Dinner with the Parents
Morning light filters through the blackout curtains, soft and gray. I’m awake but haven’t moved—just lying here, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers I don’t already know.
I wish Olive had spent the night. After seeing her in that wedding dress, all I wanted was to kiss her, hold her, make love to her.
But Nina crashed here after one too many glasses of wine and announced she wasn’t fit to Uber home. So I spent another night alone. Another night getting myself off to thoughts of her.
Now it’s morning, and she’s already gone—off to work, probably hours ago—while I’m still in bed, missing her like hell.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I reach for it blindly, expecting something from my manager or another PR alert, but it’s not that.
It’s an email. Frommy parents.
Subject: In Town This Week
From: Dad
Ash,
Your mother and I are in Los Angeles for a few days. Thought we’d let you know. If you want to meet up, let us know.
—Dad
No emojis. No warmth. Just enough words to get the job done. Classic him.
I sit up slowly, the sheets falling away as I reread the message.
It’s been… what? Two years since I’ve seen them in person? Maybe longer. I stopped counting after the last show theydidn’tcome to.
And now they’re in L.A., casually dropping in like we grab brunch every Sunday?
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply button.
Every instinct says to ignore it. To shove it into the same compartment I keep all my unresolved family shit.
But something stops me.
Olive.
She doesn’t have parents to invite to the wedding. She doesn’t get a do-over. And here I am, avoiding mine like it’s a sport.
She asked me—gently, like she always does—if I wanted them there when we got married. I brushed it off at the time. But maybe… maybe I do.
Maybe I need to stop running from the version of myself they didn’t approve of and justshowthem who I am now.
I clickReplybefore I can second-guess it.
Hey, Thanks for letting me know. Let’s meet tonight at 6 at Brasserie Bellamy—I have something I want to talk to you about.
I don’t mention the wedding in the email. Not yet.
The moment I hit send, doubt floods in. Why the hell did I agree to this?
My stomach’s in knots, and I haven’t even seen them yet. Just the thought of sitting across from my father’s disapproving eyebrows and my mother’s polite but tight-lipped smile has me ready to crawl back into bed and fake the flu for a week.
I grab my phone and open my texts. I need backup. There’s only one person who makes things bearable lately. Who makes me breathe easier.
