“Doesn’t it sound perfect?” Ollie says.
“It sounds marvelous.”
Ollie tugs at one of my unicorn earrings. “You’ll love it, Neen. I know you will.”
I’m not so sure. But I really hope he’s right.
***
When we arrive at my parents’ house an hour late, my mother opens the door and says, “There you are! Your father is out back trying to grillbrisketof all things, and I think he might need a little help.” She raises her eyebrows at Ollie.
He shakes his head. “I’ve warned him brisket’s hardest to get right.”
“You intimidate him a bit, dear,” Mom says. “I think he wants to impress you.”
“Well, you can tell Dad his cooking will always be my favorite,” I say. At Ollie’s incredulous look, I add, “What? I never said it wastrue.Just to tell him that.”
“Your cooking reallyismy favorite, Oliver,” Mom says.
“Thank you, Mrs.Lejeune,” he replies.
Mom sighs. “Will you ever call me Erika? Mrs.Lejeune sounds so... old.”
Ollie shrugs. “Sorry, Mrs.Lejeune, me mum raised me too polite for that.”
Polite, my ass.I shoot Ollie a dirty look. He never complains when my mother calls him by his full name, probably just to bug me. Whenever I bring him around, he tucks away his surliness and busts out the Irish charm. I swear he makes his accent thicker on purpose. He catches my eye and winks before kissing my mother on the cheek.
“Speaking of me cooking...” Ollie holds up the Tupperware in his hands. “Brought you more of that brown soda bread you like.”
“You’re a dear.” She takes the Tupperware from him and sighs like a smitten schoolgirl. I’m starting to wonder ifshe’sin love with him too. I can’t say I blame her.
We follow Mom into the kitchen, where she sets the Tupperware on the counter. She looks through the kitchen window into the yard. “Oh dear. Really, Oliver, I think you better get out there.”
“Wish me luck,” he says, pausing on his way out to kiss me on the cheek.
As soon as we hear the back door shut, Mom turns to me with a barely contained smile. “So...” she says.
“La-ti-do,” I sing.
“Nina.”
“Mother.”
She squints at me. “You look happy.”
“I am.” I cross the kitchen, setting my purse on the counter so I don’t have to look at her. It’s not that I don’t want my mother to know what’s going on in my life, but nothing makes me more uncomfortable than one of herinterrogations.
“You two seem... serious,” she says.
“We are.” I open the cupboard beside the refrigerator, but instead of the lemon-and-orange-slice-patterned glasses they’ve kept there since I was a kid, I find nothing.
“Where are the glasses?”
“We’ve got a thing of Solo cups in the pantry,” she says. “What doesseriousmean, exactly?”
I only half hear her question. I’ve never evenseena Solo cup in this house. My mother doesn’t cook, but the woman has always insisted on using real dishes, even when it’s inconvenient.
“Did you get rid of them?” I ask. She better not have. Those glasses are adorable. Not to mention vintage.
