“Kathy says she needs help with the croissants.” My mom does, in fact, know how to bake.
“Olive’s already ruined a batch. We’re going to have to turn them into apple turnovers or something,” Carolina reminds me.
“Fine. There’s aprons in the closet.”
Mom ignores me. “You remember how I was telling you about the neighbor’s son? Well, I have good news.”
“Did he get into his paramedics program?” I ask, resigned to knowing more about my neighbors than any honest Seattleite wants to.
“They’re still waiting to hear back, but he’s very excited for your date tomorrow.”
“I’m not double-dating with Fitz and Kathy.”
“No, silly, with me and your father.”
“This is why she’s a failure in the romance department. I know you’re a boss babe.” Gran hustles in. “I don’t blame you, Winn. It’s your mother’s fault.”
“I will raise my daughter as I see fit, Frances.”
“She’s a grown woman, April,” Gran wails at my mom. “She needs to get out in the world, work that vag.”
“Aren’t these apples beautiful!” My dad stuffs himself into the storage room and shoves a large Tupperware container in my face. “I figured you could make apple muffins or apple butter to sell. You have that great apple butter recipe. Or those mini apple pies, Winn.”
“We’re going to make apple tarts,” Mom says emphatically. “We have all that dough left.”
“…a grown woman!” Gran is still ranting to anyone who will listen.
“One of my new golf club friends has a son. I think you guys would hit it off, Winn. I gave him your number to giveto his son. Be on the lookout. I bet he calls you,” Dad says proudly. “He’s currently living in my buddy’s basement, and he’s looking to move out.”
The eye twitch is back. “Yay. More dependents.”
It’s obvious. My family is getting entrenched in Seattle.
Fitz is a worthy sacrifice to achieve some healthy boundaries and distance with my parents.
“Now, what do you think about this for the menu?” Mom shows me her notebook. “I think you could add a few more healthy options. Kathy, dear, be careful washing those apples.”
“I should just go ahead and invite Fred’s son over.” Dad asks, “Where’s your planner, Winn?”
“Dad, no.”
My phone starts ringing.
“That’s him!” Dad cries happily.
“Dad, you don’t—”
He swipes the green button on my phone. “Hello!” he says too loudly into the phone. “Are you calling to date my daughter?”
I need an optometrist. Or maybe I’ll start day drinking.
“Oh. It’s your credit card company. They need your social security number, Winn.”
“Oh, I have it somewhere,” Mom says, digging in her purse.
“No, Dad!” I snatch the phone back. My eye is twitching like a motherfucker. “It’s a scam call. Don’t give out my personal information.”
“We can do Fred’s son the next night,” Mom says. “For your date tonight, what about a nice mushroom pasta?”
