I’m not sure if this night will be more or less bearable if I remember him as Snotty Thomas.
“Come in, come in,” Dad says, hanging back to let them take their shoes off. “What do you want to drink?”
I leave without being told and grab their orders, then place various homemade snacks on the coffee table, pretending I’m the picture-perfect future wife and an exceptional host who lives to serve.
Not that I’m going through the motions to avoid my mom’s wrath. Not that I’m quietly seething that I’ve neveronceseen any male help out in the kitchen or play server like this. Whether it’s my uncles, nephews, cousins, or family friends, every single male sits on their ass while the women cook, clean, and set up the table.Always.
And because I don’t feel like I have any choice other than what I’ve been trained to do, I go through the motions, constantly asking myself whether the angle of the forks and placemats would earn Mom’s seal of approval.
It isn’t long before we’re huddled around the table, heads bowed as Agnes leads grace, then everyone launches into chatter—and by everyone, I mean Mom and Agnes take turns trying to be the one talking the loudest.
I speak every once in a while, but it’s always mindless comments about the weather, or the news, or gasping appropriately at various bits of gossip. My anxiety picks up whenever there’s a lull in conversation, because that meansthere might be an opening where I’m expected to actuallytalkto Thomas.
But Agnes is always quick to bring something else up.
It’s hard not to smile at Mom being visibly flustered by the fact that another woman is taking control in her own home. Agnes tells my dad and Jacob to eat more vegetables, constantly making sure everyone’s drinks are topped up, and mixes the food in the alcohol burner to make sure it’s evenly heated. All jobs reserved for the host.
I’m pretending not to notice Mom’s spearing looks my way as if this ismyfault that someone else deems her to be an inadequate host.
But this time, when a lull happens, Thomas takes it upon himself to fill the silence.
“Tita Christine was telling me that you’re looking at going back to studying,” he directs at me.
I almost don’t catch myself from flinching. I’m not sure whether to be appreciative or frightened of his bright, inquisitive eyes, like he’s genuinely interested in what I have to say.
I sip apple juice to clear my throat. “Nothing has been decided yet.”
Preorder sales are going really well, and although my social media isn’t getting as much traffic as it first did when Leo’s friends were harassing me, the fashion-influencing gig is making up the difference, even if I am slowing down with it.
“You know, you’re still young,” Agnes says, spooning more rice onto her and her husband’s plates. “Have fun. You have plenty of time to decide what you want to do.”
Mom scoffs. “She isn’t getting any younger. I always told her she never should’ve left college for a hobby.”
I bite my tongue and try not to remind her that when myhobbywas going well,sheborrowed money frommeto get herteeth fixed. The same teeth she doesn’t hesitate to use to talk down to me.
I fight back a grin as Tita Agnes waves her off, and Mom’s jaw tics. “Eh, no need to study yet. No point if you’re planning on having kids soon.”
Both Thomas and I look like a couple of deer in headlights.
Agnes winks. “Just kidding. You should see the look on both your faces.” She elbows her son. “You need to make more money first.”
Jacob chuckles, and the friendly amusement on Thomas’s face heightens. I swallow down the hint of jealousy over their casual interaction. I’ve never had anything remotely similar to their easy banter with my own parents. They look genuinely happy, and like they actually love each other.
“I’m making the intern money,” Thomas tells me.
“For now,” my dad says.
Jacob grunts in agreement.
“He’s the best intern they have,” Mom boasts, like she’s trying to sell me a car.
“I’m the only intern they have.” Thomas and Agnes’s smiles turn beaming at the same time. “They fired two for having relations together, and one was drinking on the job,” he explains.
That’s my first laugh of the night. Okay, maybe I was too harsh. I don’t remember Thomas being this cool.
“What do you write?” He changes the topic.
I almost choke on my food even though I saw this question coming a mile away. Regardless of how I frame it, saying “romance—and yes, there’s sex in it” will never be easily digestible to anyone who doesn’t read the genre.
