“You look like you got a tan. Where on earth did you get a tan this time of year? You know how dangerous tanning beds are!” Her rant about the dangers of life-giving sunlight dies suddenly and her eyes nearly fall out of her head when she catches sight of the gleaming rock on my finger.
“You're engaged!?!” she whisper shrieks. “I didn't even know you were dating anyone. Well, where is he?” She's looking past me trying to see out the windows which are too frosted from the cold to see anything but moving shadows.
“He's getting the gifts out of the car.”
“Your father is going to lose his shit. You know he doesn't like surprises.”
That's the understatement of the century. My father hates surprises so much that you pretty much have to shop for him off a pre-curated list he's created so he knows he's going to like it. Creative deviations are not appreciated.
My mom takes my hand in hers to inspect the ring. “This is a nice ring,” she says. I swear she's about to pull out one of those things jewelers use to inspect the quality of diamonds. I'm grateful she doesn't actually have one of those things. Nothing would be more embarrassing than my mother appraising my ring in the middle of the foyer.
“It's Tiffany,” I say, giddy glee coming out in my voice because this truly is my dream ring and even though I have my doubts about everything else, the ring itself is the one bright spot I have some measure of faith in.
“Really?” She's still whispering. I'm not sure why she's feeling the need to whisper in her own house. Maybe she's afraid my father will hear. “So he's doing pretty well for himself?” she says, fishing.
“He runs a Fortune 500 company,” I say, but that's all I say because that's all I know. I don't even know which company.
Before I can be grilled further, the doorbell rings. Oh shit, that's him. I feel like the heroine in a horror movie with the killer just outside the door.
“Aren't you going to let him in?” My mother asks.
I'm really not ready to do this but obviously if I'm going to get married, my family has to be made aware of the engagement, and hearing it in person is probably better than finding out when the wedding invitation arrives.
“Honestly, Livvy,” my mother says. She flings the door open and smiles brightly when she gets a look at him all handsome and suave and stylish, laden down with Christmas presents like a sophisticated and evil Santa. “Come in, I'm sorry, Livia didn't tell me your name.”
He gives me a look like he's disappointed in me and says, “I'm Soren.”
“I'm Judith,” she says.
“It's lovely to meet you, Judith.”
“Harold,” she calls... “Livvy brought a man for Christmas.” She says this in the same way one might say “Livvy brought a pumpkin pie.” And I'm pretty sure my mom thinks both of those things would be equally delicious.
My father appears a moment later. He's smoking a pipe. He has this Christmas Eve thing where he smokes a pipe. I have no idea why he does it. He never at any other point in the year smokes a pipe. This is his Christmas Eve tradition. The Fairchild Christmas: Gingerbread cookies and cigar smoke.
He narrows his eyes at Soren.
“Hello,” he says, coldly. “And who might you be?” He looks between Soren and me as if Soren is attempting to kidnap me, which is so close to the truth.
“Soren Kingston,” he says. Soren can't shake my father's hand—not that my father's offering—because he's still holding the presents.
My father's eyes widen. He actually recognizes Soren's name. I would be willing to bet money he even knows which company he runs.
“Well, that's a name,” he says, grimly. “Are you dating my daughter?”
Without missing a beat, Soren says, “I'm marrying your daughter. Next year. June 22nd. I hope that date works for you.”
My father looks like he might go to the gun safe and commit a felony. But an equal level of malice is rolling off Soren. He's not used to being questioned, and I can tell he isn't loving my father's tone. And I know my father isn't loving Soren's.
This is getting off to a great start.
I hold up my hand, flashing the ring in an attempt to diffuse the situation, which is of course stupid because waving sparkling evidence in front of my father's face of the impending wedding only six months from now is probably not the smartest move. My father's nostrils flare at this visual—like a bull ready to charge. And I am one hundred percent certain that if my father charges, Soren will drop the gifts—breakables be damned—and get into an actual fight with him—like the kind of conflict where neighbors call the cops.
“Harold!” my mother says, finally seeing the situation that may be about to unfold.
“And you think you're good enough for Livia?” he asks, blowing cigar smoke into Soren's face—not accidentally.
I'm surprised when Soren says, “Probably not. But I don't think there were any literal princes on her dating roster, so I'll have to do.”
My parents don't know about the roster. Even Macy doesn't know about the roster. She just knew I was dating and keeping it quiet for a while. Of course nobody seems to think this roster talk is anything more than a joke, and my mother is now fully engaged with diffusing the testosterone in the entryway so Soren isn't able to elaborate on my dating hijinx.
“Soren, I'm so sorry, you can put those gifts under the tree. And dinner is ready so if you want to come on back.”
Soren offers her a charming smile and brushes past my father to put the gifts under the tree. At the same time, my mom grabs my father by the elbow and drags him back to the dining room.
“Livia's engaged,” he announces gruffly to the family, none-to-happy about it.
I'm a bit confused to be honest. I mean yes, this is being sprung on him—did I mention my father hates surprises? But still, I saw the flash of recognition at Soren's name. You'd think he'd be happy to know I'll be so well taken care of. Soren can absolutely provide and protect. And we all knew I wasn't going to ever have a nice lifestyle on a veterinary assistant's salary.
Dinner itself is surprisingly pleasant. My brother, his wife, their three kids, as well as my two sisters and their husbands, and my sole remaining grandmother are all much more friendly to Soren than my father was. There are ooohs and aaahs about the ring, and questions peppered about the wedding and the whirlwind planning that's about to ensue and am I worried about securing a venue? I hadn't thought about that, but now I am.
Soren sits on one side of me and Macy sits on my other. She'll be the maid of honor of course. Macy comes to all my family holiday functions because she has no family of her own—at least none she has contact with.
My two and a half year old niece, Vivie looks like she's half in love with Soren when he cuts her ham into tiny triangles for her.
“Do you think Vivie would want to be my flower girl?” I ask my sister-in-law, Anna.
Anna leans closer to Vivie. “Would you like to be in Aunt Livvy's wedding?”
“Yes!” Vivie shouts through a mouthful of ham, even though I'm pretty sure she isn't clear on what a wedding even is.