7. Emily
7
EMILY
I drum my fingers anxiously on the side of my leg, wishing I was anywhere but here. I’m trying to be positive and tell myself that this dinner could go perfectly fine, but the worries inside my head keep overwhelming my thoughts.
I just knocked on my parents’ front door. Any second, my mom will open it. I glance over at Rock, who’s standing beside me on the front porch. He looks so serious and focused. I wonder what’s going on in his head. Sometimes I feel like I know exactly what he’s thinking, but this isn’t one of those times.
He’s wearing a nicer shirt tonight, a dark navy blue polo. I was surprised when he walked out of his bedroom with it on—I didn’t even know he owned any polos. When I told him he looked nice, he just shrugged and mumbled something about how it’s not like he could wear a t-shirt to dinner at my parents’ house.
I hate that there’s so much friction between my parents and Rock.
I never expected Rock to want to come to dinner. I guess it really bothered him that my mom was still trying to set me up with people. He can be so protective like that sometimes. I just hope he doesn’t say anything to my parents that makes this situation worse—or gives them any additional reasons for not liking him.
Everything will be fine, I tell myself. We’ll get through this. Everything will be perfectly, wonderfully fine.
The front door opens and my mom appears, smiling in a warmer way than I expect. She’s as well-dressed as she always is, in a cashmere sweater and pressed pants and house shoes.
“Hello, honey,” she says, her eyes shining at me as I step forward and give her a hug.
“Hi, Mom.”
“And Rock. It’s nice to see you.” She holds out a hand and he shakes it.
I’m shocked at how warm and welcoming she’s being. It has to be an act, right? It feels like Rock and I are about to walk into a lion’s den.
“Thanks for having me,” Rock says, his voice even and guarded.
“It’s our pleasure. Please come in. Make yourselves comfortable.” My mom opens the door wider and steps aside for us. “Dinner is almost ready. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go check on the oven.”
My mom walks off, and Rock and I exchange looks.
“ What was that? ” Rock whispers to me.
“ I have no idea ,” I whisper back.
Rock hesitates, then asks, his voice still low, “Uh…should I be holding your hand or something?”
It’s such an innocently cute suggestion that I have to press my lips together to keep from giggling.
Rock’s own mouth forms a flat line. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Sorry,” I say, grinning at him. “It’s a sweet suggestion. But I don’t think we need to do that.”
Rock nods, clears his throat, then takes a moment to look around at his surroundings. “Did your parents do some renovations? It seems different in here.”
“My mom’s always redecorating,” I say, a little embarrassed to admit it. It feels so excessive, her repainting and swapping out furniture just because she feels like it. It’s been years since Rock has been to my parents’ house—since the night of our senior prom, actually—and I don’t even want to think about how many redecorations my mom has been through.
The sound of the back door opening and closing is followed by my dad coming through the house. He smiles when he sees us.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek before giving Rock a friendly but evaluative look. “So you two are an item now, huh?”
“Yep,” I say, a little lump forming in my throat from the lie.
“You can tell me the truth,” my dad says, lowering his voice. “This has been going on for a while, hasn’t it?”
I stare at my dad. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. What would ever make him think there was something going on between Rock and me?
“No, sir,” says Rock, speaking for both of us. “It’s a brand new thing.”
“Ah. Well.” My dad smiles and claps a hand on Rock’s shoulder. “Come on, son. What can I get you to drink?”
While my dad takes Rock into his study to show off his whiskey collection, I go into the kitchen to see if my mom needs help with anything. My mom mentions a bottle of wine in the fridge and I get it out to pour myself a glass and add more to hers.
“So things are going well, Emily?” she asks.
I can’t tell if she means things with Rock or life in general. Both feel like minefields right now. I haven’t told my parents about the burst pipe in my apartment. I just know my mom would freak out and try to get involved. I’d rather wait and mention it after it’s fixed. And I don’t want to have to explain that I’m staying with Rock.
“Yep,” I say. “Things are good. Although we just found out there’s a new bar opening across the street from us.”
“I see.”
It’s disappointing that she still has zero interest in the business I co-own. Given how clear they’ve made their feelings about it all, I know I shouldn’t be surprised. Still, it hurts that they’ve never come and seen the bar in person. I know it’s not their vibe, but it would mean a lot to me if they at least came and saw what Rock and I have built.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask my mom, going up to the stove and peering into one of the pots.
“Your favorite,” my mom says, smiling at me.
I breathe in the delicious smells that waft up into my nose. “Yum. I’ve been craving bolognese.”
I start setting the table, and when Rock and my dad come into the dining room, I give Rock a questioning look. He gives me a subtle shrug in return. The way my parents are acting should be a good thing, but it’s freaking me out.
I act like everything’s cool and help my mom bring out the dishes to the table. The four of us sit down and start making polite small talk as we fill up our plates.
“Emily said there’s a new bar opening across the street from you, Rock?” my mom asks.
Rock nods. “Sounds like it’ll be open in a few months.”
“And do you have a plan to keep it from affecting your business?”
My stomach clenches. I knew it. Here come the questions.
Rock passes me the bread. I can see how firmly he’s gripping the bowl as he hands it over. “Emily and I are figuring that out.”
My mom studies Rock, and I brace myself for whatever more interrogative question she’s going to ask next. I can easily picture the path it will lead to—questions that will make it clear they think Rock isn’t worth their little girl’s time and attention.
But to my shock, my mom’s mouth turns up into a gentle smile. She glances at my dad, then back at Rock. “Well, I’ll be honest, Rock. When Graham and I learned that you and Emily were seeing each other, we had our concerns. Not just concerns, but doubts. But the more we discussed it, the more we came to see that we owe you a fair chance.”
I freeze. I can’t believe the words I’m hearing. This is all I’ve ever wanted, for my parents to let go of the judgments they have of Rock.
“After all,” my mom goes on, “if you and Emily decided to start dating after so many years of friendship, it must be a very serious thing.”
My mom smiles. So does my dad. I glance at Rock, suddenly feeling a little panicky at whether he’s prepared for a complete one-eighty from my mom like this. But Rock just smiles one of his stoic smiles and nods.
“Exactly,” he says. “I wouldn’t enter into something like this lightly.”
Then, after an awkward beat, Rock reaches over and squeezes my thigh beneath the table.
The sensation of his hand squeezing my leg sends strange little shivers up my thigh. It’s so unexpected that I almost gasp but catch myself in time and smile reassuringly at my parents.
“Me either,” I practically squeak out.
My dad smiles. “That’s wonderful to hear.”
Rock moves his hand off my thigh and I swallow, still feeling disoriented. I feel like bursting out in disbelieving laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation we’ve gotten ourselves into. How do my parents not see right through our lies? How is Rock so fine with going along with this nonsense?
I glance over at him and watch him butter a piece of bread, my eyes lingering unnecessarily on his forearms. Why do his arms look so good? Is it the shirt? A weird magical shirt?
Maybe this wine I’m drinking is stronger than I thought.
“Well, not to get ahead of ourselves,” my mom says, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin, “but funnily enough, Sandy Lee and I—oh, that’s a dear friend of mine from the club, Rock—well, the two of us were touring the new events venue on the grounds the other day, and my goodness would it make a lovely setting for a wedding. Emily, I’ll have to show you. It has the most breathtaking view.”
I almost choke on my water. No. My mother cannot have said what she just said.
“Mom,” I say, mortified.
“I know, I know,” she says. “It’s early days. But sometimes things move faster than you expect.”
“Three months from meeting to marriage,” my dad says to Rock, gesturing between himself and my mom.
“Oh?” Rock says. He coughs a little. “Wow.”
“I’ve also heard very wonderful things about Pelican Lodge,” my mom goes on. “Muriel’s daughter was married there. You remember her, don’t you, Emily?”
“Sort of.” I frantically search my mind for a way to steer this conversation in another direction. “The bolognese is delicious, Mom. Did you do something different? The spices seem a little different than I remember.”
“It’s the fresh basil,” my mom says. Then, with a smile, she adds, “I guess it’s about time I teach you how to cook it, sweetheart. A well-fed husband is a happy one.”