That made Bobby givemea look—a rather pointed one, as a matter of fact—before he had to submit to a hug from my mom and an even manlier handshake from my dad.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Bobby said, which was probably the politest thing any boyfriend has ever said when experiencing a transcontinental surprise and being thrust into meeting his partner’s parents. He studied them as he said it, clearly still taking them in.
My mom is Patricia Lockley; she writes psychological thrillers. (I Am Following You,andIf You Whisper,andIs My Son Real?—it was kind of hard not to take that last one personally.)Everyone always says I look like her, and I could see what they were talking about. The same oval face, the high cheekbones, the large, almond-shaped eyes. We both havestraight, dark hair. Where Mom is slender, the kindest word for my build is probably wiry. (I wanted to say svelte, but Indira made a sheet cake that looked like the United States flag last week, and I ate four of the thirteen original colonies.) I’m taller than my mom, which I get from my dad. I got the glasses from him too, by the way.
My dad is Jonny Dane, of the Talon Maverick series. He looks like a dad. Like, if you were trying to cast someone in the role of a middle-aged writer, you’d probably skip him because he’s too much of a stereotype: dad shoes, dad shorts, dad polo, dad glasses, hair in a low-maintenance dad cut. Around the house—or when he could get away with it—he usually had a holster clipped to his belt, with one of his pet pistols along for the ride (he referred to this, with an unbearable amount of pride, ascarrying). There was no pistol today, though, which sent a flush of relief through me. I also discovered, in that particular moment, my newest worst nightmare: I had an inexplicable vision of my dad and Bobby in an old-fashioned shootout.
“Is something wrong with your phone?” my mom asked. “We’ve been calling you for days.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been ignoring you. Like how you ignored my question: why are you here?”
“Dashiell doesn’t like conflict,” my mom told Bobby. “You’ll want to watch out for that.”
“I told you you’re not allowed to talk to him.”
“What’s going on with your lights, son?” My dad toggled one of the switches. “Fuse blow?”
“Nothing is wrong with the lights,” I said, which was clearly patently untrue. I even doubled down with “The lights are fine.”
“Better have a look at the breaker box,” my dad said. “We don’t want a repeat of last night.”
“Dashiell—oh, and Bobby—listen to this,” my mom said. “The bed-and-breakfast where we stayed last night didn’t have air conditioning. Can you imagine?”
“Wedon’t have air conditioning,” I said. “I guess you’d better go stay in a hotel. In Idaho.”
“He makes jokes when he’s uncomfortable,” my mom told Bobby. “It’s a coping mechanism.”
“Bobby, where do you keep your tools?” my dad asked. To nobody in particular, he announced, “Bobby and I are going to sort out this light situation.”
“Thereisno light situation,” I snapped. “And we don’t have any tools.”
In a surprisingly apologetic tone, Bobby said, “I think we have some in the coach house.”
I rounded on him. “Et tu?”
It was hard to tell in the shadows, but it looked like he was blushing.
“Come on, Bobby. Dash, why don’t you show your mom your room? That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”
“No, it wouldn’t. Because I’m not twelve years old, and I don’t have a poster of Justin Timberlake hidden on the back side of my closet door. I’m an adult. I do not need my parents swooping in and—and swooping in! If I want to live in a house with no lights, I’ll live in a house with no lights. And why didn’t you askmeif I have any tools? I have lots of my own tools. I have—” And of course, my brain chose that moment to crap out, and I couldn’t think of the name of a single tool. Then it came to me: “—like, eight spanners!”
“They’re called wrenches in the US, sweetheart,” my mom said. “Of course I want to see your room. Speaking of which, I wish you could see thenursery. It’s so cute. Dottie did a wonderful job.”
“Where did you put the nursery?” But as soon as I asked the question, I knew where they’d put my sister’s newborn baby—my room. My old room.
My mom tried to take my arm, but I shook her off. Bobby put a hand at the small of my back, and the contact was grounding—the bubble of surprise (and anger) that made me feel like I’d been fighting a slowly losing retreat popped, and all of a sudden, I could think clearly again. Or more clearly, at any rate. I drew a deep breath and said, “Let’s start over. Mom, Dad, this is a surprise. Notice I’m not saying it’s great to see you. I’d like to know why you’re here.”
“If you’d answered your phone,” my dad said—in the tone of every parent everywhere—“you’d know.”
“He’s dysregulated, Jonny,” my mom said. “It’s all the excitement.” Before I could respond to that—Bobby had a surprisingly tight grip on my shirt, which ought to have told me something—my mom said to me, “We’re here for the fundraiser, sweetheart.”
Dawning understanding—and horror—robbed me of speech.
Bobby was the one who asked, “The library fundraiser?”
He was kind enough not to say:The one that’s being held tonight? Here? In Hemlock House?
“Of course,” my mom said brightly. “We’re the guests of honor.”
