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Dad doesn’t either.
I leave them both voicemails to call me back immediately, and I also text them that we need to talk.
Mom replies to the text:
Driving. Will talk when we see you in the morning.
Morning?
Someone shoot me, please. Put me out of my skunking misery.
* * *
A distant doorbell wakes me up the next morning.
I sit up, a shot of adrenaline clearing my brain better than any espresso.
I check the time. It’s 10:15 a.m. Way, way too early to be getting normal visitors. But of course, the one thing my parents are not is normal.
I run out of the bedroom, still in my nightie—just in time to see Art stepping out of the kitchen.
Instead of his usual yoga attire, he’s wearing a pair of dress pants and a button-down shirt. The outfit looks amazing on him, causing stirrings in my core. Stirrings that are the last thing I need with my parents around.
“Wait for me!” I yell as he heads down the hallway toward the front door.
Art turns, his eyes darkening as he takes in my outfit.
My heart skips a beat. If I had any doubts that he enjoyed seeing me in this getup the last time, they’re gone now. He even hungrily licks his lips.
“That’s your parents,” he says, his voice a bit rough as his gaze returns to my face. “You sure you don’t want to put something else on?”
And leave him alone with them? I can’t think of a worse idea. Then again, I can’t exactly prance around in a nightie all day.
“Let me introduce you, and then I’ll change,” I say, my own voice hoarse from sleep.
What damage could Mom and Dad do in the time it takes me to brush my teeth and change?
I run past Art to the door and unlock it.
“You didn’t ask who it is,” he mutters under his breath. “How many times do I need to remind you?”
“Someone is grumpy without his morning salad,” I mutter back, but I check the peephole, figuring better late than never.
Yep.
It’s the parental units.
Mom swears that Dad looked like Bob Dylan when they met. Currently, he looks more like Larry David—if Larry David were to gain a bunch of weight. And grow his hair into a silver ponytail. And become a hippy. And acquire a wild beard. So… maybe not like Larry David.
Mom, on the other hand, looks extremely good—especially for someone who’s birthed eight babies. Whatever nutrients we sucked out of her when she carried us, she’s long since replaced. Her hair is shampoo-commercial silky, and her skin is as smooth as Dad’s bald spot.
Opening the door, I give them a huge smile. Despite all the humiliation they’re bound to bring my way, I love them and I’m genuinely happy to see them. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”
Mom beams back at me. “Namaste, sunshine.”
“Thing 4,” Dad says, nodding in greeting.
“That’s my nickname,” I whisper loudly to Art.
