Speaking of, for better or worse… I’m in it now.
The kitchen is loud and chaotic when we step inside.
At least seven women are crammed into the space—aprons, flour, gossip everywhere. I catch flashes of faces as they whirl around the island, Hillary pointing out each one with a name that I barely catch: Aunt, cousin, neighbor, someone who “used to babysit Scottie when he was teething,” and has now decided this gives her partial maternal rights for life to the family.
They all want to hug me, to see the ring, to ask how we met, how the wedding was, and when we’re planning to have children. Apparently, child-barring is a recurring theme, but it’s also just small talk, and I may be socially stunted for this kind of family dynamic, but I at least can understand that.
Hillary claps her hands once in a sharp and authoritative manner.
“All right, you vultures,” she says. “Give me five minutes with my new daughter-in-law. The rest of you go set tables or check the brisket or stare at your phones, or whatever it is you do when you’re not in my way,” but the way she says it is teasing… loving, almost.
There’s a chorus of laughter and theatrical complaining, but they listen. The kitchen empties quickly as each one grabs something from the kitchen to take out to the potluck forming outside for everyone to eat, until it’s just me and Hillary and the hum of the oven.
She gestures to the stool at the island. “Sit, sweetheart. You want coffee? Tea?”
“Tea, please,” I say. “If you have it.”
“I have everything,” she assures me. “You married into a family of women who believe every problem can be solved with baked goods and hot beverages.”
I like that. And just for a moment, I think of my mom and how she would have loved Hillary. I hate that she’s not here with me. But then again, if she were alive, maybe I wouldn’t be going through this right now. Maybe she would have convinced my father to let me marry for love… maybe my ballet career would have taken me to Seattle at some point, or maybe Luka would have dragged Scottie to one of my performances if they had played New York and were in town one extra night.
Maybe I would have met Scottie on different terms. I would have been cold since he is a hockey player, but he wouldn't have let me get away with it, just like he didn’t the first day I met him. He would have decimated my defenses against him, and then maybe he would have found a time when Luka wasn’t looking to ask for my number.
Maybe all of this would have happened naturally, and I would be meeting my real-life mother-in-law for the first time, not worried that she’s going to grill me like the KGB and find out all my secrets, including how Scottie is faking a marriage with me to protect me.
She fills a kettle and sets it on the stove before taking the stool across from me, forearms on the counter, eyes bright and curious.
“So,” she says, “tell me everything. How did you and my son meet?”
We’ve practiced this. Luka drilled the story into me like choreography.
“We met through Luka,” I say. “He and Scottie are teammates. Luka is my brother.”
“Right, the Russian Olympian,” she says, snapping her fingers. “Scottie told us. The scary one with the murder glare. I like him.”
I’m going to count that as a point for me. Luka either brings people in with his realism and his give-no-fucks attitude, or he rubs you the wrong way. There is no in-between with him.
“That sounds like Luka,” I say dryly.
“And was it love at first sight?” She asks, leaning in, eyes dancing.
“Not exactly,” I say. “He was…” I think of Scottie with his dumb apron and his seven meals a day and the way he rubs my feet like it’s a privilege. “Persistent.”
She laughs. “That sounds like him, too. Real love takes time. You don’t build a life with someone you fell for at one look. Though as a matchmaker, I’ve seen it happen, and it happened to Arny and me.” She tilts her head, considering me. “So how long were you two dating before he proposed?”
“Not long,” I admit. I don’t give any more information than that. I have no idea what Scottie told her. “But when you know, you know. Right?”
The words feel strange on my tongue.
Her gaze goes soft, sharpening at the same time, like she’s seeing straight through to the parts of me that aren’t entirely certain.
“Right,” she says finally. “And you’re happy? He treats you well?”
“Yes,” I say, that part is easy. “He’s very kind.”
“He gets that from his father,” she says. “Arnold’s the best man I’ve ever known. Even after the accident, he never complained. He just… adjusted. Kept loving us the same way.”
“Scottie mentioned the accident,” I say quietly, glancing over at the tea kettle as it starts to steam.
