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Lincoln offers a reassuring smile. "I'd do anything for you," he echoes, also for what seems like the twentieth time today.
I pause for a moment to take in how incredibly handsome Lincoln looks right now. He's sporting one of his gameday suits, albeit without the jacket. He's dressed in a white button-up shirt, navy pants, and brown shoes. It's an effortlessly sexy look that makes me want to abandon this dinner, rush back to Lincoln's house, and tear all of his clothes off him.
But here I am, stuck at a dinner I don't want to be at, with parents I'd rather not see. Lincoln gives the host my last name, and she guides us to the small table where my parents are waiting. Oddly, my parents don't stand up to greet me with a hug, and my father doesn't even extend a hand for a handshake.
I find their behavior rude. Lincoln pulls out my chair and waits for me to get comfortably seated before taking his place next to me. Feeling the need to occupy my hands, I pick up my water glass and take a sip before greeting my parents.
"Hey, mom," I acknowledge, and then slide my gaze over to my father. "Dad."
My mother continues to ignore me and directs her attention toward Lincoln with an arched eyebrow, inquiring, "Who is this?"
"Her boyfriend," Lincoln promptly interjects, placing his arm along the back of my chair. I can sense his discontent with my parents' lack of acknowledgment, a stark contrast to the warm reception I received from his own parents. They embraced me, treating me as if I were important from the moment I entered their home.
My parents barely spare me a second glance, and my mother, still skeptical, questions, "Boyfriend?"
In response, Lincoln's hand slides over to my knee, where he rests it and gives me a reassuring squeeze, silently conveying that everything will be okay. I smile at him and then turn back to my mother. "Yes, he's my boyfriend. His name is Lincoln."
My mother remains doubtful, but finally, she asks, "Tell us about yourself, Lincoln."
Lincoln clears his throat and begins, "I'm a junior at Willow Park, and I play on the hockey team."
I beam with pride and add, "He's the team captain," eager to highlight Lincoln's hockey achievements to my parents.
My mom looks back and forth between us, her tone laced with disbelief. "And he's your friend?"
Lincoln clears his throat once more, this time firmly correcting her. "Boyfriend."
It's becoming clear that my mother doesn't believe that Lincoln is my boyfriend. I'm growing frustrated with her incredulity and decide to change the subject. "Is there a reason for this dinner?"
My mother doesn't seem eager to let go of the topic, but eventually, she acquiesces. "We have news."
I immediately become anxious. "Good or bad news?" I reach for Lincoln's hand, resting on my thigh, and give it a reassuring squeeze.
My mom quickly drains the remainder of her wine before revealing, "Amazing news. We're selling the house!"
I'm momentarily frozen. "W-what?" I stutter, sitting up straight in my chair.
"Talk normal, Sutton," my mother scolds, her tone dripping with impatience. "No one wants to be around someone who can't speak." She punctuates her reprimand with a particular look, one that always makes me want to claw my eyes out so I never have to see it again.
It seems that Lincoln also dislikes that look, as his fingers dig into my thigh, causing me to flinch. He whispers a quick "sorry" before gently massaging the area where he pressed too hard.
Ignoring my mother's rudeness, as I usually do, I inquire, "Why are you selling the house?" I don't really care, but I ask out of politeness.
My mother, however, seems thrilled by the prospect. "We're moving to the southwest."
I nod absentmindedly. "When?"
"Next month," my father chimes in with a touch of pride. "We've already put an offer on a house in Arizona. I expect them to accept the offer within the week."
I can't process anything right now. "Does Elliott know?" I ask, knowing that he'll be furious with our parents for springing this on me. But he'll also be relieved that they won't be in the same state as us anymore.
My mother's response is utterly unhelpful. "You can tell him."
"You're joking, right?" I question, seeking some empathy from the woman who gave birth to me.
My mother, however, isn't in the mood for understanding. Her voice takes on a sharp edge as she snaps, "Sutton, what is so hard for you to understand? We're not spending our whole night explaining this to you. Act right."
The server, who's been standing by our table, is forced to endure my mother giving me a verbal beatdown. As soon as she refills my mother's glass, the server quickly withdraws, a look of discomfort on her face.
