Chapter 6
Mason
It’s been a long week. By the time I pull into Megan’s parents’ driveway, I’m starving.
She texted me earlier: Don’t eat, I’m cooking tonight.
It made me smile, and also happy I didn’t have to pay for takeout or something like we usually do. Our wedding isn’t breaking the bank, but everything certainly is starting to add up.
I knock once out of habit, then let myself in. “Meg?”
“Down here!” her voice calls.
I head down the stairs into her space. She’s got the whole bottom floor to herself—cozy little living room, her classroom papers stacked on the coffee table, kitchen tucked in the corner.
And there she is, standing at the stove, ponytail bouncing, spatula in hand, working the pan like she knows what she’s doing.
“Smells good,” I say, grinning as I drop my hat on the counter.
Her cheeks flush pink. “It’s chicken and rice. Nothing crazy, but…homemade.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell her, stepping behind her and leaning down to kiss her temple. “I’d’ve been fine with a sandwich.”
“I wanted to,” she says. “I know you prefer homemade over anything else.” She smiles.
“You’re sweet,” I remind her with a quick peck on the cheek.
I sit at her little kitchen table while she fusses over the plates like she’s serving a five-star meal.
She sets one in front of me, and I try to keep my face neutral.
The chicken’s…darker than I expected, borderline black around the edges, and the rice has formed one solid mass instead of being separate grains.
The peas look suspiciously glossy and soft, and for a second, I honestly thought it was guacamole.
Megan beams at me, proud as can be. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes shining, and there’s this nervous excitement radiating off her that makes me want to love whatever’s on this plate, no matter what it tastes like.
She slides into the chair beside me, reaching for my hand. “Ready?” she says, so hopeful it almost hurts.
I lace my fingers with hers and bow my head to pray. In the background of my words, I’m also praying that this food tastes better than it looks.
When we lift our heads, I cut into the chicken first. The knife scrapes a little louder than it should, and I try not to wince at the sound.
I spear a bite-sized piece and chew slowly, carefully, my jaw working like I’m gnawing on a strip of leather.
It’s dry, overcooked, and completely lacking flavor.
I keep my face steady, willing my expression not to betray me, and reach for my drink to help wash it down.
Next, I go for the rice. The texture throws me off immediately—half mush, half gravel.
A few grains crunch between my teeth. I glance at Megan, trying to be subtle, but she’s eating hers just fine, smiling like nothing’s wrong.
Surely she knows rice isn’t supposed to crunch, right?
Maybe she made two batches. Maybe I got the experimental one.
She looks up then, catching my eyes with that pretty, expectant grin that makes my heart twist in the best and worst way. “Well?” she asks.
I swallow hard, chasing it with more water. Hoping God forgives me for this lie, I smile, reaching over and rubbing her shoulder. “It’s great, sweetheart.”
Her shoulders drop in relief. “Good. I was so worried it wasn’t even going to compare to your mom’s.”
I try not to react but the only thing this meal and my mom’s have in common is the word chicken.
I look back at my plate, all I have still to eat, the peas I hadn’t even touched yet… Pretty sure even the dogs would pass on these.
Somehow I manage to get it all down. Eating everything together was more manageable than separate. When she asked if I wanted more, I said I was full, but the truth was, I lost my appetite.
I help her clean up before we make our way to her couch. She’s got her laptop opened to an aerial shot of tables.
She sits beside me. “Oh. Right. I need some of your input on seating chart.”
“Ugh.”
“Don’t groan. Addison’s gonna write it all on a big window for us. I told her I’d have the list back to her by next week.”
She pulls the laptop into her lap, but I take it and set it back on the coffee table.
“Later?” I suggest, inching closer, my lips just a few inches from her. She smiles.
“If we get it done, we have the rest of the night to—”
I kiss her. She giggles under my lips.
“Mase—”
“You wear stress like a costume,” I tell her, rubbing my fingers on her shoulder.
“I’m stressed because there’s a lot to do and you won’t help me.”
The air shifts, like what was a good night just turned rocky, and that’s the wrong path I wanted to take.
I pull back. “I never said I wouldn’t help you, I just thought we could take a minute.”
“We can, but I would rather get this stuff out of the way first.”
“Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
She pushes her hair back and sighs. “We could practice our first dance first,” she compromises.
“I’m down for that.” I smile, pulling out my phone. I scroll until I find our song and set it on the kitchen counter. Megan follows, and I reach for her, drawing her close as the first few notes fill the kitchen.
My chin rests lightly on top of her head, and I feel her body relax against mine. The song wraps around us—familiar, steady.
“This…” I whisper, brushing my lips against her hair, “this is all that really matters to me. Not the seating chart, not the flowers or napkin colors. Just us, Meg.”
She squeezes me tighter.
“Just a few more weeks,” I murmur, my voice low, “and this is what we’ll be doing. Dancing. You in your dress, me trying not to step on your toes. Everyone watching us fall in love all over again.”
She lifts her head and looks up at me, and tears glisten in her eyes—the good kind.
“I love you,” she whispers.
My hand slides up her back. “I love you too. I want you to enjoy this time and not worry so much.”
She just nods, followed by another kiss.
She deepens it, her fingers curling into my shirt, and I can’t help myself…
I scoop her up and carry her to the couch.
The world narrows to the sound of our breathing, the faint music still playing behind us, her laughter catching softly against my lips as I lay her down.
We move slow, careful, lost in that in-between place of wanting and waiting.
Footsteps echo from the stairs, and I’m off her faster than I’ve ever moved in my life. Megan bolts upright, cheeks pink, eyes wide as she fixes her shirt. I grab her laptop off the coffee table and immediately plop it on my lap like it’s been there the whole time.
“See? I think they’d be fine sitting together, don’t you?” she asks quickly, pointing to the screen.
My pulse is still racing when her mom appears at the bottom of the steps.
“Mrs. Keller, how are you?” I manage, voice a little higher than normal.
“Good, thanks.” She glances between us, clearly suspecting nothing or maybe just too polite to say otherwise. “I didn’t know if you’d eaten yet. I made a frozen pizza, but Dad’s not going to be home until later.”
“Oh, we ate! I made dinner!” Megan beams, proud as ever.
Internally, I’m thinking I could absolutely go for a slice of that pizza, considering I barely survived the first meal, but I settle on a polite, “No, thank you.”
They fall into talking about wedding details, then seating charts, color swatches, the whole nine yards. Her mom’s big on the traditional stuff, and I can see it rubbing off on Megan. I’ve noticed it for a while now, how she looks for her parents’ approval before deciding on anything.
I get it. She still lives with them. I was the same way before I moved out. There’s this shift that happens once you’ve got your own place, your own life. You start making decisions for you.
And I know when she moves in with me, they’ll be our choices. Our rhythm. Just us.
So, for now, I let it play out. Let her find her footing. Because soon enough, we won’t be asking for anyone’s approval but each other’s.
* * *
It’s late, close to ten, when I pull into the drive at the big house.
Every window glows warm against the dark, and I take that as a good sign.
I don’t need to stay long, just talk to Mom about a few things.
Mainly Megan. And her cooking. Obviously it’s not a deal breaker, but…
she cannot cook. And the entire drive home, it had me thinking about how I’m going to have to eat that every day. Every day. I might not survive.
Through the kitchen window, I spot Dad at the table with a mug in his hand, and Mom moving around behind him, loading the dishwasher. When I step inside, Dad’s already looking at me with that what-did-you-do-now face.
“You need me or her?” he asks.
I grin. “Can’t I just stop by to chat?”
“At ten o’clock at night? No.” He chuckles.
Mom appears around the corner, towel in hand. “What’s going on?”
They’re both watching me now, anxious, waiting.
I rub the back of my neck. “Well, uh, I’m gonna need you to bump me to the top of your prayer list.”
Mom’s eyes narrow but she’s smiling. “Why’s that?”
“It’s Megan.” I sigh. “I love her more than anything, but good Lord…the girl cannot cook.”
Mom bursts out laughing. Dad tries to hold it in but fails halfway through his sip of coffee.
“I’m serious,” I say, holding up a hand. “This isn’t a joke. I’m genuinely worried about my nutritional future.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Mom says, still smiling.
“Mom.” I lean in, lowering my voice. “I don’t know how she made the peas, but I thought it was guacamole.”
Mom snorts, covering her mouth with the towel.
“I’m not kidding,” I add, shaking my head. “It looked like that baby food Hallie eats.”
Dad laughs quietly. “Better than underdone. Think positive.”
“No, sometimes it is underdone,” I say. “She made rice too. It was like eating gravel.”
That sets them both off again. Mom’s laugh echoes down the hall, and Dad’s wiping tears from his eyes.
“Alright,” I mutter, trying not to smile. “You guys are no help. Guess I’ll just die of starvation.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Mom steadies herself. “Just talk to her. Nicely.”
“I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“Then just eat it,” Dad says, shrugging. “It’s not gonna kill you.”
I groan, dragging my hands down my face.
“Not sure what other option you got,” Mom adds.
Dad leans against the counter, grinning. “You’re getting married, Son. Don’t start the marriage keeping quiet. You’ll just end up mad at yourself down the road.”
“But I feel bad,” I admit. “She was so proud of herself.”
Mom brightens suddenly. “What if I have her up sometime? Teach her how to make your favorites.”
Relief hits. “That’s genius.”
Dad smirks. “And when she burns that too?”
Mom elbows him hard in the ribs. “Don’t.”
I raise a brow. “You wanna bet?”
They both laugh again like I’m joking. I’m not.