All the ease of the past few hours slipping away in an instant with a stark reminder of how stuffy my family are.
“No, you don’t have to dress up. Just a shirt and a pair of pants.”
“I don’t have any nice shoes. Is your family going to be angry if I turn up to dinner in my tennis shoes?”
“No, you’re a guest. A guest with unusually big feet.”
Okay, my face is definitely on fire now. He seems embarrassed, but I don’t think it’s over the size of his feet.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious. You can wear whatever you want, obviously. You’re a guest. My mom will just be thrilled to have someone new to …” I manage to stop myself just before I say ‘grill.’ “ … talk to.”
His shoulders relax a little, but he still doesn’t seem convinced.
“Okay, well, I’ll wear the nicest clothes I have.”
“If you want to borrow one of my shirts or something, I’m sure we’re not massively different sizes in that department.”
Oh my gosh, shut up!
“Thanks.” Luckily, he’s distracted enough that he fails to pick up on how unbelievably embarrassed I am right now.
We head to our separate rooms to shower and change. I linger after changing into a clean shirt, pants and tennis shoes—if Elias is wearing tennis shoes, I don’t want to make him feel self-conscious by being the only one. I’m still kicking myself when Mom’s car pulls up outside. The only thing dragging me out of this room right now is the thought of leaving Elias alone with her. I can’t imagine him choosing to cower in his room rather than face the music. And he does take the fastest showers in the world.
When I make it downstairs, Mom and a few of her friends are sitting on the couches with glasses of wine, laughing about something hysterically. When there’s no sign of Elias, I try to slip past without being detected, but Mom catches me and calls me in. “Benny, come and say hello to our guests.”
I flinch at the hated nickname.
Her guests are her usual friends, I think, it’s hard to tell. The women my mom hangs out with meld into each other when they go to the same Botox injector and hair stylist.
“Have you gotten taller since we last saw you?” one of my mom’s friends asks.
Before I can answer, another one says, “Isn’t he adorable? Tabby, he’s a doll!”
I grit my teeth and smile politely.
“Excuse me, sorry, I just want to check on my guest.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Mom says, turning to the group of women. “Benny brought home an adorable German boy from school.”
Elias? Adorable?I’d say intimidating is more apt a description for a six foot five slab of pure muscle and power.
“Ooh German!” Someone coos. “Guten Tag!”
They burst out laughing and I smile politely. “Right, so, I’ll just go make sure he’s dressed.”
“Honey,” Mom calls me back. “You will change out of those tennis shoes for dinner, won’t you? Your father’s bringing someone home and he’ll want you to make a good impression.”
A few of the women are looking awkwardly into their wine glasses. Some keep their gaze trained squarely on the drama. Either way, I know they’re all listening.
I want to tell her I’m wearing them out of solidarity to my guest—isn’t that the polite thing to do? But I have no idea how she’ll take it. The last thing I want is a passive aggressive argument with her in front of the biggest gossips in town.
Instead, I nod and say, “Of course, Mom.”
The tightness in her face softens—sort of—and she goes back to sipping her wine. Her attention is fully turnedback to her friends as I leave the room. A cackle of laughter follows me down the hallway on my way to the guest room.
The door is shut, so I knock and wait for a reply.
“Yes?”
