“I had to find a restaurant that would live up to your standards,” says Wes, before turning to me. “They’re extremely picky. Snobbish, even.”
“Wes!” Alice cries. “Ivy, we are not.”
“Don’t believe a word this boy says,” warns Jim. “He’s probably told you all sorts of crazy things about his family.”
I bite back a smile, amused by the way they joke so easily with each other. “He hasn’t, I promise.”
Wes simply grins.
“So, I heard you two are suffering through Public Speaking together,” says Jim, directing the statement at me.
I wrinkle my nose, unable to help myself at the mention of my least favorite class. “We are. It’s been a stressful course.”
“We heard your speech was flawless, though, Ivy,” says Alice.
My eyebrows shoot up, and I look at Wes in disbelief. “Why would you tell them that?”
Wes shrugs. “Because it was.”
“A B+ isn’t exactly flawless,” I tell him before looking back at his mom. “He’s exaggerating.”
“She was amazing,” Wes states, matter-of-factly. “She deserved an A.”
“No,Weswas the amazing one,” I say to her. “He should give TED Talks for a living.”
Before any more back and forth can occur, the waitress appears, setting a basket of fresh bread on the table and pulling out her pad to take our order. Having looked up the menu beforehand, I order the chicken marsala with linguine on the side. It looked delicious from the photos online, not to mention the reviews were outstanding. Wes orders the chicken piccata, of course, and his parents order two different pasta dishes.
When the waitress leaves, they continue asking me questions as we nibble on the bread. How did I pick my major? Am I liking my classes? Are there any cool projects I’m working on? How long have I been interested in graphic design? Have I always gravitated toward the creative?
They ask me more about school than my parents have ever asked—more than anyone in my family—and while it’s awkward at first, being the center of attention, I eventually start to relax under their spotlight.
“Wow, that’s impressive, Ivy,” says Alice, after I explain how my high school art portfolio earned me an artistic scholarship. “Neither Jim nor I have a single creative bone in our body.”
Jim nods, taking a sip of red wine. “She’s right. I can’t draw a straight line for the life of me.”
“Wes actually excelled at art when he was in grade school, but it was never his passion.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I say, sliding Wes a sly glance. “He’s good at everything, isn’t he?”
“Have you been showing off, Wes?” asks his dad.
Wes raises his hands in front of him in a gesture of innocence. “I swear I haven’t. And I’m not good at everything. I just fake it ‘til I make it.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Give me one thing you’re bad at.” He appears thoughtful for a minute. “Oh my god, you can’t even think of one, can you?”
“He was never very good at sitting still,” Jim interjects. “Or knowing when it was time to be quiet. Always running around, talking to strangers. Asking questions. Making conversation.”
Alice nods in agreement. “It’s why we put him in sports. He needed an outlet for all that pent-up energy. Kept him out of trouble.Andfrom annoying his sister to death.”
“They didn’t get along growing up?” I ask, my eyebrows raising. The idea of Wes not getting along with someone is hard to imagine.
“Well, there was a period where they fought all the time. It drove me insane, especially since Wes,” she shoots him a look, “intentionally instigated things with Audrey.”
I look over at Wes, who’s adopted a much too innocent expression. “Wes,” I scold. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he says between bites of bread. “I was an angelic child.”
“Why am I finding that hard to believe?”
