Page 96 of I Wish You All the Best

“Friday night.” I pull out my phone and stare at the message I sent. Eventually I’d found the right words, which is to say that after all my worrying, I simply told them a time and place we could meet. I’d thought for days about adding something else, about asking for some kind of an explanation, or maybe going off on Mom.

But none of that seemed right. I wanted to hear them first, face-to-face.

“Robin’s.” I tell him. “That Italian place downtown.”

“Oh, I’ve been there.” Nathan takes his bottle of water out of the little dispenser at the bottom. “Don’t get the eggplant Parmesan. It’s terrible.”

“Noted,” I say. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“They’ll be there around seven, is that okay?”

Nathan smiles. “It’s a date!”

Yeah, I’m fucked.

I should most definitely not have agreed to do this, but it’s too late now. Short of just grabbing Nathan and running back out into the parking lot.

But Mom and Dad know where Hannah lives, probably.

I catch Nathan’s eye from across the restaurant. He looks pretty comfortable for a guy who’s basically here alone. He catches me looking and pulls out his phone, then my phone buzzes.

Nathan: I still think I should’ve worn the hat and sunglasses.

I roll my eyes.

Me: They don’t know what you look like.

Nathan: Still!

Me: This isn’t a sting operation or anything.

“Well, hello.”

I jump in my seat and nearly let my phone clatter to the floor before I grab it at the last second. It’s my parents, standing there, smiles on their faces as they look down at me.

“Hi,” I say, unsure if I should stand up or not.

I stay seated, and the two of them follow after a few beats of awkward silence. My phone vibrates again, but I ignore it. Probably just Nathan.

“You’ve let your hair get too long” is the first thing Dad says.

“I like it this way,” I say, touching the ends. It’s not quite to my shoulders yet, but Sophie says I’m like a walking stalk of broccoli.

Meleika said cauliflower, because of how pale I am.

“It gets all matted and tangled though.” Mom reaches across the table, but I lean back, avoiding her perfectly manicured nails.

“Let’s get to the point,” I say. “You two wanted to talk, right? Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“Well, not if you’re going to have an attitude,” Dad mutters in that kind of way so he knows I’ll hear it.

“I don’t have an attitude.” I cross my arms. “What did you two want to discuss?”

“How are you doing?” Mom asks.

“Fine.”