He blinks at me expectantly, his eyes hopeful as he waits for my response. My heart’s still beating too quickly, anxious at the idea of meeting his parents, but I just can’t say no to the look on his face. I can’t.
“Okay, I’ll go,” I say softly, in slight disbelief that these words are coming out of my mouth. His face lights up, but I rush out a disclaimer before he can speak. “But, unlike you, I have no experience meeting parents, so if I do something weird or say the wrong thing or act like a freak, I’m sorry in advance.”
“I highly doubt you’ll do anything weird or freakish, but if it happens, I’ll do something as equally weird and freakish todraw the attention back to me. And you know how much I love attention. Deal?”
I snort because it’s true. He does love attention. “Alright, deal.”
“Plus, my parents are very chill. They’re not judgmental in the slightest. There’s absolutely nothing to be nervous about.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not socially awkward around new people.”
He weaves his fingers through mine, stroking my palm with his thumb in a way that can only be considered maddening. “You’ll be fine. They’ll be as taken with you as I am. I promise.”
TWENTY-TWO
Standing on the sidewalk,I tug nervously at my dress. The second Wes told me which restaurant we were going to—the popular Italian place in town—I jumped on Yelp. The food looked incredible, but descriptors likeUpscaleandClassyhad me spending three hours trying to decide on an outfit.
“I love the dress,” Wes says, gazing at me with affection as he encloses my hand in his. I resist the urge to tug my jacket tighter around my body, a nervous response to the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m pretty. Like I’m worth something. Like he really likes the dress.
“Thanks,” I manage, my face warm from the compliment, and fully take him in. He’s wearing a light blue button-up that hugs his broad shoulders and pressed chinos that mold to his muscular legs. Dark curls flop over his forehead, the strands shiny and soft-looking under the glow of the streetlight, and I wish I could run my fingers through them.
God, he’s attractive.
Before I can return the compliment, a couple walking toward us waves. Wes waves back with his free hand, his other giving mine a reassuring squeeze. “You okay?”
“Nervous,” I admit, squeezing it back.
“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about, Ives.”
I nod like I believe him.
Wes’s mom is a tall, slim woman who immediately reminds me of the picture of Wes’s sister, Audrey. Poised. Beautiful. His dad isn’t quite as broad or big as his son, but he has the same kind eyes as Wes and the same easy smile, only with a few more laugh lines.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Ivy,” is the first thing his mom says, pulling me into a warm hug that catches me off guard. “I’m Alice.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say a little shakily, hugging her back.
Wes’s dad pulls me in next. “Great to meet you, Ivy. I’m Jim. Wes’s told us so much.”
“Hi,” I tell him, trying to hide my surprise at the friendly gesture. My own dad is the furthest thing from a hugger.
When we break apart, Wes takes my hand again, looking between all of us with a grin. He nods toward the door. “Well? Shall we?”
“Lead the way, sweetheart,” says Alice before looking at me. “Wes always picks the best dinner spots. He has amazing taste in food.”
“He certainly eats a lot,” I say, and then snap my lips shut, worried that came across as rude. “I-I mean?—”
Alice laughs. “Oh, honey, trust me. We are aware of how much this one tucks away. Hundreds of dollars in groceries every week and he wasstilla bottomless pit.”
I smile at her as we step inside, and my shoulders ease down an inch. Maybe this will go better than I thought it would.
While we wait for the hostess to seat us, Wes asks his parents how they’re liking their hotel. It’s one of the few decent ones in town, and they rave about it. And then they rave about the café they went to for coffee and the school bookstore they visited during the day. They rave about the quaintness of downtownand the beauty of the campus. And though they spent the entire afternoon with Wes, I notice his mom keeps giving his arm little squeezes and his dad keeps patting his shoulder, like they’re so happy to see their son they can’t help but show it.
It’s not long before the hostess leads us to a square table near the window, and I blush when Wes pulls out my chair for me to sit. “Thanks,” I murmur, conscious of his parents’ eyes. He winks in response.
“I love the ambiance here, Wes,” Alice says, her fingers grazing the pristine, white tablecloth. “Very elegant.”
“Yes, great pick,” echoes Jim. “Great pick.”
