical department—thank goodness for that because I seriously don’t want to think about my parents getting it on…not that it’s not okay for older people, it’s just that they’re my parents, and I know they got it on since my brother and I exist, but beyond that, I really don’t want to think about their private business—but they’re still in love with each other.
Mom easily forgives my dad for his little slip-up. She knows that’s not what he meant, and she cuts him some slack. But she does wag a finger at me. “We’re worried about you. It’s not that we don’t think you have your life together, but we’re your parents. It’s our job to worry, especially when you tell us that some strange guy fixed the house to this brand new state, which would have cost a fortune, and now you’re telling me that you’re both dating.”
“Seems like a bit of a conflict of interest, Vickie,” Dad says. He gets special dispensation to use the dreaded nickname, which I really don’t like, but he’s the only one who is allowed to get away with it.
“A big conflict of interest,” Mom agrees with a nod. “And your dad is right. Men only want one thing, and that’s—”
“If you’re going to say nice photos to put on his website because that was the agreement with the house, then I’m perfectly okay with that. It was a great trade-off if you ask me. As far as that goes, that’s the only trade-off. I’m not trading in anything else. And Atlas isn’t like that. He’s very nice. And he’s a gentleman. Plus, I’ve met his granny. We went antique shopping together. She’s very normal.” I bite down on that lie, but it’s not that Atlas’ granny is not normal in a bad way. She’s not normal in a good way, so that is pretty much the same thing as being acceptably normal.
“Did you meet his parents yet?” Mom sounds put out that I’m just bringing him up now.
I chose not to point out that she was busy with her own stuff whenever I asked her to come over. To be fair, I was in Bloomington quite a few times, and I could have dropped by.
If I’d actually seen the whole dating thing coming, I would have mentioned it sooner, to be sure, but I don’t want to put that out there because it would only make me look like, despite my arguments, I don’t have my life together. And it would be completely humiliating, which isn’t something I want to go through in front of my parents.
“No, I just met his granny, so don’t worry. We’re still on even footing.” But I do think, now that I’m on the subject, it’s a little bit strange that Atlas never mentioned his parents. Not once. He did say he was adopted; I do remember that. But after that? Nothing I can remember, and surely I would remember, wouldn’t I?
“Well, he’ll have to come over for dinner then,” Mom insists.
I raise my brows and peg them with a look that tells them I know exactly where this is going. “So you can grill him?”
“There’s a difference between grill and roast,” Dad grunts. “I’d like to point it out. He waves his sandwich in the air so emphatically that a slice of cucumber goes flying out and lands on the middle of the table. I study it and bite my lip to keep from laughing.
My mom is quick with a napkin and has the offending escaped piece cleaned up in no time. “Honey, you moved out of our basement to this place, and now it’s unrecognizable. What’s more, you’re now dating someone for the first time ever. You never did that. Not in high school, and not in college.”
It wasn’t really for lack of trying. Okay, maybe it was kind of for lack of trying, but really? Did that really have to get pointed out right now?
“Well, I guess it had to happen sooner or later,” I say, my throat closing up.
Dad gives Mom a side look that says she should cut me some slack. “I’m not happy about you dating,” he says, pretending to be stern, but he’s still waving his sandwich around, so it’s hard to take him seriously. “I know that you know what you’re doing, but don’t think that meeting this guy will make me like him more. I’m a dad. I’m supposed to hate on any and all boyfriends and give potential husbands a hard time about treating my daughter right. That’s my job.”
I sometimes felt like my parents didn’t care. I know every kid probably feels that way, but I’ve especially felt it lately, what with their disappointment over the whole choosing to pursue writing thing, them kicking me out of their basement and foisting my great-aunt’s shack on me, then refusing to visit. Right now, though? Gah, I can see they both care, and it brings on the stinging eye sensation. Big time.
