“It’s a surprise, darling!” Mom hadn’t even broken a sweat. It was as though she kidnapped and stripped people against their will every afternoon. “A lovely, lovely surprise.”
“What—” I began, and then I trailed off—my mind clunking its way toward a horrid realization. Only one thing could make Mom this happy.
The doorbell rang.
“Oh no.” My heart dropped. “No, no, no, no…” But Mom had already hurled herself down the stairs.
“Hello!” she trilled from the entryway. “Mr. and Mrs. Butkus, so thrilled. Welcome, welcome. And you must be Christopher!”
I glared at Jane amid the wreckage of my former outfit.Sorry, she mouthed. My gaze flicked toward the bedroom window. Wewere on the second floor, but there was a tree right outside; surely I could climb down.
No sooner had I stood up than Jane flung herself at me and flattened me to the floor with a loudthunk.
“I’m really sorry, Rachel.” She pinned my shoulders down. “But I want you to find happiness like I have with Owen. Just give this guy a chance. Even if you don’t like him, you’ll make Mom happy.”
“That is the last thing I want to do.”
“Please.” Jane blinked down at me, looking more like an angel than ever with the ceiling light glowing behind her head.
“Fine. For you. Not for Mom.”
Downstairs, I decided to fully commit myself to the evening. I didn’t want Mom to accuse me of sulking and try to force me into a second meeting with the Butkuses.
“Hello, hello.” I entered grandly, kissing Dad and Owen on the cheek. Then I swept over to the Butkuses, not wanting to leave Mom in charge of the introductions. No doubt she would introduce me as her extremely eligible daughter, dropping unsubtle hints about my spinster status. Mr. and Mrs. Butkus gave every impression of being kindly teacher types, she a short lady with soft gray curls and glasses on a beaded chain, he a reedy gentleman with a sweater vest and a bald patch. My warmth as I introduced myself to them was genuine. I steeled myself to turn toward their son and was annoyed to note immediately that he was not completely foul. He had hair that hovered between blond and brown (untidy—he could use a referral to Stephen Branson’s barber), guileless blue eyes, and an unexpected dimple in the center of his chin. He was wearing an unremarkable outfit of jeans, a checkered button-down shirt, and—I couldn’t help grinning when I noticed—whitesocks. He had apparently removed his shoes out of politeness when he came in.
“Hi. I’m Rachel.” I offered my hand. He gave it a quick, firm squeeze. His hand was large, warm, and dry. I would absolutely never admit to Mom that this man was—objectively—a hunk. It was a matter of principle; if I admitted it, she would never stop trying to set me up with every single tech bro, doctor, and lawyer who crossed her path.
“I’m Christopher. It’s so nice of your parents to invite us over.”
Yes, so nice and selfless.I tossed a smirk over his shoulder at Mom, who was giving me a thumbs-up and mouthing,Tall.
“They’re thrilled to have new neighbors. Will you be living in the new house with your parents?”
“Um, no.” He looked a bit puzzled. “I live in Fremont.”
Hmm. I had assumed he would live in a penthouse downtown. He must’ve bought himself one of those hideously modern Fremont town houses. How inconvenient. I hoped I wouldn’t run into him around my neighborhood.
“So, Rachel, what do you do?”
Oh God.I glanced around to see if any alcohol was forthcoming. Mom, Jane, and Owen were crowded around Christopher’s parents, the twins were sprawled on the couch snickering at a video, and Dad had retreated to the kitchen.
“I’m in technical support,” I told him, sweetly, yet in a quelling manner. I knew he was moments away from offering me condescending professional advice, or worse, expounding on his own boring career. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see if my dad needs help with the food.”
In the kitchen, I found Dad backed against the wall beside the refrigerator, eating dry cereal from a box.
“Hi, Dad.” I reached into the fridge, drawing out a bottle ofwhite. I unscrewed the cap and poured myself a generous glass, which I drank in two gulps. “Wine?”
“Whiskey, I think.” He stowed the cereal back in the pantry.
I poured him a healthy measure of whiskey and we drank in silence.
“Should we bring drinks out to the others?”
“Mm.” He nodded. “And your mother mentioned something about cheese cubes.”
Armed with alcohol, cheese, and toothpicks, we rejoined the cocktail hour. I kept my distance from Christopher, not wanting to encourage any dull tech talk.
We migrated to the dining room, where Mom bodychecked me into the seat across from Christopher like a scrappy defensive tackle in the body of a Jewish mother. Jane helped her serve dinner, a lurid green chicken curry spooned over clumpy white rice. The twins complained loudly about the food. I tried to give them a big-sisterlyShut up, I mean itlook, but they glared back at me, contracting their solid black, painted-on eyebrows. I’m afraid they won the showdown. Teens really are scary these days. After everyone had taken a few bites, Dad silently left the table and returned a moment later, tossing a loaf of sliced bread in a plastic bag and a tub of butter onto the table. The twins lunged for the bread, arguing over the butter. I’m no fan of Mom’s cooking, but my face burned with embarrassment for her. The Butkuses carried on eating as though they hadn’t noticed a thing.
