Vince

My mother’s eyebrows are raised so high they’re practically on top of her head.

“It’s not a big deal,” I insist. “I have plenty of room.”

We’re surrounding their rental car in my driveway. They drove from Maryland, and thanks to a mix-up better known as my dad trying to navigate the Internet, they don’t have hotel reservations at the Hilton like they prefer. Mom refuses to stay at the Holiday Inn Express, and my father is grumbling about how it’s late and he doesn’t want to “deal with the staff” until morning.

Being a good son, I offered them my spare room. It’s upstairs, same as my room, but on the other side of the house. Essentially, if I took enough snacks and drinks up to my own bedroom, I could shut the door and not come out until morning. So it’s really no big deal.

Did I say that already?

“We will not impose.” Cathy Carson knows me well.

My dark features—hair and lashes—come from her, and my abysmal sense of style from my dad. Thank God Mom took the reins a few decades ago. Today he resembles a well-dressed storefront mannequin. He’s in a pair of faded jeans and a button-down shirt that fits his slim physique. No beer belly on my dad. He’s always endeavored to stay fit.

“Come on, Cat,” he says as he hefts their suitcases from the trunk. “I just want to sit down and drink a beer. Plus, Vince can fix the reservation snafu.”

“You mean the snafu of you booking a Hilton in Virginia instead of Ohio?” I take one of the suitcases from my dad’s hands.

“Yes.”

They get settled with relatively little fuss, which makes me think I’m overreacting to the whole parents-staying-with-me situation. Until Mom starts inspecting the house and offering her “advice” on every detail.

I don’t approve of these curtains, Vince. You have cobwebs over the dining room table. Why do you insist on such an unattractive cloth recliner when you know leather is a viable option? If it’s a price concern, they have fake leather now and you can scarcely tell the difference.

In the kitchen I pull another beer from the fridge as my dad ambles in for a refill.

“Leave him alone, Cat,” he calls. “Another wine, dear?” He winks at me when she says no. Appeasing her is well within his skill set, even if booking the correct hotel isn’t.

I hear a clicking sound followed by Josh Groban. Not only has my mother found my Bose speaker but she’s also hooked up her iPod. She has no issues with technology. I must have inherited that from her.

Dad settles at the counter where Jackie and I made pizza last week. I sit on the opposite side, both hands wrapped around my beer.

“It was a long trip. Thanks for putting us up. Or should I say putting up with us?”

He smiles and I relax for the first time since I saw the maroon Buick in my driveway.

“It’s okay.” He pats my hand. “You’ve acclimated to bachelor life and here we are, cramping your style.” Dad’s an attractive fifty-five. His light brown hair is graying at the temples and his crow’s-feet give him a distinguished air.

Without admitting he’s right about them cramping my style—whatever the hell that means—I go with “It’s been a long week.”

He accepts the brush-off and drinks his beer. I do the same. “Any new women in your life?”

Unlike Mom, Dad doesn’t pry. If he asks, he’s genuinely curious.

“I’ll level with you if you promise to break it to Mom for me.”

He purses his lips in consideration.

“And,” I add, sweetening the pot, “I’ll handle booking your hotel reservations from now until the end of your long, long life.”

“Deal.” His smile turns wily.

“My friend from work is joining us at dinner tomorrow night. Her name is Jackie.”

“Office fling.” His tone is approving likely because he met my mother at his office. She was his secretary.

“Not exactly.” Jackie isn’t a fling, but my vague response could imply she and I aren’t burning up the sheets. “We’re good friends. I thought it’d be nice to have that fourth seat filled.”

Dad glances into the living room, where Mom is paging through an issue of GQ. I buy it for the fashion ads so I can dress myself—no lie. The articles on “Fifty Ways to Make Her Beg for More” and “How to Smart Carb” glance off me. I know when I’m being pandered to.

“A seat filler also means no hot seat from us,” Dad says. Accurately.

I shrug. Guiltily.

“Marriage is hard.” He spins the bottle on the countertop and I wait. What follows isn’t the usual tirade like the one I get from my mother, and as he gets deeper into it, I realize I haven’t heard from him on this. Not really. I lump him in with Mom, usually because she’s the one doing the talking. He mentions “bumpy roads” and that “it’s hard to see trouble coming when you’re busy,” and I find myself leaning closer, wanting to soak in his wisdom. Then he floors me with “I had a business once.”

At my gaping reaction, he nods sagely. “Handyman.”

My dad may not be able to figure out the World Wide Web, but he can repair anything leaking or squeaking.

“I built my clientele, quit my sales job, and printed business cards.” He shakes his head as if he’s remembering it fondly. “Eight months later, I was ready to go back to work. I was always a better employee than an owner. I wanted the control—and the upper management where I work offers enough. At the end of the day, I can go home, open a beer, talk to your mom about her day.”

I feel a frown coming on. This isn’t going the direction I originally suspected.

“There’s no shame in failing. In business or your marriage.”

The comment sets fire to my temper and I feel my nostrils flare.

“Now you have a great job, something going with a girl. Enjoy it.”

I nod stiffly, not sure what, exactly, is bothering me.

A moment later I stand from my stool. “I’m going to bed. You guys make yourselves at home.”

“Will do.” Dad stands and walks with me to the living room, unaware of my prickly mood.

“The nearest Hilton?” I ask as I snag my laptop from the coffee table.

“Yes. We want a room with one king,” my mother looks up from the magazine to say.

“As opposed to two queens?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

I lean down and kiss her on the temple. “Sorry, Mom.”

“Night, Vince.”

“Night.” Only when I’m in my room, completing the reservations for them online, do I realize why my dad’s comments bothered me so much.

My father basically told me I failed both as an entrepreneur and as a husband. The business was mine through and through—that fault I could accept. Was it painful? Yes. But Leslie…When it came to my running my business with our income, her opinion didn’t count. I was in charge and I knew what I was doing.

Until I didn’t.

That sharp pang in the center of my diaphragm returns, and it dawns on me that Leslie leaving me wasn’t as one-sided as I convinced myself it was. She wasn’t the villain any more than I was the hero. We failed because I failed.

That was a hell of an unplanned epiphany.

I fall asleep, my chest hollow, wishing I would’ve been more insistent on my parents going to the hotel tonight so I could have avoided the convo with Dad.

Jacqueline

Vince seems nervous. Or…something.

Dinner with his parents is tonight at seven, which gave us time to go home and change. I offered to drive to his house but he insisted on picking me up. I like how gentlemanly that sounds. I’m a self-assured modern-day woman, but being cared for takes lots of forms. Being chauffeured is among my favorites.

I tell him that as I pull down the visor and swipe lip gloss over my lips. It’s the final touch on preparations that include a fresh manicure, curling my hair, and dressing to impress the parents.

I keep reminding myself I’m only on this date as a buffer, but as the workday crept to its inevitable end, I grew more and more aware that I was meeting the parents of the guy I’m sleeping with. Where I’m from, it’s no small gesture. Even though I invited myself along, the importance isn’t lost on me.

Tonight is about Vince needing backup and me being there for him. It feels good to be there for him, and it’s a familiar role. Maybe that was why I was so quick to offer.

“My mom is a talker, but she’s polite. Sometimes she sounds overly critical, but it’s not malicious. She’s just—” He flexes his hands on the steering wheel as he considers the rest of his explanation. “Opinionated” is the word he finally settles on.

“I like her already.” I close the mirror in the visor and smile over at him, but Vince regards me with a frown. Rather than chase this conversation the way I did when I was married to Lex (What’s wrong? Nothing. Just tell me. Nothing, dammit.), I let it fall away and shift the topic. “What about your dad? What’s he like?”

Vince blinks as his thoughts redirect. It feels good not to dig in and argue. I haven’t had the opportunity to arrive at that crossroads since I was married.

“Dad’s cool. He’ll order a whiskey sour and ask you about your job a lot.”

“No delving into my future plans with his only son, then?” I ask with a teasing elbow to Vince’s arm.

“Of course not.” He doesn’t crack a smile as he glowers out the windshield.

I sigh, incapable of avoiding the question I’m dying to ask. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He offers a shrug that seems forced. “I’m sorry, Butler.” His hand closes over my knee and squeezes. I like it there, so I put my hand over his. “Everything’s good. I’m in deep thought about a hundred things. Which is not fair to you.”

Another gentle squeeze to my knee and he pulls his hand out from under mine.

“The restaurant we’re going to is new to me,” he says. “You been?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“A first for both of us, then.” He reaches over again but this time takes my hand and links our fingers together, resting our hands on my leg. The move is comfortable and familiar. “You look beautiful tonight, Jackie.”

“Thank you.” Swoon.

“They’re going to love you. And you don’t have to pretend we’re anything that we’re not. Just be you.”

I’m inexplicably happy to hear that. My shoulders inch away from my ears. I don’t have to put on an act for the Carsons. I don’t have to pretend to be anything I’m not. I bite my lip in consideration as Vince exits the interstate and enters downtown. I’m not exactly sure what we are. Not boyfriend/girlfriend, but we’re definitely dating. Or “hooking up,” as my friends are fond of calling it. I’m old-fashioned, I guess, because that term doesn’t sound the least bit appealing.

Rather than turn over questions that have no clear answers, I focus on Vince’s bigger, warmer hand resting on my lap. When I do that, it’s not hard at all to see what we are. We’re friends. We’re lovers. And we’re together.

What more do I need to know?