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But Cole is having none of Plan B, Janey the Ostrich Queen.
He marches straight up to my parents and interrupts whatever conversation they were having by extending his hand toward my dad. “Mr. Williams? I’m Cole, Janey’s boyfriend. Been looking forward to meeting you.”
Dad recoils in surprise, from the interruption and Cole’s very direct—and charming?—introduction. “Oh, uh . . . nice to meet you, Cole. Call me Leo,” Dad answers as he shakes Cole’s hand.
Cole shakes Mom’s hand, charming her too. “Your daughter has told me so much about you two. I’ve been looking forward to this,” he repeats.
Mom and Dad smile wanly, not hearing the thinly veiled threat in his words, but I hear it loud and clear. I’ve spent enough time with Cole over the past week to be able to get that much of a read on him.
Warily, I plaster myself to Cole’s side like I could hold him back if he decided to defend my honor or something insane. “So, yeah . . . this is Cole. Yep, my boyfriend, Cole. That’s him.” He glances at me and lifts a brow, the tiniest hint of a smile on the left side of his mouth. I should add that to the count, but I’ve completely forgotten what number I’m on, so I just enjoy it. “Oh! And Cole, this is my mom, Eileen, and dad, Leo.”
Mom and Dad exchange a look. I know that look—it’s the same one they made when I excitedly told them I’d won the fourth-grade spelling bee. They want to believe me, but they don’t. Not really. And okay, I’d admittedly been a little confused about the spelling bee. I won for my class, not the whole grade, but I didn’t realize there was a difference. And I definitely didn’t know I’d have to go onstage in front of the whole school to compete against the other classes’ winners. I mumbled my answer into the microphone and Mrs. Beckman declared it incorrect, even though I spelled hippopotamus right. I wouldn’t spell it h-i-p-p-A-p-o-t-a-m-u-s because then it would be a hippa, not a hippo.
So I do what I do best and launch into a monologue. “Yeah, we’ve been looking forward to this. Cole’s been super busy at work, but I told him we couldn’t miss Paisley’s wedding, and here we are. Me and my boyfriend, Cole. Are they gonna get started soon? I’m starving. I don’t think I had lunch today. Did we have lunch today?” I ask Cole.
“You made charcuterie boards,” he reminds me, “and we ate cheese cubes, lunch meat, and crackers all day.”
“Oh, yeah!” I say too brightly.
Dad leans over with a grin to tell Cole, “Probably a good thing she didn’t cook for you. She’s better at burning than baking, right, honey?” Dad jokes. “Remember the bacon?”
The last time I cooked anything at home was when I was eighteen, and yeah, I might’ve set the smoke alarm off that time, but for all Dad knows, I’m a chef now. I’m not, of course, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t care. In his mind, the joke’s set in stone, forever and ever, amen.
“Really? She’s great in the kitchen now,” Cole says thoughtfully. “Keeps me well-fed for sure.” He pats his flat stomach, drawing attention to how fit he is.
He’s seen me make sandwiches, soup, pizza rolls, and the chicken that was supposed to be for Henry, but if you heard him complimenting me, you’d think I serve up Michelin-rated dinners on the regular. It’s definitely a little bit of false bragging, but I’m happy for it.
“Well, I taught her everything she knows,” Mom adds. That’s true, actually. Mom taught me how to make chicken that won’t poison anyone and ground beef with a sprinkle of packaged seasonings. Other than that, she shooed me out of the kitchen because I was in her way.
“How’s the garden?” I ask Dad, choosing a topic that I know will last.
His face lights up the way it always does when he talks about his babies, the flowers, bushes, and plants he cares for. Within seconds, he’s off, telling us all about the new fiddle leaf fig he ‘rescued’ from the plant store while Mom looks at him like he’s the most interesting man on the planet, though I’m sure she’s heard this story ten times already.
And I’m happily listening, glad the attention is off Cole and me, until a voice says, “Hey, Sideshow!”
It’s Jessica. She was allowed to watch The Simpsons from a young age, something I couldn’t do until I was a teen, and bestowed me with the clown nickname because of my wild red curls. The name’s nothing new, but it’s annoying all the same. In the hopes of shutting it down for the eight hundred thousand, fifty-eighth time, I ask, “Aren’t you tired of that yet?”
