My stomach rudely growls, and I trust Brad hasn’t heard it. I hope we’re going to eat soon, if I’m able with my agitated stomach.
“Is there a restroom?” I’m a bit lightheaded.
Brad leads me to a half bath off the family room next to the spacious laundry room. Does Beverly do the laundry? Probably not. She has a life of leisure. What does she do all day?
“I’ll see you in the living room.” Brad turns away.
I want to ask him to wait for me but don’t want to appear insecure and watch him head toward the doorway back through the kitchen. I close the bathroom door and look in the mirror. My cheeks are a bit rosy. I pat cold water on my flushed face and fluff my hair with my fingers. My bracelet catches on a strand of hair and yanks as I pull my hand away. Ouch! I’m a shaky jittery wreck. I am so out of my element and have no idea what to say or do. His parents will never find me suitable. I’ll be glad if I don’t trip over something and make a total fool of myself. Not too much wine on an empty stomach, I admonish myself sternly in the mirror. With a deep breath, I briskly walk back to the living room.
We seat ourselves at a long dining table of polished dark wood. French doors lead out to a small, shaded patio at the front of the house. Large urns spilling with ferns stand outside the doors. It’s like something you’d see in a magazine.
The two Hispanic women silently serve us, and I make sure to smile and thank them. It may not be proper, but I do it anyway. It feels like we’re in a restaurant as salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing and warm sourdough rolls are served first, followed by some sort of fish with roasted red potatoes and green beans with slivered almonds. Dessert is thick and rich and creamy. I sip my wine sparingly during the meal and politely decline the coffee or tea offered afterwards but help myself to an almond cookie that practically melts in my mouth.
During the meal I’m subtly grilled by his parents, but that’s to be expected. Brad is unaware or he might be used to their interviewing technique with women he dates. How many women have been subjected to this scrutiny and how much weight does their assessment hold? That’s what bothers me. If they deem me unworthy, will I be out or is this his test to see if I can hold my own? Either way, what little composure I’d initially mustered slowly erodes. I have no doubt that it’s glaringly obvious how incompatible we are. I’m pretty, not beautiful, and that’s it. My one asset. I’m certainly not impressing them with my intellect or poise or accomplishments. The brutal truth is that I don’t belong in this world, though I wish to be accepted into it, into Brad’s life, into his family. I try to envision my kids at this table conversing with his parents. Somehow, I feel they’d make a better impression than me. My kids are smart and well behaved when they choose to be.
Brad’s father tells a few jokes as we saunter back to the living room and I laugh. He seems to enjoy an audience, and I’m pleased to provide it. The two Hispanic women are silently clearing the table with a slight clatter and muted voices. I identify more with them.
After a bit more chatting in which, to my great relief, they turn most of their attention to Brad, he rises and says something that gets us moving in the direction of the front door. I thank his parents for the lovely evening and we escape to the car. As soon as Brad pushes my door closed, the tension begins to seep from my body. I return my sunglasses to my face and let out a exhale of relief.
“Sorry about that, V,” Brad says as we pull onto the street.
“About what?” I’m truly baffled as to why he feels the need to apologize.
“They can be a bit much.”
“They were fine.”
“They can be snobs.” He’s concentrating on the winding road.
“You’re their son and they want the best for you.”
Which isn’t me and we both know it. I turn my face away from him and gaze out the window.
“They have no idea what I want,” he says and squeezes my knee.
He has said the ideal thing to assuage my anxiety, and I smile toward the horizon. The sun is lazily sinking below the ocean melting into a pink puddle drenching the sky.
“Look at the sunset.”
He catches a glimpse as he drives. “Nice.”
He’s probably seen sunsets like this a thousand times.
I let out a contented sigh. He’s not driving me straight home after discerning how vast our differences are. It doesn’t seem to concern him. Therefore, I won’t let it concern me. His parents may come to accept me, even like me, because I make their son happy. In the future, I’ll know what to expect, be better prepared, and feel more composed. Next time will be easier. Except there is no next time.
Chapter 8
Brad has entered my small apartment because I asked him to come inside instead of waiting in the car for me. It’s important that he acknowledge my kids. I’ve met his parents, and now I want my kids to get used to seeing him. In fact, I’ve begun to think about inviting him over for dinner so they can get to know each other better. This is the next step forward in our relationship, yet I can’t seem to bring it up. I’m afraid he’ll balk, and my kids will act indifferent and sullen.
I try to see my apartment through Brad’s eyes as he stands uncomfortably inside the door. After viewing where he grew up with its striking views, heavy expensive furniture, and immaculate rooms, my apartment looks particularly claustrophobic and the furnishings sadly shabby. Instead of a view of the ocean, we have a view of the parking lot. Instead of polished furniture, we have worn furniture with a thin layer of dust. Lacie was supposed to dust. Instead of carefully placed crystal vases brimming with fresh flowers, the apartment is strewn with the droppings of teenagers. We can see into the kitchen where the counter holds dirty plates and glasses, mismatched at that. Instead of a family room with a large screen TV, we have a small TV on which my son plays video games. He sits cross-legged on the floor leaning against the couch and doesn’t look up when Brad enters.
“Luke, say hi to Brad,” I instruct.
He briefly turns his head and raises a hand. “Hey.” He goes back to his game.
“Looks like you got to a high level on that game,” Brad observes.
“Yeah,” is Luke’s response.
What was I thinking? How can I expose Brad to my chaotic life and indolent, sometimes hostile, offspring? Am I trying to drive him away? What must he think? But this is my life, and if we’re to be serious, he has to accept it. And it hasn’t scared him off yet.
“Lacie,” I call my daughter.
“I’m on the phone,” she yells.
“Come out here a minute,” I yell back. “Say hi to Brad before we leave.”
I’ll get him out of here quickly before he has time to absorb the squalor and desolation of my life. Best to expose him in increments. A home cooked meal will have to wait for now, even though I can impress him with my cooking. I’m a pretty good cook and have a few recipes that will highlight my domestic side. I’m a bit annoyed with my kids. They were supposed to clean up before I got home from work, but it always takes several reminders, even occasional threats, to get them to do their chores and pick up after themselves.
Lacie emerges from her bedroom holding the cordless phone.