“I know.” She shoots me a wicked grin and accelerates again. “We can blame it on your driving.”
8
Sunday Dinner
Mallory
“Wherewereyou?“ Vivian is steaming mad when we get out of the car at Holland’s parents’ house. House isn’t exactly the right word for the stunning mansion in front of me. It’s a gorgeous, sprawling two-story colonial, and the yard is pristinely kept.
I stand still next to the passenger side of the Corvette, waiting to be hooked up to the mic pack again, and Holland joins me.
He insisted on me pulling over when we were two blocks away so he could get back behind the wheel. I thought it was a macho thing, but now that he’s standing with his shoulders squared, taking the brunt of Vivian’s tongue lashing about us being late and taking advantage of time that wasn’t ours to take advantage of when contractually we’re obligated to have our interactions filmed, I’m not so sure.
He shoots me a wink, and it’s like he somehow knows what I’m thinking…that I’m giving him some mental credit. It’s unnerving.
Vivian points between us. “See? See! This is what I mean! How do I know you didn’t take her to some place in town and have a great heart to heart and get to know each other all off camera. For crying out loud, you could have had your first kiss, and I wouldn’t know about it! This is unacceptable!”
If Vivian was the type of woman to stomp her foot, I imagine she’d be doing that right now, but she doesn’t. She leans in and pins both Holland and me with a terrifying look. “I’m watching you both. You’re already getting liberties most contestants don’t.” This, she directs to me. “Don’t make me regret that.”
I nod, and Holland says, “I told you. I’m a bad stick-shift driver. It took me a while to get the hang of it. Nothing happened.”
“Of course not,” I say it like it’s a foregone conclusion…because itis.
My gaze sweeps over Holland’s childhood home. Our upbringings could not have been more different if this is where he spent his youth. My parents were middle class, but we didn’t have much extra. We lived in a super-modest two-bedroom house in Florida, and when Hurricane Earl swept in when I was ten, and insurance didn’t cover all the damage, we took on some credit card debt that my parents paid off for the next ten years, and it’s sort of been one thing after another. I know I had it a lot better than many kids, but judging from the outside of this home, Holland had it better. Much better.
I catch sight of several heads peeking out from behind the curtains on the front windows and shoot a side-eyed glance to Holland and then back to the house.
He tracks my line of sight. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”
“We’ll have you get into position. We’ve got cameras set up and ready to go inside, so we’ll film your entrance, then we’re going to get footage of the evening as it progresses organically. We’ll pull you both aside occasionally to do individual interviews, but otherwise, forget we’re here.”
I keep my face impassive, but I want to roll my eyes. It’s impossible to ignore the giant cameras and their operators bouncing around like badly disguised chameleons.
“And rolling!”
Holland looks at me. “You ready to do this?”
“Ready or not.” I force a smile.
He ushers me to the front door, and I suck in a breath when I feel his warm palm at the small of my back. I can’t say anything, or it’ll be memorialized on television, and I certainly don’t want that.
He chuckles softly behind me, and I slow down so I can accidentally step on his toe. He grunts, and I smirk.
“Sunday dinner is the best. It’s usually my family and—“
The front door of Holland’s childhood home swings open to reveal a tunnel of people waiting for us.
Holland sighs. “Half the town.”
I look back at him, my carefully constructed façade slipping. There are alotof people here. Holland gives my back a subtle squeeze, like he can sense my nerves and he’s trying to reassure me without words. I should hate it, but I’m grateful for the solidarity.
“Mallory, this is everyone. Everyone, Mallory.” He shoves me forward into the tunnel, and I’m immediately being hugged.
“Mallory, welcome! Hello! We aresoglad you’re here!“ I relax when I recognize Holland’s mom, Darla. I’ve met her a couple times at Holland’s tournaments. “You remember my husband, Drew.”
“Of course.” I reach out and shake his hand.
“Glad to see you, Mallory.”
