47. Ford
FORD
I wasn’t kidding when I told June I was nervous about meeting her parents.
Okay, I might not have said it in so many words, but she picked up on my reservations anyway.
And it’s weird, because if I were meeting anyone else—her cousins or childhood best friend—I’d be cool as a damn cucumber. But her parents?
Fuck, I hate parents.
They were cordial enough on the phone. After stealing their number from June’s cell, I gave them a call, explained who I am—thank God, they’d heard of me—and asked if they’d be home for the weekend so we could visit.
Five minutes later, we had all the details ironed out, and now, here we are. On June’s childhood doorstep.
I think I’m gonna be sick.
Threading her fingers through mine, June murmurs, “You’re handsome when you’re nervous.”
I give her a mock glare. “Who says I’m nervous?”
“You’re right. I don’t know what I’m thinking.” She lets go of my hand. “I actually forgot something in the car, so…” She knocks on the door, then starts to head back to the rental parked out front, while simultaneously ditching me on the front porch.
Heart pounding, I grapple for her hand. “June, get your ass—”
“Told ya.” With a smirk, she rejoins me and reaches for the handle. Sneaky little brat. She pushes open the door. “Hello!” she calls. “We’re here!”
The smell of fried oil and baked bread hits my nostrils as I grab our bags and follow June inside.
My mouth waters, and I set the luggage at our feet, looking around the farmhouse.
It’s nice. Not massive, but a decent size.
Probably three to four bedrooms, if I had to guess, but I’m no realtor.
When we were coming up the winding driveway, I realized just how much land June was raised on.
How much space she had to roam and play and be a kid.
Add in the warm wood floor, exposed beams along the ceiling, white walls littered with family photos, and wood-burning fireplace off the entryway, and I feel like I’ve been transported to a little house on the prairie.
“June!” a feminine voice calls from deeper inside the house. An older woman appears, wiping her hands on an embroidered apron. I can see where June got her curves and smile lines.
Rushing toward her mother, June meets her halfway and hugs her tightly. “Hey, Mama!”
Her mom kisses June’s cheek. “How’s my Junie doin’?”
“I’m doing good.” June wiggles free. “Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s out back, cuttin’ more wood.” Her sights set on me. “And you must be the infamous Ford.”
I offer my hand, but she bats it away. “Get in here, boy.” My spine turns to steel as she hugs me, patting my back for good measure before letting me go. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I return. “I’m Ford.”
“Laurie, but you can call me Mama Withers.”
I dip my chin, unsure what else to say. Normally, I’d compliment her, tell her that I can see where her daughter got her good looks or something. Instead, I’m all…tongue-tied and shit. Why am I so damn nervous?
She glances at June. “He’s cute, too.”
“Mama,” June scolds.
“What?” She waves her off. “If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have approached ya.”
June rubs at the corner of her eye, proving how tired she is from the flight, as she explains, “My mom’s convinced that the only reason my list of boyfriends is short is because no one’s good enough for me.” June tacks on a wide-eyed look as if to say, clearly she’s crazy.
“And I stand by it,” her mom interjects. “Now, go sit down. You’re just in time for dinner.”
As she disappears into the kitchen, the sound of something squeaking then slapping closed echoes, and I tilt my head.
What was that? It almost sounded like a screen door or something.
Sure enough, an older man in jeans appears, wearing a flannel shirt and a worn coat lined with wool that must be at least two decades old.
A patch is sewn onto the elbow, and the pocket over his chest is missing a button as he moves closer, his arms full of wood.
“Hey, Daddy!” June greets him. The title hits in a way I don’t expect.
It might be missing the Dearest I usually tack on at the end, but the sentiment couldn’t be more opposite than how I’m used to using it.
Hearing the familial term with adoration, and dare I say, enthusiasm?
My anxiety kicks up another notch, and I rock back on my heels.
Tan, weathered skin. Worn baseball hat pulled low.
Broad shoulders. Small beer belly but nothing crazy.
He looks strong. Like he grew up in the fields and will continue working in them for years to come.
After he sets down the pile of wood beside the fire, June’s father takes off his hat and wipes his forehead.
“Come here, baby girl.” They share a quick hug, like June had with her mom, then she lets him go, grabs his hand, and practically drags him toward my dumb ass at the front of the house.
I wipe my sweaty palms on the back of my jeans.
Why am I so damn nervous? So what if he doesn’t like me or thinks I’m a smart-ass who relies on too much sarcasm to make it in this world?
It doesn’t matter. June already told me she loves me.
She doesn’t need her dad’s stamp of approval.
Does she? If she does, I might as well turn my ass around and fly back to Harden Heights tonight.
Sure, she’d probably be pissed, but maybe she’d be better off in the long run, you know?
Me, I’d figure it out. Crawl into a hole.
Lick my wounds. Take a vow of celibacy. Be a kick-ass uncle to Jagger’s kids once he knocks up Violet. I’d be…fine.
Seriously, what was I thinking bringing June home so I could meet her folks?
“Dad, this is Ford,” June announces. “Ford, this is my dad, Gerald.”
I offer my hand like before. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Shaking my hand with a firm but not over-the-top grasp, he replies, “Nice to meet you, too.”
“Y’all comin’ or what?” June’s mom calls from the dining room.
With a smile, Gerald lets me go and motions toward a round table tucked to our left covered in a white tablecloth with embroidered sunflowers along the edge. “Right this way.”
Dinner is good. Awkward, but nothing I can’t handle.
I learn June’s the baby of all the grandchildren and easily the favorite, if her parents’ stories are anything to go by.
She’s also obsessed with animals, hates getting dirty, and learned to bake from Mama Withers.
Okay, that part is an assumption, but after tasting her mama’s cooking, it’s clear June’s kitchen skills are genetic.
As I clear the last plates from the table, I tell June, “I see where you got your cooking skills.”
With a shy smile, June gathers the tablecloth and begins folding it. “Mama taught me everything I know.”
My mouth lifts.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I start.
“Tell me.”
“It’s just cute,” I grab the opposite corners of the tablecloth and help her fold it, “the way you say Mama.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Never.”
She swats at my arm, careful not to ruin all our progress. “I can’t believe you! Makin’ fun of me and my mama.”
“I love how the accent comes and goes,” I quip. “Really adds to the authentic vibes we’ve got going on around here.”
Her laughter rings out through the empty family room as we finish folding the white linen. Taking it from me, she tucks the fabric into a black hutch and mutters, “Whatever. Just because I try to reel in the southern charm when I’m not at home doesn’t mean you need to make fun of me.”
Grasping her waist, I bring us together and begin swaying back and forth. “I like it. The southern charm.”
“You do, huh?” Her mouth quirks up once more, and she rests her hands on my chest. “Then, I have bad news.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a big, fat faker.”
“Is that right?”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, raising her chin ever so slightly.
Unable to resist the temptation, I give her a quick peck and continue swaying us back and forth. “Is your mama a faker, too, then?”
Mirth dances in her pretty gaze. “You noticed the accent, huh?”
“Just a little bit,” I tease.
“My mom’s from the deep south, which is why her accent is stronger than mine and my dad’s.
She moved to Austin after she met my daddy, and they settled down here, in this house.
” Her baby blues roam the room as if flipping through childhood memories in a photo album.
I wish I could see it. A glimpse into those memories.
It doesn’t take a genius to know they were filled with a hell of a lot more happiness than mine.
And even though the realization makes me jealous as hell, I’m grateful for it, too.
That she was protected from abusive fathers and screaming matches that would rattle the pictures on the walls.
I shake off the memories, refusing to let them ruin this moment when they’ve already ruined enough.
Grasping her hand, I twirl June around. “And where’s the bad news?” I prod.
“The southern charm you’ve mentioned?” She bats her lashes like a true southern belle. “Mine is a bit more watered down than my mother’s.”
“Until you come around her,” I quip. “Then it hits with a vengeance.”
She laughs. “You should’ve heard me when I was learning how to talk, and the only person I was hanging around during the day was my mama.” A whistle escapes her pouty lips. “Now that was some southern charm.”
As I imagine it, a baby June Bug with a mop of brown curls and sparkling blue eyes, my chest aches and longing fills my bones. I wish I could’ve seen it. Witnessed a little June with sourdough fingers and flour on her cheeks as she helped her mama in the kitchen.
Will she teach her kids how to cook, too? Will she ask them to call her mama or will she stick with mom or mommy? I kind of hope she leans toward the former. Keeping to her roots and all.
“Speaking of charm.” She smooths out the fabric of my T-shirt. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”
“Have I?”
“Mm-hmm.” She hesitates. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”