The penny finally drops, taking my jaw with it. “This is about the baby thing?”
“It’s the lack of a baby thing, but yes.” George admits he and Alice have been trying to fall pregnant for over a year, without success. They’ve been through all the relevant tests and there’s no reason for them not to fall pregnant, it simply hasn’t happened yet. “We’ll get there, hopefully,” he adds. “But we never expected it to take this long and with all our friends having kids… it’s been hard.”
Suddenly, all the behaviour I didn’t understand makes so much sense I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Alice wants Sam’s business to stay open and running because she’s trying to increase her chances of becoming a mum. George came here ready to fight for mine and Sam’s relationship because he wants the same thing.
“I’m sorry I was so far off the mark when you talked about it before,” I say with genuine regret. “Man, I really am a shitty friend.”
“Nah.” He dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand. “It’s all a matter of perspective. Since we’ve been trying, I see babies every-freaking-where. For someone who isn’t looking to start a family, they’re probably all but invisible.” He lifts his glass to take another sip. “It’s all a matter of what you focus on.”
Huffing a laugh, I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “What you’re saying is, I’ve had my head shoved so far up my own arse I couldn’t see what the hell was going on around me.”
He grins. “Something like that, yeah.”
Laughing out loud this time, I hold up my glass in a one-sided toast. “Guess I’ll have to work on that.”
TWENTY-THREE
______
SAM
“Are you sure they don’t mind me crashing your birthday dinner?” I stare out the car window at Tristan’s parent’s house. “I mean, it’s supposed to be a family thing, isn’t it?”
I didn’t even know it was Tristan’s birthday until he confessed to it less than two hours ago—with reluctance and much grimacing. If it weren’t for the need the show up to this dinner, I doubt he would have shared the information at all.
“I told you, they want to meet you.” Despite the encouragement, Tristan’s made no move to undo his seatbelt. He hasn’t even managed to let go of the steering wheel. “My father insisted.”
“Right. Of course.” I glance at Tristan’s face, taking in the tight jaw and furrowed brow. He obviously doesn’t want me here, so why bring me? He could easily have told his parents I was sick or something.
It wouldn’t be the first time a boyfriend has told me not to bother coming to whatever event he had on at the time. My anxiety is too much of a hassle. Which is why most of my relationships end once the guy I’m dating realises, yes, I’m always that bad with strangers and, no, I can’t just relax and have a good time.
Has Tristan come to that realisation already? Surely it’s too soon. We don’t even leave my house that often. Honestly, I’ve been enjoying being with someone who doesn’t feel the need to go out somewhere every five minutes.
“We should head in,” he says, thrusting the car door open. “Might as well get it over with.”
I scramble out of the car, my stomach tying itself in knots as we approach the front door. I have no idea what to expect. Tristan claims his parents’ attention comes from a sense of obligation now, rather than love. If that were true, would they insist on having this dinner to celebrate his birthday? Would they care about meeting me? Sometimes, Tristan’s life seems like a compilation of baffling contradictions all stacked on top of each other. If his parents are the same, I may never find a way out of the confusion.
Tristan’s mother opens the door. I recognise her from the old family photo in Tristan’s apartment—but barely. She looks much older now. Her thin body is rigid as she stares at Tristan. Dark hair, the same colour as his but with a few sneaky greys, is neatly styled, and she’s wearing a full face of make-up. Her long dress is finished with low heels and simple jewellery. This dinner is no mere lip service. Tristan’s mother has dressed for a birthday party from head to toe. “Happy birthday, Tristan,” she says, breathily.
“Hi, Mum.” Tristan leans in to give her a short, stilted hug. Her eyes turn glassy as she holds him, drinking in the brief touch. Tristan may not be able to see her face, but I can. This is not a woman who’s forgotten how to love her son.
When Tristan pulls away, he turns to me. “Mum, this is my boyfriend, Sam Stephenson.” It’s the first time he’s had the opportunity to introduce me as his boyfriend and he does so without hesitation.
The thrill of hearing the title puts a smile on my face, despite my nerves, and Tristan’s mother returns it with one of her own.
“Hello, Sam,” she says, quietly. “My name is Ursula. I’m so glad to meet you.” She takes my hand in both of hers as we shake and my breath catches. I’m not the only one trembling.
Swallowing past the constriction in my throat, I force myself to look her in the eyes. “Thank you for inviting me.” The words are halting, but they’re audible and they make a coherent sentence. It’s a start.
Behind her, Tristan’s dad appears through a doorway and walks towards us. “Here’s the birthday boy.” He shakes Tristan’s hand before turning his attention to me. After the gentleness of his wife, the frank assessment in this man’s gaze is unnerving. He’s evaluating me, measuring my worth with a single probing glance.
I freeze. My muscles lock up and I quit breathing altogether.
“You must be Sam.” He shakes my hand in a firm, solid grip. “Craig Whitmore. Welcome.”
Words are not possible, so I try for a simple nod, but once my head starts moving it takes on a life of its own and I turn into a bobble head doll. Panic surges through me. There is no way in hell this man is going to think I’m good enough for his son. The mannerless weirdo who can’t manage a simple verbal greeting. No one in their right mind would wish for someone like me to become a permanent fixture in their son’s life.
Right on cue, Craig’s smile dims and he glances meaningfully at Tristan.
