“That he looks fine. That my future in-laws won’t judge him. That it’s just brunch.”
“Lies,” I say. “Mother will absolutely judge him. She judges everyone. It’s her love language.”
He laughs, but his hand tightens around mine.
“They’re really here,” I say softly. “For this.”
“And for Game One,” he says. “Mom cried when I told her we open playoffs at home.”
I bump his shoulder. “Where’d you put them?”
“The Loews. Classy but not pretentious.” He squeezes my hand. “Dad saw the nightly rate and nearly had a heart attack. Tried to book a Holiday Inn. I reminded him I’m a professional athlete, not a grad student, and said he’s sleeping somewhere with a decent thread count.”
“How’d that go?”
“He muttered something about ‘fancy pillows’ and let Mom handle the rest.”
We slow as we reach the block, the townhouse rising ahead. Brass gleaming, planters blooming, windows reflecting spring light.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods once, breath easing out. “Yeah. Just reminding myself I don’t have to win in there. Just…show up.”
His voice is steady—none of the armor, only calm. The man who braces for every hit lets the city move around him.
“That’s new,” I say.
“That’s peace,” he answers simply, and I fall a little more in love with him.
A town car pulls up to the curb. The back door opens and his parents emerge—his mom in a floral dress with a cream cardigan, pearls at her throat, her version of formal. His dad in a navy blazer that’s seen weddings and funerals but probably not a townhouse on the Upper East Side.
“There they are,” Wesley says, relief flooding his voice.
His mom spots us and waves, beaming. His dad tugs at his collar, looking like a man approaching his own execution with dignity.
We meet them on the sidewalk.
“You look beautiful, Anne,” I say, kissing her cheek.
“Oh, Joy, sweetheart.” She pulls me into a hug that smells of lavender. “I’m so nervous. Tom kept saying it’s just breakfast, but I know better.”
“It is just breakfast,” I lie.
“With people who have more forks than we have plates.”
Wesley groans. “Mom.”
“I’m just being realistic.”
His dad shakes my hand, formal but warm. “Good to see you again, Joy.”
“You too, Tom.”
He eyes the townhouse suspiciously. “That’s where we’re going?”
“That’s it.”
“Jesus.” He adjusts his blazer. “Looks like a museum.”
