‘Four!’
‘Three!’
‘Two!’
‘One!’
I am so insanely in love with her, I don’t even recognize myself.
Sophia is already waiting for me when I angle myself down to meet her in a kiss, slipping my tongue past her lips to taste the rum she drank seconds ago. Somehow she makes it taste sweeter. She makes everything just a little bit sweeter.
“Happy new year, Sugar,” I tell her, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of her nose, which she crinkles at me.
“Happy new year, giant.”
I kiss her one more time before turning toward the crowd, grabbing the rum and raising it over my head.
“Now let’s fuckin’ party!”
THIRTY-NINE
Sophia
one year later
“What should I know before we get there?” I ask him.
“’Howdy’ is a real thing,” he laughs, “and if you look up ‘redneck stereotypes,’ a picture of William R. Davis will be front and center. He’s probably already had brisket smoking since last night, and I’ll bet you my left nut he answers the door in a flannel and a trucker hat with dip in his mouth.”
“Seriously?” I laugh.
“Oh yeah. You’ll be eatin’ your weight in barbecue three times over before sunset.”
“Can we stop on the way to the house?” I ask him. “I want to get your mom some flowers.”
He smiles as he trails his hand over my thigh. “Absolutely, we can. She’ll love that.”
I know I shouldn’t be asking to take more time when he’s already worried about being late. We had already been delayed two hours at the airport by the time that he called Colt and asked to ‘borrow a plane,’ but when the first time you meet your boyfriend’s mother is on her eightieth birthday, you kind of have to bring her flowers. I’m almost certain that’s a rule, somewhere.
I decide on a bouquet of red, orange and yellow tulips; from the stories he’s told me, Eric’s mom seems like a tulip kind of lady.
We follow a long dirt path that jostles the Uber until we finally come to a stop in front of a small, two-story Victorian farmhouse. A cream-colored building with dark trim, a wooden swing on the front porch and a few wagon wheels set against the porch railing beneath a state flag that hangs from the eave. A seriously old Ford pickup that must be from the seventies sits parked along the drive, tucked into grass that has overgrown.
The red screen door squeals as it opens, revealing an elderly man wearing a too-big flannel, a trucker hat covered in worn holes, and a pair of loose-fitting jeans. The wrinkles on his face bunch together as he smiles widely at me, pulling me in for a hug with a kiss on my cheek before a word is even spoken between us.
“You must be Sophia,” he greets me with a heavy accent, only made thicker by the bundle of tobacco tucked under his lip. “I been tellin’ Ricky to bring ya ‘round here, it’s about damn time he did. Let me get a good look at ya,” he tells me, pulling away from the hug to hold me by the shoulders. “Ain’t you a pretty thing?”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Davis,” I tell him.
“Oh, don’t give me none of that ‘Mr.’ crap, you call me Bill, darlin’.” With a pat to my shoulders, he moves in to wrap Eric in a tight hug, clapping him on the back before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It’s damn good to see ya again, Ricky.”
“You too, Bill. Martina still…?”
“Ah, she was in a horn-tossin’ mood earlier, but she’s settled now. Y’all ought to come in, say hi to her.”
Eric’s hand rests between my shoulder blades, and I nervously fidget with the handle of the gift bag in my hands. I’m glad I’m not in charge of carrying the flowers - I think I might drop them.
We follow Bill into the house; it’s a small, cozy place, decorated from floor to ceiling with a mish-mash of mostly-older items. I can pick out a few pieces that look new, and I wonder if Eric sent them. Doilies, antlers, and small figurines are all over the place, and the air smells like the most delicious food I’ve ever smelled is cooking somewhere in the house. Maybe a hint of moth balls, somewhere under there. The floor creaks while we walk through, following Bill as he hobbles through to the living room.
