“Mrs. Keller, how are you?” I manage, voice a little higher than normal.
“Good, thanks.” She glances between us, clearly suspecting nothing or maybe just too polite to say otherwise. “I didn’t know if you’d eaten yet. I made a frozen pizza, but Dad’s not going to be home until later.”
“Oh, we ate! I made dinner!” Megan beams, proud as ever.
Internally, I’m thinking I could absolutely go for a slice of that pizza, considering I barely survived the first meal, but I settle on a polite, “No, thank you.”
They fall into talking about wedding details, then seating charts, color swatches, the whole nine yards. Her mom’s big on the traditional stuff, and I can see it rubbing off on Megan. I’ve noticed it for a while now, how she looks for her parents’ approval before deciding on anything.
I get it. She still lives with them. I was the same way before I moved out. There’s this shift that happens once you’ve got your own place, your own life. You start making decisions foryou.
And I know when she moves in with me, they’ll beourchoices. Our rhythm. Just us.
So, for now, I let it play out. Let her find her footing. Because soon enough, we won’t be asking for anyone’s approval but each other’s.
* * *
It’s late, close to ten, when I pull into the drive at the big house. Every window glows warm against the dark, and I take that as a good sign. I don’t need to stay long, just talk to Mom about a few things. Mainly Megan. And her cooking. Obviously it’s not a deal breaker, but…she cannot cook. And the entire drive home, it had me thinking about how I’m going to have to eat that every day.Every day. I might not survive.
Through the kitchen window, I spot Dad at the table with a mug in his hand, and Mom moving around behind him, loading the dishwasher. When I step inside, Dad’s already looking at me with that what-did-you-do-now face.
“You need me or her?” he asks.
I grin. “Can’t I just stop by to chat?”
“At ten o’clock at night? No.” He chuckles.
Mom appears around the corner, towel in hand. “What’s going on?”
They’re both watching me now, anxious, waiting.
I rub the back of my neck. “Well, uh, I’m gonna need you to bump me to the top of your prayer list.”
Mom’s eyes narrow but she’s smiling. “Why’s that?”
“It’s Megan.” I sigh. “I love her more than anything, but good Lord…the girl cannot cook.”
Mom bursts out laughing. Dad tries to hold it in but fails halfway through his sip of coffee.
“I’m serious,” I say, holding up a hand. “This isn’t a joke. I’m genuinely worried about my nutritional future.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Mom says, still smiling.
“Mom.” I lean in, lowering my voice. “I don’t know how she made the peas, but I thought it was guacamole.”
Mom snorts, covering her mouth with the towel.
“I’m not kidding,” I add, shaking my head. “It looked like that baby food Hallie eats.”
Dad laughs quietly. “Better than underdone. Think positive.”
“No, sometimes itisunderdone,” I say. “She made rice too. It was like eating gravel.”
That sets them both off again. Mom’s laugh echoes down the hall, and Dad’s wiping tears from his eyes.
“Alright,” I mutter, trying not to smile. “You guys are no help. Guess I’ll just die of starvation.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Mom steadies herself. “Just talk to her.Nicely.”
