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“Yes, we can be there for dinner tonight. Yes, I’m glad you’re excited to meet her.”
There’s another long pause.
“Five p.m. We’ll be there. See you soon!”
Indigo hangs up the phone, and her body relaxes. She looks at me with big, doe-like eyes.
“Dinner… tonight? I thought we weren’t supposed to see them until tomorrow,” I say, breaking the silence.
“We weren’t, but my mother decided to cook and that means we have to go tonight.”
“We don’thaveto.”
She shakes her head. “No, we have to.”
“Do we have time for a quickie?” I jest. I don’t mean it. Though I haven’t known Indigo for very long, I feel a connection to her that’s borderline cosmic. From what I do know, I’m pretty sure she’s shut down, her body giving in to the waves of anxiety that are passing through her.
My guess is confirmed when she just stares at me blankly.
“I was kidding,” I say, in hopes it’ll pull her out of this catatonic state. She stands there, body immobile. I pick her up, and she’s a statue in my arms as I carry her to the bedroom and throw her onto the bed.
“I thought you were kidding,” she mumbles, waking out of her fog, but still distressed.
“I need your help picking out what I should wear,” I say, grabbing a vest and a jacket out of the suitcase. I hold them both up, and she scrunches her brows.
“What shirt are you going to wear?”
“Uh, a white one?”
“Meh. Go with the jacket then. Black vest and white top kinda give off flight attendant or server vibes, and that’ll just make my mom act weird.”
I frown. “Is your mother one of those awful people who are rude to service workers?”
“No, but like… she’s a snob, so it’s better to avoid anything that could cause her to look down on us,” she admits, and my skin chills. I’d rather have the ashes and memories of a wonderful mom, than a living breathing monster for one.
Sometimes I forget thatI’ma monster. I mean, I’m not… at least not in the brutal, evil villain way from old human folklore, but I am in the sense that I am bigger and stronger than humanity could ever hope to be, but I like that about myself. Indigo’s safe with me because I can confidently say that I could beat up any man that comes near her, with the exception of an orc, and orcs wouldn’t touch her. Not unless my scent was off of her, but that’ll take months. Months I won’t allow to go by. I want her to reek of me indefinitely.
Putting on the black suit jacket and dress pants, I lift her off the bed, throwing her body over my shoulder. Indigo squirms, fighting to be let down, but it’s all a ruse. She’s magical. If she wanted to get down, she would, but I think she enjoys the fight. She grabs for my ass, and I think if she could reach, she’d try and take a bite.
“Where are you taking me?” she yelps.
“To your parents house.”
eight
VEGA
Indigo’s childhoodhome is painted white with cute, simple decor. It’s notoverlylavish, but it does sort of look like something out of a home decor magazine. We pull up to the driveway, where three luxury cars are already parked. The car we rented is a simple baseline SUV, which I manage to squeeze into the remaining space. Stepping out, I run over to open the door for Indie. I’d open it for her anyway, but I make a show out of it in case her family is watching through the window. I’ve made it my mission this week to show them that if they won’t care for their daughter and make her feel appreciated, someone else will.
We walk up, hand in hand, and she knocks on the door. It’s a soft knock, and for a moment I’m not sure they can hear it. The door swings open, but nobody is there.
Did Indigo’s mother seriously charm the door open?
“Mom, Dad, I’m here,” Indigo says, her voice shaky. She’s nervous, and I’d do anything to make the emotion go away for her.
I’ve only met a few of my ex-girlfriends’ parents, but I don’t remember feeling nervous. Holidating or for real, what are they gonna do, tell a grown woman no? Besides, I’m great at winning people over.
As we cross through a corridor, I note the pictures on the wall. There’s wedding photos of Indigo’s parents—Mr. Watson is a tan white man with brown eyes and chestnut brown hair, and Mrs. Watson, a beanpole of a woman, with bright white hair and violet eyes, just like Indie’s. They look happy, but stuck up. Almost like they’re too good for their own wedding.
