Amy!” Her mother pushed open their whitewashed front door, enfolded her in a hug, and pressed on an orange-lipstick cheek kiss. “What a wonderful surprise.”

“It shouldn’t be a surprise,” she protested, gasping in her mother’s stranglehold. “I texted you when I left the school, and I’ve been coming for Monday dinners since I moved out.”

“But you had to miss last week. So it’s a wonderful surprise to see you again.” She released Amy to the beaming, equally crushing embrace of Amy’s father. “Come on in.”

She removed her shoes next to the door, and both parents walked her into the living room.

Their new-to-her house was a comfortable, middle-class, three-bedroom outside of Beaverton on a maple-lined lane. Fresh bark dust smell of the terraced landscaping gave way to vanilla apple deodorizers, pale olive carpeting, cream couches, and vases filled with fake flowers.

She’d once accused her parents of pretending to have a perfect life, but now that she was here, the soothing colors and familiarity made her feel loved and safe.

Her father pulled glasses from a rack on their wine caddy. “Did you want a glass of chardonnay?”

Amy shook her head.

Her father poured himself the clear wine and topped up her mother’s.

It was still weird that they drank. When Amy had been a kid, they’d emphasized over and over that the mere scent of alcohol converted normal people into drug addicts. She’d had nightmares of accidentally catching a whiff and metamorphosing via some sort of Power Rangers-esque transformation.

Then, they’d gone and relaxed and bought the wine caddy sometime after she turned of age. Actually having wine in front of her had only started in the last year or so. It was like they’d been lying to her in childhood and made her wonder what else her parents had been concealing.

Her mother checked on her baking ham and seated Amy on the flower-embroidered love seat. Her parents arrayed themselves like an interrogation squad on the sofa.

Her mother started. “You look nice. I spoke to Mrs. Wrigley about you.”

“My fifth-grade teacher?” Amy couldn’t imagine that. “You tracked her down?”

“On Facebook! I had her full name from your museum field day permission slip.”

They saved everything. Her academic accomplishments and failures lived in a giant gray filing cabinet in her dad’s office. Probably all the way back to her finger paintings.

The weight of their love was a little heavy sometimes.

“So, what’s new with you?” her dad asked, adjusting the crease on his gray slacks and straightening his sweater vest.

Since she’d texted a few hours ago?

But their bright, beaming faces were just so glad she’d visited. She forced herself to rehash the new things they already knew adding details. “I’m going to do a demonstration lesson for parents. On c-colors.”

Whoah. Was that a stutter?

“Oh, how wonderful!” Her mom gushed and hugged her dad’s shoulders.

His smile beamed brighter like she’d won the lottery.

“You’re this close to a wonderful job. In the field you want. Doing exactly what you want to do. You must be so busy!”

“I am.” She didn’t want to delve into her lesson. So she switched to her other uncomfortable topic. “The reason I came here today was I needed to tell you about someone.”

They waited eagerly.

Her throat went dry. She forced the words. “An important person.”

“Another teacher?” her dad asked. “What was her name?”

“Corinne,” her mother said.

“No. An important person who’s not related to work.”

Her mom made an "oh" of understanding.

Her dad didn’t. “From your art certification class?”

“No.” Uh oh. She’d forgotten she still had that class on Wednesday. So, basically, she only had tomorrow to finish her lesson, and she did not want to pull an all-nighter. Lack of sleep would affect her performance as badly as an ill-planned lesson, and she was still struggling to catch up from her weekend.

“Are you okay?” her mom interrupted. “You look tired.”

“Yes. No, he’s a … uh … businessman.”

Her dad still looked confused, but her mom settled in attentively. “What business?”

“Clothes.”

Her parents looked at each other. Her mom nudged her dad, and the confusion left his face, only to be replaced by a different curiosity.

Clothing was not academic, and they had always talked about how Amy should find herself a serious partner to match her “intellectual achievements.” If not a tenured professor, then a humanitarian. But not a “crunchy granola” humanitarian. A sweater-vest-and-wire-rimmed-glasses-wearing humanitarian who published articles and contributed to a UN think tank.

Business was probably questionable for them. And they would certainly shy away from a businessman who wore leather jackets, sized women just by looking at them, and had outstanding warrants. Thirty-five of them.

Or a first wife…

“How did you meet?” her mom asked, settling in for a story.

“Well…” she hedged. “I saw him from, uh, across the room and, uh, we just got to talking…”

“Have you been on a first date?”

God, what could she tell her parents? They were so expectant. So loving. So … so … middle class normal.

The doorbell chimed.

Amy went cold.

He wouldn’t.

Her dad glanced at her mom with a frown. “You’re not expecting anyone?”

She shook her head pensively. They didn’t answer the door when they didn’t know who was coming. Her mom said it was to avoid making marketers and religious proselytizers feel bad.

The doorbell chimed again.

Please let it be a Jehovah’s Witness. A Boy Scout. Someone collecting donations for rescue cats.

Her dad got a funny expression on his face. He rose. “I guess … I guess I’ll see who it is.”

Amy leaped up and sprinted for the front door. “I’ve got it!”

“Amy! Wait—”

She caught a glance out of the side window. Leather and frayed jeans? Her stomach sank and her heart started thumping in her chest. This was way worse than she could have possibly imagined.

She stopped. “Uh, Dad, don’t open—”

Her dad opened the door. “Can I help you?”

Pyro stood on the pleasant front step in the same outfit she’d first seen him in at the student bar. He handed over to her dad a bottle of clear liquid labeled VODKA.

“Hi. I’m with your daughter, Amy. My name’s Pyro.”