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I take a deep breath, deciding now is as good a moment as any to come clean about why my parents are attached to the idea of us together.
“So I, um, when I accidentally told my dad I got married—”
“You still haven’t told me how that happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“How did youaccidentallytell your dad?”
“Oh.” I merge onto the 405, glad I have the distraction of driving to justify my long pause. Once we’re sitting in traffic, not moving, it’s harder to avoid. “I was meeting my dad and a potential client for dinner. I was early, so I waited at the bar. A guy came over to me, and we were—he was—flirting with me. So I mentioned I was married, and I thought that was that. But then it turned out hewasthe potential client. He apologized to my dad, thinking he’d hit on his married daughter. It was come clean to my dad or risk this guy’s career with all the subsequent awkwardness.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, he was shocked, obviously. I didn’t—”
“Not your dad. The guy at the bar. What didhesay when you told him you were married?”
I risk a glance at him since we’re at a predictable crawl along the freeway. Oliver’s looking straight ahead, giving no indication of what he’s thinking.
“He was…disappointed, I guess?” I’ve never discussed another man with the guy I’m married to but never even dated, and it’s a weird dynamic to navigate.
No response. But it looks like a muscle in Oliver’s jaw jumps as he stares out at the unmoving line of cars.
I still need to clue him in on the lie I told my family, so he knows we’re supposed to be friendlier than strangers. But this doesn’t feel like the right moment, so I say nothing.
It takes another twenty minutes of crawling through traffic until we’re off the highway.
“Is it always this bad?” Oliver asks.
“Pretty much,” I answer, as our surroundings turn residential. It’s rained more lately than usual, so lush grass is visible on both sides of the street.
“You like living here?”
I side-eye him. Still, all I can see is his profile, just like the night we met. “New York doesn’t have wide-open streets.”
“I wasn’t talking about the traffic. I just meant generally.”
“My family lives here,” I answer, as I pull into my driveway.
I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans once we’re out of the car, watching Oliver out of the corner of my eye as he grabs his suitcase and walks toward the house. I could make a pretty good guess what his place in New York looks like. Nothing like the single-level bungalow I live in.
Oliver says nothing as he climbs the stairs, glancing at the porch swing and the row of bushes I planted last spring before glancing over the white siding. The blossoms in the window boxes dance in the slight breeze.
Awareness crawls over my skin as I pass Oliver to unlock the front door. He shakes his head when I gesture for him to walk in first, so I head inside before him.
Unlike my personal appearance, I made sure the house was spotless. Vacuumed and dusted. I even mopped the kitchen. A vase of pink peonies sits on the kitchen counter next to a bowl of limes.
Oliver sets his suitcase down and looks around. There’s interest and curiosity on his face as he wanders toward the kitchen.
It’s way too intimate, having him in my home. In my space. I assumed he’d stay at a hotel, but he asked for my address when he was ordering a car. Since he came all this way, hosting him is the least I can do. But it also feels like broaching a boundary that used to be set firmly in place.
“You got the lamb.”
Oliver is looking at the corner of the living room, where the rocker I got for Eddie and April’s baby is sitting, waiting to be delivered once my niece or nephew arrives.
“Yeah.” I watch him look around for a minute longer before I step forward. “Guest room is down here.”
Without waiting to see if he’s following, I head down the hallway, past the living room and my bedroom.
