“But what about our legacy?” my mother asks.
And there it is, the real issue at hand. They only care about how I make them look. When they’re at events with their friends and colleagues and are asked about their two daughters, they can sing Elise’s praises, but then when I come up …
“What about what I want?” I ask.
My mother huffs. “We want you to be realistic.This bakery idea—what happens when it fails? What happens when you and Clark break up? Then what?”
The words hit like a slap. Not because they’re cruel, but because they voice the exact fears that have been building since we returned from Oregon and have only grown since I overheard Clark’s phone call with Whitaker.
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly. “But that’s my risk to take.”
My mother looks pointedly at my father and then smooths her hands down her front.
He says, “We’re staying in Omaha tonight. We’d like to take you and Clark to dinner to get to know him properly.”
Every instinct screams at me to say no. But a tiny, hopeful part of me—the part that still wants my parents’ approval—thinks maybe if they properly meet Clark, they’ll understand.
“I’ll see if he’s free,” I say, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
As they exit, I overhear my mother chirp, “What kind of guy wouldn’t make an effort to meet his alleged girlfriend’s parents?”
First, they did meet him at our high school graduation. Next, he’s entering the playoffs, arguably the busiest and most stressful time of year for an NHL player. Lastly, maybe I’ve misread the situation and I’m not his girlfriend—at least not for real, which puts me back where we started.
But what about rule seven?When this is over, we go back to being friends. No matter what.
Right now, I don’t know where we stand. I’m aware this could be solved by simply asking, but I’m terrified that I won’t like the answer.
However, I text Clark and am surprised when my phone beeps almost immediately with a response.
Clark: Sure—just let me know when and where
That’s it. He hardly uses punctuation. In the very least, I imagined an emoji face at the mention of my parents. He’s not their biggest fan and only tolerates the idea of them because, and I quote, “They brought you into this world.”
But I’m not so sure anymore.
I spend the latter half of the afternoon fretting, reluctant to kick off my house shoes and change. I find a squeak toy that must be from April Fool’s Day in the back of my closet, where I keep the clothes that my mother would approve of for dinner.
Instead of picking me up as planned after I gave him the restaurant info, he texts that he’ll be late. If this were last month, I wouldn’t think much of it. However, the air between us is weird—foggy when it should be crisp like after a spring rain. It’s like he forgot where he put our friendship.
Dinner is a disaster from the moment we sit down.
My parents are tense and fully invested in judging everything about the five-star establishment they chose. Noses in the air, they look around as if people they don’t know are judging them because we have an empty seat at the table. It’s a vicious cycle of unhappiness—a perspective and pattern I’m committed to not repeating.
After ordering drinks, Clark arrives in khakis and a button-down, looking wonderfully handsome and unbearably tense. He shakes my father’s hand, politely kisses my mother’s cheek, and drops one on the top of my head.
This should cue the confetti cannons. Instead, all I get is the sad trombone. It felt polite and obligatory—mostly because he also kissed my mother when, in our previous life as best friends, he once told me that if he ever saw her again, he’dchallenge her to a duel with foam pool noodles. He’s the Culpepper family champion—the guy shows no mercy!
However, this isn’t my Clark. This is NHL Clark, media-trained and careful.
The restaurant is dark and moody, reflecting how I feel about this situation. Ordinarily, Clark would ride in on a beam of sunshine. Not tonight. Forecast: dreary clouds and drizzle.
After we’ve ordered, we sit in awkward silence until my mother breaks it with a click of her tongue. “Well, we’re so glad you were able to make it, Clark, was it?”
As if she doesn’t know his name. Steam might start coming out of my ears.
He smooths his napkin into his lap and says, “Of course. It’s a busy time of year, but—” He pauses and looks at me. I’m not sure if I see accusation in his eyes because the restaurant is dim, but I don’t see the twinkle I love so much.
“So, Clark, April tells us you play hockey?” my father asks as if he’s never heard of the sport or it’s unique like the caber toss.
