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“Calm down, Tristan,” my dad warns.
“If you invited us here to gang up on me, thinking my girlfriend would take your side, then you’re wasting your time. I’m not changing my mind, and Sage knows how much I love what I do and how passionate I am.”
“Will she be okay with it when it’s time for you to leave again?” My mom’s eyes turn hard.
I sit back on the couch and look at Sage, then at my mom again. I scrub a hand down my face and shake my head. It won’t matter because by then, Sage and I will have gone our separate ways, but my parents don’t know that.
“We’ll figure it out.” It’s all I can say, which is a weak response. I wasn’t prepared for that question, though I should’ve been.
The smile my mom gives me is condescending. She probably thinks she knows everything, but the joke’s on her because Sage and I aren’t even a real couple.
Frustrated, I excuse myself and go to the restroom. I need a couple of minutes to breathe and calm myself. Arguing with my parents won’t do me any good, and it definitely won’t get me any closer to receiving the trust fund. It’ll just confirm the opinion they already hold: that I’m immature.
When I return, my parents and Sage are talking calmly. Sage is telling them about her studies, and I feel terrible for having left her alone with them. I sit back down, keeping my eyes on her to confirm she’s okay. She offers a tentative smile.
“Computer engineering is a great career path. You work at the coffee shop at the moment, right?” my dad asks.
“I do.” Her response is wary.
“It’s a competitive field. I admire her for working somewhere while she looks for her dream job,” I interrupt, defending her the same way she did to me earlier.
“I have a friend . . .” my dad begins, but I stop him.
“I think she wants to do this on her own. Sage is stubborn that way.” I wink at her.
She rolls her eyes.
“Stubbornness is a good trait to have so long as it doesn’t limit you,” my mom says.
I take a deep breath, biting my tongue. She knows a thing or two about being stubborn.
“Dinner is ready,” Mary says.
“Wonderful, I’m starved.” My mom stands.
She’s not starved. She’ll eat a tiny portion, say she’s full, and push her plate away.
Once in the dining room, I pull out Sage’s chair before taking my seat beside her. My dad sits at the head of the table, my mom across from us.
Dinner is mostly quiet. Sage and my parents hold most of the conversation while I focus on breathing and eating. Thankfully, it’s not venison. Sage may like it, but it’s a no for me.
I notice Sage pushing away the tomatoes and small pieces of garlic from the roasted vegetables.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
“Yup.” She nods.
“Do you not like tomatoes?” My mom asks.
“Oh, no, the food is wonderful. Tomatoes don’t always sit well with me, so I’d rather not push my luck.” Her eyes flare, and her cheeks turn pink.
“You should’ve told me, Tristan. I wouldn’t have prepared a meal that would cause you any discomfort.” My mom glares at me.
I laugh at her reaction but quickly cover it up with a cough. First of all, she didn’t prepare it. Second, she’s right, and I should’ve told her so Sage wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I’m going to need her to tell me what she can and can’t eat because of her disease.
“I do apologize,” I tell my mom.
Once dinner is finished, I’m ready to sprint out of here. Awkwardness has settled over the table. We still need to have dessert and any after-dinner drinks, which I think we’ll skip on the account that I don’t feel like staying.
