“This is my boyfriend, Ben,” I introduce simply into the dead silence around the table.
Ben beams and gives Great Aunt May his best grin, which is fairly irresistible. She sits up even more in her seat and smiles back, seemingly charmed. “How do you do?”
“I’m really good,” Ben enthuses. “How about you?”
I gulp. As for me, I inch ever so slightly down in my chair despite my momentary boldness. Judging by my mother’s expression, that’s a double-strike in her books: a grammar fail and overly familiar.
“I’m very well, darling. Thank you for asking. At my age, every day is a good day.” Great Aunt May’s eyes sparkle. “It’s either that or pushing up daisies, and I’m not ready to become fertilizer yet.”
My mother looks slightly shocked as everyone else laughs.
“How did you meet?” Jenna asks curiously. “I didn’t hear that part.”
Force of will is not enough to keep the color from rising in my face at the memory. “Work,” I say gamely, my voice wavering only a little.
My mother arches an eyebrow. She steeples her fingers over her meal. At the far end of the table, my father mirrors her.
Better not think of the spilled coffee beans in the stockroom or trysts during snowstorms or tying Ben up in all of the lush shades of the wool shop. Or of the sweet crush of his mouth against mine on the platform outside of Gatwick, or the simple pleasure of waking up together as snow falls outside. And how can it be only a few weeks when I realize through all of that, despite my worry, I’ve fallen in love with the man.
I cough to cover and give Ben an opportunity to speak. “Ben’s a musician.”
Ben grins at that. “Aye. I’m the lead singer and guitarist for Halfpenny Rise, my band. If you haven’t heard of us yet, you’ll be seeing us at the Brit Awards with our next album. We’re heading out on the road tomorrow to tour our current album, and we’re gonna rock out across the UK. And get over to Ireland too. I expect we’ll be touring Europe this summer.”
I swallow hard, unable to shake the feeling of my mother looking daggers at me, burrowing into my skin. When I thought Ben would cover, I didn’t expect bravado at the table. Brit Awards? My stomach sinks. Ben doesn’t get the silent class coding here, but I do. A glance at my father is a warning, a sharp look in his eyes.
“Is that right?” my father asks coolly.
“We’ll go in my van to keep costs down,” Ben continues, unfazed. “Maybe we’ll do some festivals too. I’m waiting to hear on our date for Glasto.”
This time, I do slide at least two inches down in my seat. Even if my parents know what Glastonbury is, rock music has never been suitable dinner conversation.
“That’s brilliant,” Jenna enthuses, at least one fan at the table. “I have your album. It’s amazing.”
“Ah, fantastic.” Ben grins at her.
Any hope of shoving the genie back in the bottle is long gone. I could kick Ben’s ankle under the table, but I don’t think that would stop his eruption of music-related details or delete his words from our collective memory. Or erase his easy grin and western shirt, the rebellious streaks in his hair, or his lip piercing, a dazzling ray of brightness in this dull room. Like nobody can ever dull his sparkle. I don’t want them to make him fade at all.
And it’s obvious by the way he’s going, no one ever has. Dread sits in my stomach, the meal now sitting heavy. Because I don’t want this to be his first taste of being muted, because of me and my family.
“But honestly, that’s enough about me,” Ben says, attempting to feign modesty in the vicious quiet at the table. “You should hear Charlie play. He’s brilliant himself. Along with The Screaming Pony.”
This time, there’s no mistaking the snap and crackle of the fire in the hearth as a heavy silence falls in the room. Wide-eyed, I stare at Ben as if he’s totally lost his mind. And I don’t quite kick his ankle, but I can’t keep from nudging his foot hard with mine. Rainbow socks aren’t immune from clouds in this dining room.
Shit, I didn’t tell Ben to not bring up my music here. Mum thinks it’s the next step from devil worship.
Great Aunt May is the first to speak. She looks quite concerned. “My dear, if any ponies are screaming, they will need the urgent care of a veterinarian.”
Taken aback by both my touch and her response, Ben pauses to give me a sidelong glance.
“Don’t worry, Aunt May,” I say hurriedly. “No ponies have been harmed by my music. Or Ben’s. Or by anyone.”
“Aye, Charlie’s right. No animal activists are after him, to my knowledge,” Ben deadpans.
No one laughs.
“How did you get into music?” Michael asks, trying to help bring the conversation back on track.
“It was either music or work in a pub full-time. I mean, I still do work as a barman on occasion. My father had a pub when I was a kid. I learned to work then. I use the same work ethic that he taught me now.”
