22. Natalie
NATALIE
This was a mistake. Henry wanted more and I couldn’t give it to him.
So I gave him this instead. Meet my parents.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
It was a few weeks ago now. I hoped he’d forget.
He didn’t. He brought it up casually at first, then with a quiet sort of persistence I couldn’t argue with. So I finally set it up.
I told Mom and Dad I’d been seeing someone. That it was serious enough to introduce him. I suggested a restaurant but Mom waved me off. “Too expensive,” she said, already pulling out her grocery list. “I’ll make dinner.”
So here we are. Henry’s car idles at the curb outside my parents’ place. I tell him to park a few spots up, under the broken streetlight. Easier than answering questions I don’t want to answer. Such as: why does your boyfriend drive a car more expensive than our house?
The street looks the same as it always has. Beat-up cars, cracked pavement, a porch light flickering two houses down. I half-expect Henry to say something about the parking or the neighborhood. He doesn’t. He just squeezes my thigh, gets out, and opens my door.
The gate sticks, like always. Henry tugs at it, frowning, until I lean down and lift the latch just so.
“Trick to it,” I say.
We head up the walkway, the gravel crunching underfoot. My pulse thuds in my ears. Henry said I could come from the sewer and he’d still want me but saying that is one thing. Walking him into where I actually come from is another.
We barely make it up the steps before the front door swings open.
Mom stands there, beaming like she’s been waiting behind the curtain for a stage cue.
“Hi, honey!” she says, pulling me into a tight hug before I can say a word.
Dad’s right behind her, practically bumping into her shoulder, eyes scanning Henry.
I mentioned his last name, but Carter isn’t exactly rare.
It didn’t set off any alarms. They have no clue who he is.
“And you must be Henry,” Mom says, already pulling him into a tight hug.
He’s dressed down tonight, which for him means a crisp collared shirt and tailored chinos.
The fit is flawless. The fabric is expensive, even if no one else clocks it.
It’s his version of casual, which still makes him look like he’s here to close a deal, not meet his girlfriend’s parents on the bad side of town.
Mom’s wearing the dress she saves for birthdays and graduations.
Dad’s in a polo with a faint stain across the back that never fully washes out.
Not knowing how to dress for both worlds, I settled on a simple black dress and flats instead of heels.
Minimal jewelry. It’s safe. Neutral enough to pass in either direction.
“Come in, come in,” Mom says, ushering us inside like she can’t bear to waste a second.
The house smells like a mix of lavender incense and her lemon air freshener.
She leads us straight to the lounge, her energy just slightly overclocked, like she’s trying to choreograph the whole evening to run perfectly.
“Sit, sit,” she urges, gesturing toward the couch.
Henry lowers himself onto the cushions, relaxed but careful, taking everything in.
I settle beside him, trying to look natural while my eyes catch on the coffee table.
There, scattered between a candy dish and two mismatched coasters, are framed photos that were definitely not there the last time I visited.
Me at five, gap-toothed and grinning. Me in braces and glasses.
Me in a borrowed cap and dress two sizes too big.
“Really, Mom?” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” she says, all innocence, but her smile gives her away.
Henry leans forward, already reaching for one of the frames. “Is this you?” His grin is warm and amused.
“Unfortunately,” I reply, already feeling the heat crawl up my neck.
“Cute,” he says, holding up the photo of me in braces like it’s a rare collectible. “The hair. It’s really working for you.”
Mom beams. Dad lets out a low chuckle. I sink lower into the couch and resist the urge to cover my face.
“So…” Mom starts, and I realize it’s the first time she’s really looked at Henry, really taken him in. Her smile falters just slightly. “You’re very…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, like she’s not sure what adjective to land on. Fortunately, Dad jumps in before the silence can get awkward.
“You eat meat, right?” he asks. “Please don’t tell me she’s brought home another vegetarian.”
Henry’s mouth quirks up. “I do.”
There’s a short pause, just long enough to feel awkward. But then Henry glances around the room, his eyes scanning the crocheted throw draped over the armchair, the clustered wall art, the mix of family photos and floral prints.
“This is a lovely home,” he says easily. “Did you do the decorating yourselves?”
Mom perks up like someone just flipped a switch. “Oh yes. That quilt there was my grandmother’s. And those photos over the piano? All from the flea market. Frames and everything. You wouldn’t believe how much people spend on stuff you can find for five dollars if you know where to look.”
She’s off, pointing out vases and candleholders, retelling where each one came from and what kind of deal she got.
I smile, but my stomach knots. We’re not wealthy, and while I’ve made peace with that, there’s something about the way she emphasizes every sale and secondhand find that makes me feel embarrassed.
“Natalie,” Mom says suddenly, snapping my attention back to her. “Did you catch the coupon insert this week? Half-off ground beef at SaveMore.”
“No, I didn’t see it,” I say, voice a little thinner than I mean it to be.
Her eyes slide to Henry, bright with genuine curiosity. “What about you?”
I freeze. Henry probably hasn’t set foot in a discount grocery store in his entire life.
He glances at me, just for a beat, then turns back to her without missing a step. “Sorry, what’s SaveMore?”
Mom laughs, assuming he’s joking.
“It’s a store,” I say quickly, trying to spare both of us.
“Of course,” Henry replies, as smooth as ever. “Then no, I don’t do much shopping.”
Mom doesn’t seem offended. If anything, she seems charmed. I glance sideways at Henry. He’s doing great but I still feel like I’m holding my breath.
We get through dinner. Mom’s made enough pasta to feed ten, with garlic bread stacked like bricks on a side plate.
She piles our plates high, waving off any protests.
Henry thanks her warmly and digs in like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
It disarms her. She keeps smiling and correcting him every time he calls her “Mrs. Wright.”
Dad, halfway through his first helping, leans forward and sets down his fork. “So, Henry, what do you do?”
I’d told them the basics. That he works in fashion too but I left it vague on purpose.
Henry swallows, wipes his mouth politely, and says, “Same role as Natalie, just a different company.” Thankfully, he doesn’t say which company.
“Ah,” Dad says, nodding like that explains everything. “So you two understand each other.”
Henry glances over at me, smiling. “I think so.”
The conversation flows easy after that. Henry asks about Dad’s job, about Mom’s community group. He laughs at their stories, tells a few of his own, listens more than he speaks. Then it happens.
“So, where do you see this going with our Natalie?” Mom asks.
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. That’s not the kind of question you ask. Not at dinner, not like that.
“You don’t have to answer—” I start.
“All the way,” he says, calm and certain. “I couldn’t love anyone else the way I love her.”
My pulse jumps. Mom lets out a soft gasp, hand pressed to her chest.
“Well, that’s just…wonderful,” she says.
Dad nods, satisfied, like Henry’s passed inspection.
I just sit there, thrown. Not by the words themselves, but by how easily he said them. No hesitation. No buildup. He just said it.
Later, we’re in the lounge with mugs of tea. Mom sets out a plate of biscuits, fussing with napkins like it’s high tea instead of a casual Tuesday night. Dad gives her a look, then hooks a finger at me to follow him into the kitchen.
“He’s a good one,” he says quietly. “Polite. Listens. I like him.” He pauses, lowering his voice. “But…” He trails off.
I frown. But? Henry’s practically flawless. He’s not the kind of man who gets a but.
“There’s just something different about him,” Dad says. “Bit clueless, sometimes. Doesn’t know things. I’m surprised he got to your level at work.”
It takes a second to click. Then I remember: Henry didn’t know what SaveMore was. He asked what a crockpot did. He blanked when Mom mentioned waiting at the DMV. He smiled through it, but it showed. Regular life is foreign to him.
“He works too much. That’s all,” I say.
Dad gives me a look like he knows I’m deflecting but decides not to push. “As long as you’re happy.”
It catches me off guard how much those words land. Because I am happy. For the first time in a very long time. Also confused, overwhelmed, unsure of what comes next, but happy. A few months ago, I thought I had everything figured out. Now I’m second-guessing every plan I ever made.
When we step back into the living room, my stomach drops. Henry’s on the couch with one of my old sketchbooks open in his lap. The sketchbook from high school. The battered one with his picture in it.
“…always so artistic,” Mom is saying proudly as he flips through. I lunge forward before I can stop myself and pluck the sketchbook from his hands.
“Time’s getting on,” I blurt. “We should probably head home.”
“Oh, you don’t have to rush off—”
Dad starts to speak again but I’m already ushering Henry toward the door. There’s the long goodbye. Hugs, promises to visit again soon. Mom presses a container of leftovers into my hands, and Henry, ever the gentleman, thanks her like she’s given us gold.
Then he says, “Next time, you’ll have to come to my place.”
My stomach lurches. I grab his arm before anyone can respond and steer him toward the car with a little too much urgency. The last thing I need is Mom and Dad stepping into his apartment and seeing just how different our worlds really are.
Finally, we slide into his car, the doors closing with a soft thud. Henry starts the engine and pulls away. As we pass the house, he gives my parents a polite wave.
I keep my eyes forward, resisting the urge to tell him to floor it. If they ask about his car, I’ll just say it’s one of those models that looks more expensive than it is.
“They’re a bit full-on,” I say once we’re safely away.
“I like them,” he says. “Nice people.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the low hum of the engine filling the space between us. I turn the words over in my head, letting them bounce around my chest until I can’t hold them in anymore.
“You love me?” I ask.
Henry glances over, then reaches across the console and rests his hand on my thigh.
“I was going to drop it on you over dinner or something,” he says, “You know, make it a whole thing. But it kind of slipped out.”
I don’t hesitate. “I love you too.”
His fingers tighten slightly and that familiar grin starts to spread across his face.
“I’m not surprised. Seems you’ve had your eye on me for years.”
My cheeks grow warm. I groan and turn toward the window, trying, and failing, not to smile.
“I can’t believe Mom showed you that,” I say.
“To be fair,” he says, still amused, “I don’t think she realized it was me. She was just proud of your sketches.”
He pauses, then adds, “She does know you’re not a designer, right?”
“She doesn’t get it,” I say. “She thinks ‘fashion house’ means I’m in the back sewing hems.”
He laughs at that.
“We should do dinner with my mom next,” he says.
I snort. “Yeah, no. She does not like me.”
“She doesn’t like anyone, but she…” he hesitates. “She thinks you’re talented.”
“She said that?”
“No. Not directly. But it’s obvious.” He hesitates again. “She saw the changes you were making. It rattled her. Joining the gala was her idea. She wanted me to get a feel for you.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Get a feel for me?”
He smirks. “Yeah. Professionally, obviously.”
“And?”
He shrugs. “Apparently I took the assignment a little too seriously.”
“So, what’s the verdict?”
He glances over at me, eyes soft and his hand still warm on my thigh. “Feels pretty damn good.”
I grin. For once, I don’t overthink. I just let myself feel happy.