James picks up his phone from the bedside table and sets it back down. “We should try to get some breakfast in us before we hit the road.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Although what are the odds your motheris going to start talking again about how cute ‘caramel’ babies are over our toast?”
He chuckles. “Sorry, I know she’s a bit old-school.”
“It’s fine. After what you’ve told me about her, I was sort of fearing the worst. But I can tell she’s been making an effort with me. Maybe she’ll even hit me with the ‘Gosh, don’t you look young?’ again. I like that one.”
James rolls onto his side, slips an arm across my belly. “Yeah, she’s a bit of a charmer. My friends at school didn’t get it, either, when they met her. Kept telling me how nice she was. But I think she genuinely likes you.”
It seems true. At least, I haven’t felt either parent is keen to chase me off their grounds with a shotgun. It’s a surprisingly low bar, and the Thomases have cleared it easily, which is its own relief. And I know should his parents not like me, should they take against my lack of family, my unimpressive career trajectory, my preferred small talk—not to mention my Blackness—this would all soon come to an end. James is just that kind of guy: family is important, I can tell.
Being liked—useful.
James’s fingers circle my navel, his eyes drifting across the sight of his knuckles ruffling the duvet.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
A small smile. “Nothing. Just feeling grateful. Thinking about the future, I guess,” he says, voice still foggy with sleep.
I curl my body farther into his. I know I must look as giddy as I feel. “Yeah?” It makes my heart hum with happiness when we talk about the future. Not that any promises have been made. But as his hand comes to rest on my stomach, I can’t help but feel reassured that our dreams might be aligned.
“My mother was asking again about meeting yours, you know,”James announces, moving the conversation along before I can dig any deeper. “And your sister.”
I try not to let my body tense in his arms. “You know that’s not possible, James. I haven’t seen my mother in person in years. And Claire really doesn’t want to be brought anywhere near my romantic relationships, not after that’s gone so badly in the past.”
“I know, I know. To be honest, I think my mother would be secretly relieved to hear they won’t meet. Last time she got close to an ex’s family, the mom hung around like a bad smell even years after things ended. We practically had to get a restraining order.” He laughs, shifts his body weight. “You never have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m sorry I mentioned it.” He plants a kiss on my forehead. “I love you.”
I’m tempted to ask more about the ex’s mom, but I remember the pact we made to keep the past where it belongs and force the feeling away.
I like the way James makes me feel: normal, loved, and secure. There are no games with him, none of that playing it cool or waiting three days to text me back, like there was with Marc and Luca. I try to feel guilty as he continues to insist on covering our dinners, our trips, but I can’t. I’ve never known “cared for” before. Not like this. I want to gobble up as much of it as I can.
James and I have sex, trying not to make any noise on the alarmingly creaky bed, and then ready ourselves to go downstairs. His father is reading the paper in an armchair in the kitchen. His mother is busying herself pulling pastries out of the oven. I hardly have to think about it; I grab an apron and set to helping, shuffling things around the hot stove and soaping dirty dishes. In my mother’s culture, it’s just good manners, but Hettie is bowled over.
Hettie and I natter while we work: the garden, favorite recipes, bestBake Offhosts. Even this trite conversation is a Cool Girl act of its own.A demonstration of how easy I am to get along with. James tries to join in, asks Hettie a few questions she doesn’t seem to hear. He turns to his father, and they have a discussion of their own. For a moment, it feels as if this family has opened up a space for me and said “welcome.” It feels wholesome, normal. Or at least what I always imagined “normal” might look like. It feels nice. I think about what it would be like to create my own normal. To provide a safe space in which my daughter eats fresh pastries on the weekends and we talk about her favorite things she’s seen that week on TV. I smile.
Will doesn’t appear. He’s here, somewhere, tucked into a corner like the persistent dust, too hungover to haul himself out of bed yet, or having an inadvisably early whisky in the bathtub. This seems to be his favorite pastime. He’s sleeping in the guest room; his old bedroom is now being remodeled. When I ask James why his own bedroom remains untouched, he simply says an update “isn’t necessary.”
Hettie seems to catch a corner of our conversation, James having joined the two of us in the kitchen to help me put away the clean dishes.
“You’re not complaining about the renovation again, James?” Her smile and raised eyebrows suggest she’s joking, but there’s something hard in her eyes and tight in her voice that betrays the tension.
James’s reply is just as tight. “No. I was just telling her about it.”
“Because if it really matters that much to you, we can absolutely work something out for you, too. Even though you’re never here. It’s just that Will happens to visit mo—”
“I’m not sure bolting here to dry out for a day or two while Vanessa’s mad at him quite counts as ‘visiting.’ ”
If I were Will’s wife, Vanessa, with two small kids to look after, I wouldn’t be pleased with his drinking, either.
Hettie tilts her head, smiles. Hands me a wet plate. “Are you sure we can’t tempt the two of you into joining our holiday?” she asks.
I freeze, dishcloth pressed against the plate in my palm. Something in the gesture, the tone of voice, tells me the question is a snare, but I can’t get away with ignoring it. “Holiday?” I ask, turning to James.
Hettie answers before James can. “Yes, we’re off to Corfu. We go every year. Although James never seems fit to come with us.”
“You know why I can’t, Mom,” James says, words snapping back like plucked elastic.
I’ve never heard this tautness in his voice before. Not with his family. I don’t want to ruin a wonderful morning, but he’s never mentioned Corfu to me. Not once. “Why is that?” I ask.
