The woman is tall, fair-skinned and blonde, though a few streaks of silver shine through, while the man is a few inches shorter than her, with a stocky build and the same olive skin and twinkling brown eyes that Bianca sees in the mirror every morning.
Her parents are here.
Holy shit.
“Mom. Dad,” she says, breaking the oppressive quiet in the room, but she’s not moving forward and neither are they.
And then, finally, the silence is broken.
“I never thought this day would come,” Mrs Dimitriou says and races forward, throwing her arms around Bianca, pulling her from Xavier’s side and full out sobbing as she towers over her younger daughter.
“Gee. Thanks, Mom,” Bianca says, patting her mother gently on the back. She can’t really manage any other words. The shock hasn’t worn off. Can you be aware that you’re in shock? If you can, that’s what she’s feeling now. She’s here at the party, and her mom – who should be in Arizona – is hugging her, but none of it feels real.
“Oh, you know what I mean,” her mom says, stepping back and wiping at her eyes. “And you must be Xavier.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Dimitriou,” he says, but then he’s pulled into a hug as well. Over her mom’s shoulder he meets Bianca’s eyes and she can’t even muster a reaction beyond an incredibly bland grin. He returns it and the party around them picks up again, the music volume rises, conversations flowing over the top of it.
She’s still numb, even when her mom reaches up and squeezes Xavier’s face gently between her hands.
“You’re going to call me Eleni.” Then she leans in and says, “And my God, you areexactlymy Bianca’s type!”
“Mom!” Her face feels flushed and her head is spinning. Maybe she really is in shock, but before she can protest more, her dad pulls her into a tight hug and her mom scoffs.
“Oh please, you don’t think he knows that? Of course he does,” she says, patting his cheek gently.
Xavier just lets his eyes twinkle at her and then back to her mom before he leans in and stage-whispers, “She’s exactly my type too.”
With that, her dad releases her and moves toward Xavier. “You can call me Mr Dimitriou.”
“Yes, sir,” Xavier says and her parents both laugh with him, her dad pulling him down a few inches to kiss each of his cheeks.
“Kidding, my boy. I’m George to you!”
Is this what it would have been like, to find someone she loved, to bring him home to her family, to have them be this happy for her?
She doesn’t know whether it makes her want to laugh or cry. The shock is wearing off now and she feels herself flagging, and once her dad lets him go, Xavier’s there, at her side, his arm around her shoulders again and maybe he can feel it in the way she leans against him, letting him take most of her weight, but he looks down at her, brows furrowed in obvious concern.
They can’t leave though, not right away, not with her parents there and everyone still having a great time, and it’s another hour before her dad claims exhaustion after the nearly six-hour drive; the party breaks up naturally once the older couple excuses themselves.
And somehow that’s even worse, even though she wanted to leave.
Xavier walks her to her door and then follows her inside when she turns and holds it open for him in invitation. She doesn’t even think about it, she just knows she wants him there with her as her façade falls away and dissolves into pure, unadulterated rage.
She’s only a few steps inside when she kicks off her shoes and lets out a high-pitched shriek from between clenched teeth, her hands balling into fists at her sides. It sends Amelia sprinting out of the living room into her bedroom with an annoyed yowl.
“Un-fucking-believable.”
“Uh, what is?”
“My parents. I just . . . I’m so fucking angry, I could . . . I don’t know, throw shit? Punch a wall? I’ve never . . . I’ve never, ever felt like this . . . I don’t know how to . . .”
Her breath is coming hard and fast and for a second she’s worried she’s going to work herself into an actual panic attack, but then he reaches out, taking her hands, and she lets him lead her to one of the stools at the kitchen counter.
“Slow down,” he whispers. “Take a slow, deep breath and tell me what’s wrong.”
She does, closing her eyes and pulling in a long breath before exhaling, then repeating it, while his thumbs stroke her knuckles. The contact keeps her grounded. Her fists loosen and come undone, leaving four red indentations from her nails on each palm.
“My parents came. They got in their car this morning and drove six hours because they thought it was important to show up, but weeks ago when I brought up the PhD party, they said it was too far to make the drive and I . . . I just thought that was okay. Iagreedwith them.”
