18. Thad
I’ve always been pretty good with parents, even when I still had the mohawk. I think my glasses help. For better or worse, people trust people with glasses. That’s why I wear them sometimes out and about, even though I really only need them for reading. Which, as Helen was so keen to point out, I only rarely do.
I also think being a ginger has something to do with it. It puts fathers at ease, for some reason. There aren’t too many ginger heartthrobs out there, so maybe they think a guy with red hair and glasses won’t be too sex-crazed with their daughter, or something.
I’m probably living proof that this assumption isn’t true, though, if my recurring daydreams about Helen are any indication. She’s being pretty huffy with me as we near her aunt’s house, so I guess some of my sparkle has faded in her eyes and she’s no longer interested. And that’s fine, because I’m not interested, either. I have no use for criminals’ sisters who happen to be former nuns and might potentially still be virgins. I have nothing against virgins, as a species, but I’ve never been the guy to think it was some kind of trophy to be someone’s first. It seems like a lot of responsibility, frankly, and if she wants to wait to have sex until she’s married, I’m definitely not the right guy for that. Again, live and let live and all, but I’m not a very patient guy.
We are all kinds of wrong for each other. I know that, and yet…
That wrap dress on her is something sinful. There’s no reason it should make my mind go to such dirty places. But even though it’s not low cut or short or slinky, my eyes keep catching on that little tie on the side, and I can’t stop wondering if that’s the only thing holding the whole dress together, and what would happen if I just give it a little tug. And if she’ll be wearing those red lacy panties underneath.
Jesus.I will myself to think about anything else as Helen leads me up to the front door of her aunt’s house. It’s a quaint two-story on a picture-perfect little street, and today Helen looks like some kind of 1950s sweetheart with her blonde curls that bounce with every step she takes. I want to reach out and give one of them a tug, watch it spring and coil back into place.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Helen rings the doorbell and turns to face me. “Pam and Ken,” she reminds me in a low voice. “And don’t bring up Dean. Wait for my mom to do it.” A little eye roll to herself. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Wait, what was that? There’s some weirdness there between her and Dean. I myself am totally estranged from my brothers, but back when things were good, we didn’t go months without talking to each other, even if it was just dumb little texts and GIFs and whatnot here and there. I make a mental note to figure out what the beef is between the two of them, ideally before the night is over.
Only because it might help me find Dean. Why else would I care? “Got it.”
The door swings open and I hold up the flowers I purchased, pasting on my best nonthreatening, ginger-who-wears-glasses smile as I assess the group. The first person I see is Helen’s aunt Linda—Linda Doherty (resident of Chicago for fourteen years, no prior arrests), a heavyset woman in her fifties whose blonde is running to gray. She looks me up and down with an unimpressed lip press, then moves aside so I can see?—
Pam and Ken Flanagan, both late fifties. Just like with Helen, I’ve done some research on Dean’s parents. I know they have good credit, regularly attend mass at their local church, are registered to vote, and have no criminal record, along with other miscellaneous tidbits. How these two managed to produce a kid like Dean Flanagan, I’ll never understand.
Ken is balding but has darker hair and a darker complexion, suggesting where Dean may have gotten his coloring from. Pam looks more like Helen, only older, and with a much more sour face—or maybe that’s only just for me. She and Linda exchange mutinous looks with each other, though Ken is all smiles. “Baby girl!” he croons, beaming at Helen like she hung the moon.
“Hi, Daddy. Mom. Aunt Linda.” Helen hugs each in turn before reaching back for me. “This is Thad.”
By the way she says it, I know she’s prepped them for meeting me, and from the looks on their faces, I can see they’re having a hard time wrapping their heads around it. Ken is the most friendly of the three, which is good—in my experience, dads are usually the hardest ones to crack. But I immediately start to second-guess myself on that front when I see the identical looks on Pam’s and Linda’s faces. Linda I’m less concerned about, since she’s just the aunt; but if I thought Pam might be my inside track to finding Dean, I am now seriously reconsidering. The look she gives me is outright hostile—and she doesn’t even know I’m after her son yet.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Thad,” Ken says, nudging his wife with his elbow.
Pam’s face does not change much, though she does a weird sort of closed-mouth smile and speaks through her teeth. “Please, come in.”
“Make yourself at home,” Linda offers, but not before checking Pam’s reaction first to make sure she’s supposed to say it begrudgingly.
O-kay. I exchange a quick glance with Helen as we follow her aunt and parents over the threshold, and to my surprise, Helen takes my arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Because I’m supposed to be her boyfriend. Right.
“Don’t take it personally,” she murmurs. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
Helen mentioned she’s never brought home a guy before, but I guess I assumed her parents would react more like mine. My mom would be ecstatic about any step that might bring me closer to giving her grandchildren. And my dad?—
Well, back when we were still speaking, he would have probably spent the whole night sweet-talking Helen and trying to touch her leg under the table. That seems like unlikely behavior coming from Pam, so all things considered, tonight probably won’t go as bad as it could.
“We thought we’d bring a bit of Boston with us—I hope you like lobster rolls, Thad,” Ken calls over his shoulder as he leads us to the dining room. I notice he is half holding Pam up, like she is in danger from losing her footing. Is she really that upset about Helen, her thirty-one-year-old daughter, bringing somebody to dinner?
Ken waits until we’re fully in the room. “Why doesn’t everyone have a seat? You too, Linda—we appreciate you hosting us, so you just relax. Pam, can you get everyone drinks?”
He and Pam have a wordless exchange for a long, uncomfortable moment before Pam reluctantly turns to face me. “Drink?”
“I’m easy,” I tell her, smiling in what I hope is a friendly, ingratiating, don’t-hate-me-for-dating-your-daughter way. “Whatever you got.”
Pam gives me a none-too-impressed look. “So you’re a drinker.”
Holy shit. Helen steps in closer, protecting me from her mother. It would almost be funny, if her mother didn’t scare the bejesus out of me. “He’ll have a cider, and so will I. Thanks, Mom.”
As Pam disappears into the kitchen, Helen pulls me over to the table, where we sit. Linda has taken Ken at his word and is watching Masterpiece Theatre in the living room at an incredibly loud volume, but I make sure both parents are safely in the kitchen before leaning in toward her. “What the hell is wrong with your mom? Why does she look like she’s planning to poison my drink?”
“I told you, it’s not you.” Helen ducks her head in toward me conspiratorially. “I think my mom is still convinced that I’ll eventually become a sister again. You would obviously get in the way of that, if you were really my boyfriend. Hence, the irrational hatred.”
The thought has never crossed my mind, that Helen might take her vows again. I speak before I can catch myself. “That would be a waste.” At her questioning look, I shift, realizing for the first time just how close we’re sitting, the fullness of her lips and her big, too-blue eyes. I swallow, feeling compelled into honesty despite myself. “You becoming a nun again. Never getting a real, nice guy to bring home to your parents who isn’t a bounty hunter with no empathy.”
Her lips tug into a small smile. “Don’t worry. I’m not going back. So there’s still plenty of time to find that guy.”
I feel a surge of irrational dislike for this nonexistent future boyfriend. He’ll probably be some dickwad like Shane who looks impressive on paper but is actually the world’s biggest douche canoe. I bet Pam Flanagan would like me if I were a private detective.
Feeling grumpy now at the thought, I’m in no mood for Pam’s attitude when she returns with the drinks, holding out my cider like she’ll get cooties if our hands so much as brush. It’s not a good idea, I know, but I decide to play things up.
“Thanks so much, Mrs. Flanagan.” I take the drink with one hand while I wrap my other arm around Helen and pull her close. “I’m so thrilled to be meeting you. Helen’s told me all about you.”
Pam zeroes in on where I’m touching Helen, then glares back at me. Oh well, at least it’s all out in the open now. This is war. “That’s strange. She’s told us absolutely nothing about you, until a few days ago.”
I laugh, like this is all in good fun, mostly because I know it will piss old Pam off even more. “That makes sense, yeah. It was love at first sight for me, but it took some convincing to persuade Helen to give me a chance—didn’t it, hon?”
Glancing over, I startle a bit as I realize just how close I’ve drawn Helen to me. Our faces are just centimeters apart, and up close her eyes are even more spectacularly blue, her face soft and sweet and guileless. I can’t believe I ever thought this girl was a femme fatale.
Then again, that’s how they get you, isn’t it? With their beautiful, angelic faces and their big doe eyes?
Helen looks nothing but perplexed now, as if she can’t quite figure out what game I’m playing—but, credit where credit’s due, she rolls right along with it. “He showed up at the library almost every day. I thought he just liked to read!” She laughs, and it makes her skin do this kind of glowy thing that’s…nice.
I realize I’ve been staring for just a little too long and clear my throat. “Yeah, so, confession. I’m not much of a reader.” Looking at Ken, who’s listening in on the conversation with interest as he brings some plates into the room, I take a gamble. “I’m more of a sports guy, myself.”
Which is not a total lie. I’m an Alabama boy at heart, and college football is basically my religion. That being said, I wouldn’t call myself the most faithful member of the congregation. I’ve been more like an Easter-Christmas worshiper since I moved to Chicago. I’m counting on being good enough at bullshitting my way through a conversation to get by.
Ken perks up, definitely interested. “Oh, really? Who’s your team?”
“The Red Sox,” Helen speaks up for me, smoothing a hand over my back. I don’t know what’s more distracting—her touching me, or just how quickly she jumps at the lie. “Thad loves baseball, don’t you?”
I can tell by the way Ken’s face brightens that he, too, loves baseball and the Red Sox. Thanks for that one, Helen. At least it’s the sport with the easiest rules to follow—just hit the ball and run around the bases, right? “You’re kidding,” Ken crows. “We’ll have to catch a game sometime, when you and Helen come to visit.”
“I’d love that, Ken, I really would.” I guess I’m getting a bit too into character because I drop my arm from Helen’s shoulders so I can grip her knee under the table.
I hear her little intake of breath, but she recovers quickly. “Maybe we can all go. What do you think, Mom? The next time Dean’s in town?”
This is the part I should be paying attention to, but I’ve gotten a little distracted by Helen’s legs. I really wasn’t thinking things through when I moved my hand, it just seemed like the kind of thing a boyfriend would do. The way she’s sitting, her dress has ridden up a little—not anything too wild, but I guess because she’s usually so covered up, I feel a shockwave go through me when I catch a glimpse of her thigh above her knee. The warmth of her skin seeps through her tights, and beneath the sheer material, I see a little freckle on the inner thigh of her left leg that I’m for some reason desperate to touch.
Swallowing, I force my gaze up again, only to find Pam glaring daggers at me. Her look seems to say, That’s my daughter, you dirty bastard, and I know what you’re thinking. And because I’ve apparently decided to lean into this archenemy thing, I give Pam a look straight back that I hope conveys, You’re damn right that’s what I’m thinking, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Pam fumes.
Helen clears her throat, sounding a little winded for some reason. “Mom? What do you think? When will Dean be back again?”
Pam blinks, then waves her hand irritably. “You know Dean. He’ll be back when he’s back.” She rises abruptly to her feet. “Does anyone want some cheese? I made up a cheese plate.”
She storms into the kitchen, slamming the separating door with such force that it swings back and forth for several seconds afterward. Ken seems to take this as par for the course and just goes back to setting out plates and utensils like nothing’s happened.
Helen, however, does not seem quite so sanguine. She’s giving me a look, like I’ve just kicked her favorite puppy. “Why are you antagonizing my mother?” she murmurs to me in a low voice. “I thought the whole point was to get on their good side.”
Because your mother doesn’t like me. Because she thinks I’m not good enough for her angel daughter. Because she wants to keep you wrapped up and hidden away. Because I really, really want to touch that little freckle on your thigh, just once.
I don’t say any of those things, obviously, because I’m not cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. “That got a little out of hand, didn’t it? Maybe I should go talk to her.”
“No.” Helen holds me in place with a firm hand to my chest, standing up and making me lose my grip on her knee. Her dress falls back into place, covering up the little freckle, and an unexpected but profound feeling of loss surges through me. “I’ll talk to her. You talk about sports with my dad.”
“I don’t know much about baseball,” I confess to her quietly, daring a quick glance back at Ken.
She raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re good at pretending to be things you’re not, aren’t you? Pretend you do.”