“Mama,” June scolds.
“What?”She waves her off.“If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have approached ya.”
June rubs at the corner of her eye, proving how tired she is from the flight, as she explains, “My mom’s convinced that the only reason my list of boyfriends is short is because no one’s good enough for me.”June tacks on a wide-eyed look as if to say,clearly she’s crazy.
“And I stand by it,” her mom interjects.“Now, go sit down.You’re just in time for dinner.”
As she disappears into the kitchen, the sound of something squeaking then slapping closed echoes, and I tilt my head.What was that?It almost sounded like a screen door or something.Sure enough, an older man in jeans appears, wearing a flannel shirt and a worn coat lined with wool that must be at least two decades old.A patch is sewn onto the elbow, and the pocket over his chest is missing a button as he moves closer, his arms full of wood.
“Hey, Daddy!”June greets him.The title hits in a way I don’t expect.It might be missing the Dearest I usually tack on at the end, but the sentiment couldn’t be more opposite than how I’m used to using it.Hearing the familial term with adoration, and dare I say, enthusiasm?My anxiety kicks up another notch, and I rock back on my heels.Tan, weathered skin.Worn baseball hat pulled low.Broad shoulders.Small beer belly but nothing crazy.He looks strong.Like he grew up in the fields and will continue working in them for years to come.
After he sets down the pile of wood beside the fire, June’s father takes off his hat and wipes his forehead.“Come here, baby girl.”They share a quick hug, like June had with her mom, then she lets him go, grabs his hand, and practically drags him toward my dumb ass at the front of the house.I wipe my sweaty palms on the back of my jeans.Why am I so damn nervous?So what if he doesn’t like me or thinks I’m a smart-ass who relies on too much sarcasm to make it in this world?It doesn’t matter.June already told me she loves me.She doesn’t need her dad’s stamp of approval.Does she?If she does, I might as well turn my ass around and fly back to Harden Heights tonight.Sure, she’d probably be pissed, but maybe she’d be better off in the long run, you know?Me, I’d figure it out.Crawl into a hole.Lick my wounds.Take a vow of celibacy.Be a kick-ass uncle to Jagger’s kids once he knocks up Violet.I’d be…fine.
Seriously, what was I thinking bringing June home so I could meet her folks?
“Dad, this is Ford,” June announces.“Ford, this is my dad, Gerald.”
I offer my hand like before.“Nice to meet you, sir.”
Shaking my hand with a firm but not over-the-top grasp, he replies, “Nice to meet you, too.”
“Y’all comin’ or what?”June’s mom calls from the dining room.
With a smile, Gerald lets me go and motions toward a round table tucked to our left covered in a white tablecloth with embroidered sunflowers along the edge.“Right this way.”
Dinner is good.Awkward, but nothing I can’t handle.I learn June’s the baby of all the grandchildren and easily the favorite, if her parents’ stories are anything to go by.She’s also obsessed with animals, hates getting dirty, and learned to bake from Mama Withers.Okay, that part is an assumption, but after tasting her mama’s cooking, it’s clear June’s kitchen skills are genetic.As I clear the last plates from the table, I tell June, “I see where you got your cooking skills.”
With a shy smile, June gathers the tablecloth and begins folding it.“Mama taught me everything I know.”
My mouth lifts.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I start.
“Tell me.”
“It’s just cute,” I grab the opposite corners of the tablecloth and help her fold it, “the way you say Mama.”
Her eyes narrow.“Are you making fun of me?”
“Never.”
She swats at my arm, careful not to ruin all our progress.“I can’t believe you!Makin’ fun of me and my mama.”
“I love how the accent comes and goes,” I quip.“Really adds to the authentic vibes we’ve got going on around here.”
Her laughter rings out through the empty family room as we finish folding the white linen.Taking it from me, she tucks the fabric into a black hutch and mutters, “Whatever.Just because I try to reel in the southern charm when I’m not at home doesn’t mean you need to make fun of me.”
Grasping her waist, I bring us together and begin swaying back and forth.“I like it.The southern charm.”
“You do, huh?”Her mouth quirks up once more, and she rests her hands on my chest.“Then, I have bad news.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a big, fat faker.”
“Is that right?”
