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He bites my earlobe. “We could shower together.”
It takes all my force of will to resist the temptation and get out of bed, but I have to. I already left the spa early. If I’m late to dinner, I worry Winter will suspect I’m up to something.
I end up being so on time that only my parents are seated at the table when I arrive at the restaurant. We’re at the fancy one tonight. A separate building from the main hotel, with an English countryside décor: all dark woods and fabric-shaded table lamps.
Tucker arrives next. Then Lana, the happy couple, and last but not late, Archie. At first, I don’t recognize him as he walks toward our table. He’s dressed ridiculously primly, clad in a pair of white jeans and a light-blue V-neck sweater. Tonight’s fantasy would be: member of a nineties boy band. If nineties boy bands ever allowed for beards. Mmm, I’m not sure about this one. The good-boy look is weird on him. But—and this is a big but—it’s the perfect outfit a boyfriend would wear to meet his girlfriend’s parents for the first time.
And I have to stop thinking like that. Yes, the guy I’ve been sleeping with for the past few days will have dinner with my parents tonight, but he definitely isn’t here in a boyfriend capacity.
“Hello,Dawson’s Creek,” my sister greets him, probably sharing my idea that his clothes look out of character. “Where did you leave yourE.T.poster? In your bedroom next toJurassic ParkandJaws?”
“Oh, come on, Snowflake, you must know my favorite Spielberg movies are theIndiana Jones,” he quips right back, and am I irked he has a nickname for my sister but not for me? Would I like him to call me buttercup, cupcake, sunflower? Honestly, no, yikes. “You’re the most glowing bride as always,” Archie concludes.
His smile is wide and charming, and his manners impeccable, especially as he rounds the table to shake my father’s hand and kiss my mom’s after officially introducing himself. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was trying to impress my parents. Mom, for one, has melted at the hand-kissing.
He finally sits down at the only free spot left between Lana and Winter, across the table from me. I’m in between Tucker, who has Logan on his other side, and my dad, who’s also sitting next to my mom.
Once it’s clear we’re not expecting anyone else, the server, who has been looming close by since I arrived, brings our menus and asks if we’re ready to order drinks. I sure am, and ask for an apple martini. If I have to endure an entire dinner with Archie and my parents seated at the same table, I need something stronger than wine or beer.
Everybody at the table is pretty chatty, allowing me to take a back seat in the conversation and cull my nerves in private, while doling out the odd comment here and there.
After delivering our drinks, the server comes back shortly afterward to take everyone’s orders. I go with the Asian-style tuna steak, while I note Archie orders a bone-in fillet.
Dad is charged with choosing the wine for the table, not because he has any specific competence on the subject, but by simple merits of seniority.
The server has just left with the table’s orders when Logan’s phone starts ringing. He takes it out of his pocket and checks the screen, his eyes going wide. But he’s quick to hide the surprise as he silences the phone and puts it face down on the table.
But not two minutes later, the phone starts vibrating again.
“Darling,” my mom says. “Don’t worry, if it’s something important you can take the call.”
“Nah, it’s an international call.” Logan squirms in his chair. “Could be work; I’ll call back later.”
“International? Couldn’t it be one of your guests needing something?” my mom asks. “Have they all arrived?”
Still uneasy, Logan says, “No, but I’m sure it’s not one of my guests.”
“How can you know?”
“Country code. We don’t have anyone coming in from North Africa.”
Winter, voice cold as ice, asks, “Which country inNorth Africaare they calling from?”
Her fiancé holds the phone in one hand while scratching the back of his head with the other as he replies, “Egypt.”
A wave of discomfort ripples through the table.
Ah.
After she came back from Thailand, Winter told me everything about Logan’s ex, Tara Something. She’s a hard-ass archeologist who made a monumental discovery in the Valley of Kings in Egypt and who’s still living in Africa. We spent an entire afternoon Google-stalking her, and I suspect my sister even bought her book, a non-fiction account of her discovery, and read it.
The phone goes silent only to start vibrating again a second later.
My dad inches his chin toward it. “Seems like they really need to talk to you?” Then he turns to the table. “Isn’t it like what, the middle of the night in Egypt?”
“Must be dawn,” Logan says. “Excavation work starts early.” He peers at the insistently vibrating phone and adds, “Maybe I should get this in private. I wouldn’t want to disturb you all.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” my mom says, oblivious to the underlying tension between the bride and groom-to-be.
