“I swear, it’ll be chill,” he murmurs against my temple. “Just my mom, food, maybe some awkward childhood photos. No pressure.”
I laugh. “Thatsoundslike pressure.”
He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. “You’ll look beautiful in all the embarrassing baby-photo lighting.”
I groan and shove his shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He grins. “You’re lucky I love you.”
I don’t say it back.
Not yet.
But I smile. And that smile, I think, tells him everything.
I text Lorna an hour later.
Me: Going to meet the mom. Pray she doesn’t hate me.
She replies immediately.
Lorna: Don’t flirt with her husband.
I snort and toss my phone onto the bed.
I agonize over what to wear.
Not because I want to impress her—okay, maybe a little—but because I want to berespectfulbut also still me.
Eventually, I settle on a soft cream sweater that hugs my curves, high-waisted jeans that make my ass look like a damn blessing, and caramel leather boots I thrifted in high school and refuse to give up. I curl my hair, then talk myself out of it, then curl it again.
By the time Everest textsHere, I’m pacing like I’m about to go on stage instead of… meeting someone’s mom.
But it’s not just someone. It’shismom. And I’mme. Which feels complicated in ways I haven’t even unpacked yet.
When I open the door, he smiles like I’m the only girl on the planet. Like I could’ve worn a trash bag and he’d still say I looked pretty. And for a second, that makes it worse. Because what if shedoesn’tsee what he sees?
Still, he opens the passenger door for me like a damn gentleman, and I try not to panic the whole drive there.
We don’t talk much. Not out of awkwardness—Everest just has this calm about him that makes silence feel welcomed and warm. Which is exactly what he offers me the moment we park.
His fingers find mine the second we step out of the car. Like muscle memory.
“You ready?” he asks.
No. Not even a little.
But I nod. “As I’ll ever be.”
We walk up the drive together, hand in hand.
His mom’s house is a one-story cottage-style ranch, tucked into a quiet neighborhood with big trees and Christmas lights wrapped tight around the front porch columns. There’s a faded wooden star on the door and the kind of welcome mat that actually makes you feel welcome. The flower beds are mulched and bare for the winter, but you can tell someone cares.
The porch creaks under our boots, and my stomach somersaults.
Everest squeezes my hand. “You’re good. I promise.”
I nod, swallowing past the sudden dryness in my throat.
