I take in a deep breath as Brett and I sit next to each other in first class. Brett pats my thigh, “You nervous about meeting my family?” he asks.

I am, but not for the reasons he thinks I would be. I know Brett is thinking I fear that his mother and sister won’t like me. It is on my mind, but I’m more fearful of how I behave. Going from home to home as a child and teen, I hardly knew how to conduct myself at Christmastime. While I was in the foster care system, every family did it differently. Some families were very festive and had their houses decked out like the Griswold’s with a truckload of gifts; others had only a simple dinner and a few gifts. Some families were religious or cultural, and sometimes I participated in their rituals I knew nothing about. Once, I had spent the morning looking for a wooden pickle; a German tradition. But, the worst Christmas I had ever had, was when I was eight. I had moved into the home just before Christmas. I was handed gifts that had different kinds of wrapping paper than the rest. I quickly realized that my gifts had been donated from a local charity when I unwrapped a box—that I was certain was a Barbie doll—to find a Spider Man action figure. It was awkward watching the rest of the family open gifts after that. Although, I did like the muscular details on Spidey’s body.

Though Anne’s family has had me the last several years, I always felt like the odd one out. Anne’s parents are a bunch of yuppies. They own several golf courses in the Hampton’s. As cool as it was to spend Christmas in the Hamptons, I knew I couldn’t leave my room in my pajamas without my makeup done. There were guests from all over the world staying. Anne’s home was more like a hotel.

“Any words of advice?” I ask, not wanting to tell him that Christmas has always been an anxiety-filled holiday for me.

“My mother is looking forward to meeting you. She’s watched a lot of your interviews over the years,” he tells me. “Funny. She used to tell me that I should chat you up to get some airtime.”

I’m dumbfounded, “Seriously? I would have thought she would have been a little wary as your dick landed on my camera not too long ago.”

He gives me an awkward smile, “My mother is sweet in that way. She hates to talk about anything that may embarrass a person; she won’t say anything unless you bring it up.”

Nonetheless, my face is filled with fear. He squeezes my thigh, “Really, bunny. Don’t worry about it. She won’t say a word unless you bring it up.”

I’m somehow doubting this, “What about your sister? What if she brings it up?”

He looks uncomfortable, “If she says anything, I’ll remind her that you’re our guest and I’ll put her in her place. Don’t worry so much. I’m sure things will be fine.” He takes the newspaper he bought at a kiosk in the airport, and begins reading the Sports Section.

I look down to my feet, my stomach doing flip-flops as I’m reminded of the last time I met a man’s parent. Tristan. He introduced me to his father. Why Tristan did when he already had a girlfriend—and his father, Amos knew about her—is beyond me. I used to think that introducing a woman to your family was a serious step, like getting a copy of his apartment key, or keeping clothes or toothbrush at his place. But my experience with Tristan made me think of relationships differently.

I lean my head back against the headrest. I should have seen the signs after meeting his father, Amos, that Tristan couldn’t possibly be normal.

“I believe that black men should have equal opportunities,” Amos blurts out one day out of the blue at Tristan’s apartment. Tristan has left only moments ago for practice. I nod and take a bite of the god-awful pancakes Amos has made me, burnt on one side. My stomach is sensitive to anything burnt. But, I politely swallow the piece with a smile, trying not to gag or tear up. Damn, this pancake is as big as my plate. Ugh. There’s at least twenty more mouthfuls!

“You know black men are as capable as white men,” he says with such conviction it feels as though he’s trying to convince me. Not that I need to be convinced.

“There’s something wrong with a person if they can’t treat a black man the same,” he says, staring into my eyes.

“Absolutely,” I say softly. Obviously, racist bigots are the scum of the earth, Amos. Not only do I find it odd that he has brought the subject up out of nowhere. It feels as if he wants credibility or a reward for his views. Don’t expect me to give you a pat on the back because you demonstrate decency to fellow human beings, Amos. Treating others fairly shouldn’t be a choice but an expectation. I continue to eat as he continues with his political views. In a strange way, I’m offended by his comment. By making his statement, it’s like he’s saying there’s another side of the argument that’s valid. I mean, I’m questioning if I were to tell him that I thought people of minorities—or more specifically black people because that’s the only minority he cares to mention—didn’t deserve equal opportunity, would he take my comment seriously? Would he think that was an appropriate opinion to have? That I have a right to be racist? Was he once racist?

I’m silent as he continues to babble on about his political views as if they are much more substantial than any thought or opinion I have. Every now and again I try to add something to the conversation, so it doesn’t seem like he’s having a conversation with himself. But he bulldozes through everything I say; I’m certain he hasn’t heard anything I have said. Amos makes me very uncomfortable. Wanting to end the visit, I decide to make a few dumb comments. I imagine Amos wouldn’t care to talk politics with a woman he thought was a bimbo. He’s talking about Britain and America’s ‘special relationship.’

“What do you mean special relationship?” I say with a dumbfounded expression. “America and Britain have a special relationship?”

The look on his face—I want to laugh, but I got to hold it together. For the first time in his conversation he has paused for air. But then he continues. Damn. If I get a chance to say a few more stupid things, maybe he’ll give up and I can get out of here. I throw in some foolish comments whenever possible; we are on the fifty-second president; China is the most powerful country in the world. I sound dumber each time I speak, and it’s becoming more difficult to keep a straight face. But I think it’s working; he seems frustrated with me. A few more words that make me sound less educated than an inbred hick and I’m out of here without confrontation.

Then comes the scary part. “Gay people recruit. That’s why the gay population is growing.”

That came from nowhere. Is he messing with me like I’m messing with him? Please don’t tell me you and your son share the same kinds of views. “Gay people recruit?” I say, repeating him, trying to clarify and deflate the anger I feel rising in me. “How do you mean?” I ask, giving him an opportunity to clear any misunderstanding I may be having. At this point, I hope I am misunderstanding what he is saying. But he proceeds to tell me of a woman he knows that was sexually abused by a female pedophile. He explains that because of this ‘lesbian’ his friend is now ‘confused.’ She doesn’t understand her sexuality; she doesn’t know if she’s straight or gay. With a stern expression, he finishes his story, “So, you see, Lexi, gay people recruit.”

Dear God, if these pancakes don’t make me puke, his conversation will. Personally, I don’t want to jump down this rabbit hole. I was going to continue with being a bimbo to get out of here. But he’s silent; he has finally given me the stage to speak. I can see from his stare that he expects me to make my opinion known—and he expects me to agree with him. Fuck that noise. “I think your friend was traumatized by a pedophile—not a gay person.”

“What?” he says, insulted that I would question his perception.

“I have several friends that are gay, Amos. None of them have these ‘recruiting’ stories.” I laugh, trying to cut the tension. “I don’t see them trying to recruit, either.”

“Gay people recruit.” He seethes, his hands balling up into fists.

Yikes. He makes being gay sound like a conspiracy against heterosexuals. Oh? Maybe he is homosexual? “Well, I don’t think gays recruit. I’m going to go.” I stand. I no longer care if he likes me or not. “Don’t think I could finish this pancake, it’s too much for me.” And tastes like rust from a wheel well.

“Where do you have to go?” he asks, annoyed.

“Need to go to the bank,” I say, lying. I have nothing to do. But doing nothing is more productive than his conversation. What an ogre.

“Gay people recruit.”

Huh? He’s still on about that? “There are enough gay people in the world, I don’t think they all feel a need to recruit. I don’t see it logical that anyone would chase after someone they can’t have.”

He grows haughty, “You’re right. Smart people don’t chase after something they can’t have. You should get going.”

Happy to leave! I head back to Tristan’s room to collect my things. I see his bible on his nightstand, his name imprinted on it. Standing next to it is a plastic Blazers team mascot that a fan had given him. The mascot begins to ring the most annoying sound of fans cheering and an announcer ranting. What a horrible alarm clock. I turn it off and leave the apartment without saying goodbye. Thankfully, it was the last time I was in Tristan’s place. A week later, his girlfriend Katie came, tolerating Tristan’s fake Christianity, his ogre of a father, and his stupid alarm clock.

Amos was right about one thing; smart people don’t chase after someone they can’t have. I can’t have a liar, cheat, or hypocrite. Which is why I had the good sense to never chase after Tristan when I found out about Katie.

I look over to Brett, sitting next to me on the plane. I decide to open up about Tristan, “You know how I dated Tristan Huckle?”

“Yeah.” He puts his paper down.

“Well, the last time I met a parent, it was Tristan’s father,” I confess. “I’ve always seen meeting parents as a serious thing. But I suppose with Tristan, I should have taken it with a grain of salt.”

“That’s odd.” He cocks his brow. “Tristan introduced you to his father? Why did he do that? Funny that he did. I’ve heard from other players Tristan’s played with that his Dad is a bit of a whack job.”

“So, you think that meeting the parents is a serious step then?” I ask, trying not to sound hopeful.

“Yeah, I do. I wouldn’t waste my mother or sister’s time on someone I didn’t take seriously.”

A rush of relief comes over me, I giggle. “If I could, Brett, I’d introduce you to my parents, too.”

“That’s nice to know.” He rubs my arm, “But you have people you spend time with on holidays. Should I go with you sometime to meet Anne’s family?”

“True. But I feel like I’m more of a tagalong. They have all sorts of people treating their house like a hotel. I’ve never felt close to anyone but Anne.”

“Well, I suppose I should consider getting to know Anne as something serious,” he says, patting my thigh. “What about Clarissa? Are you close?”

“Actually, she has kind of pushed to get to know me. She’s the one that invites me over to her place and gives me tickets to galleries and shows.”

“That’s a good friend to have.”