“Mom...” I started, but she was already scrolling through more comments.
“Oh, and look at this one from Mrs. Kowalski! She says you two remind her of her grandparents, who were married for fifty-eight years. Fifty-eight years, Lily! Isn’t that wonderful?”
Uncle Mike wandered over with a beer in his hand and a knowing grin on his face. “So where is he today? The famous racecar driver? I was hoping to talk shop with him. I’ve got a ’78 Camaro that’s been giving me trouble.”
“He’s... busy,” I managed, setting down my mother’s phone before I dropped it. “He had plans.”
“Probably planning something special,” Aunt Carol said with a theatrical wink. “Mark my words, that man is smitten. You can see it in his eyes in that photo. He looks at you like you hung the moon.”
My cousin Jenny, who had been quietly setting the table, looked up with interest. “Wait, are we talking about Lily’s boyfriend? The one from the Facebook post? Because seriously, Lil, he’s gorgeous. Like, magazine-cover gorgeous. How did you even meet someone like that?”
“It’s complicated,” I said, the same useless phrase I’d been deploying for weeks.
“Love always is,” my father chimed in from his chair by the window, not looking up from his newspaper. “The best things usually are.”
“Dad, please...”
But the family freight train of enthusiasm was impossible to stop. Olivia, who had been coloring at the kitchen table, suddenly piped up with the devastating honesty of a seven-year-old.
“Mario helped me build my Halloween costume,” she announced proudly. “He knows all about cars and aerodynamics, and he let me paint his fingernail pink for the speed boost.”
The room went silent. Every adult head swiveled toward my daughter, then back to me, their expressions ranging from delighted to smug to downright triumphant.
“He helped with her costume?” my mother breathed, pressing a hand to her heart. “Oh, Lily. That’s... That’s so...”
“Domestic,” Aunt Carol finished with satisfaction. “A man who’s good with children. That’s husband material right there.”
“Mom!” I protested, but the damage was done. The word ‘husband’ hung in the air like incense, heavy with implication and hope.
“I’m just saying,” she continued, unrepentant, “a man doesn’t spend time helping a woman’s child unless he’s serious about her. Mark my words.”
My mother was nodding vigorously. “Carol’s right. And the way he looks at you in that photo... Lily, I’ve been praying for this day for years. To see you happy again, to see you with someone who appreciates you...”
Her voice grew thick with emotion, and I felt my resolve cracking. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. Not just the gossip or the pressure, but this—the hope. The joy on my family’s faces, the dreams they were building around a relationship that didn’t exist.
“You don’t understand,” I started, but Uncle Mike was already talking over me.
“When do we get to meet him properly? I mean, really meet him, not just those quick hellos at church or the festival. Bring him to Sunday dinner!”
“Yes!” my mother exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Next week! I’ll make my famous lasagna. And that chocolate cake he liked at the church social.”
“How do you know he liked the cake?” I asked weakly.
“June told me. She said she saw him go back for seconds.” My mother’s smile was radiant. “A man with an appetite is a good sign, you know. Shows he appreciates the finer things in life.”
The conversation spiraled from there. Plans were made for Sunday dinner. Menu discussions ensued. My father was dispatched to find his “good” polo shirt for the occasion. Aunt Carol started talking about whether it was too early to start planning an engagement party.
I felt like I was drowning in their enthusiasm, suffocated by their love and expectations. Every word they spoke dug me deeper into a hole I didn’t know how to climb out of. How could I tell them it was all a lie? How could I explain that the man they were already planning Christmas dinners with was just a temporary arrangement, a shield against exactly this kind of pressure?
“I need some air,” I announced abruptly, standing up from the table.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Ben.
Mom’s already planning the wedding. Hope you know what you’re doing, sis.
Of course he would be smug — he’d been the one to hatch the whole fake dating plan — his texts always read like a victory lap. Another buzz, this one from my mother.
Should I invite Mario’s parents to dinner, too? Or is it too soon? I don’t want to overwhelm him.
