“Or my girlfriend’s gonna besomad,” I tell Andi, and she laughs.
“I wouldn’t bemad,” she says, resting her chin on my shoulder and nuzzling her face into my neck a little. Shivers work their way down my spine. “I’d just feel bad for whatever poor, misguided person thought they could steal your affections away.”
I turn and kiss whatever part of her face my lips reach. Her temple, I think, and she hums into my neck.
“You wouldn’t be even a little jealous?” I tease, keeping my voice low. “Not the tiniest bit?”
I can feel her smile against my skin, her arm around my waist going a little tighter. I’m exactly drunk enough to want her to slide it under my shirt even though we’re in public.
“Should I be?” she asks, and then licks the spot below my ear.Licksit. “I could try, but I can’t see you straying.”
“Me either,” I say, and swallow hard against the twist of heat that slides up my spine at Andi’s casual possessiveness. She strokes her thumb across my belly, over the fabric of my shirt, and it fizzes through me like champagne.
“We should probably head out soon,” she says. “Let them clean up and go home.”
“Yeah,” I agree, and slide my fingers over hers, look around the room at all the people who are still here: siblings and friends and relatives-by-marriage and coworkers, and for once, I stand there and let myself feel warm and fuzzy without questioning it.
“Thanks,” I tell her. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” Andi says, and kisses my neck.
CHAPTERFORTY-FOUR
ANDI
“Okay. Some ground rules,”I say in my bossiest voice, adjusting the rear view mirror until I can look Rick in the eyes.
“I know how to act,” my dad protests from the passenger seat.
“She thinks we’re gonna misbehave,” Rick tells him.
“Or embarrass her.”
“No, Iknowyou’re going to embarrass me,” I say, because it’s an important distinction. Rick sighs. “I’m just trying to make this go as smoothly as possible.”
It’s mid-April, and my parents are visiting for a week, which seemed like a good idea when they suggested it. I’m starting to doubt my judgement on that point.
“You don’t trust us?” my dad asks.
“Remember when you met my roommate and told her she looked like Andy Warhol, and then tried to pass it off as a compliment?” I ask.
“Andy Warhol was a visionary,” my dad says.
“Was he, though?”
“Not the question at hand!” I say, before they can get into it. “Thepointis that telling a twenty-five-year-old woman that shelookslike Andy Warhol is not very complimentary and she didn’t appreciate it, so please give some thought to any comparisons you might make today.”
“Of course, pompom,” my dad says. I don’t quite trust it, but it’ll have to do.
“Thank you,” I say. “Also, please don’t question the structural integrity of the floors or ceilings, and don’t ask questions about the plumbing.”
“What are we supposed to talk about, then?” Rick asks dryly.
“Some suggestions,” I say, and hold up my right hand, thumb out. “The owl currently rehabbing in his back yard.”
“What kind of owl?” my dad asks.
“That’s a great starter question to ask Gideon,” I say. “What a way to spark conversation.”
