I drop onto the edge of our bed beside my gym bag, muscles still throbbing in objection.
“This…was…the…worst…gift….”
Blake rips off his t-shirt, dries the sweat off his neck with it, and playfully says, “My birthday. Shouldn’t I decide that?”
Still shifting to find a more comfortable position, I shake my head.
He laughs loudly and I let the sound distract from the agony.
It’s not like this is the first or second week we’ve been jogging together. Ever since the first time, we’ve created our own pattern that I hate to admit I enjoy. Some mornings we jog together while listening to classical music, some evenings we jog together before dinner while listening to pop music, and now, since I gave him a gym membership for his birthday, we can jog together at lunch time when I have early rehearsal. The activity brings out a supportive side of Blake that I absolutely adore. Between his encouraging looks and praises of my progress, it’s made what I used to envision being a nightmare, a fun journey. Sometimes we jog down to the small park where there’s ducks. Sometimes we jog to the tennis courts, epically fail at playing a game neither of us understand, and jog back. Other times it’s just a route around a couple blocks. The variations of time and direction, keep it from becoming stale, and the sexy showers afterward keep our heart rate up past the basic calorie burning levels.
“Now,” he stalks my direction, “shouldn’t we move onto my favorite thing we do after a good run?”
I bite my bottom lip to keep the moan at bay.
As much as I want to blame our insatiable appetite on me being new to the sex world, I remember how constant we were when it was just hands and tongues. I’m starting to believe it doesn’t matter how much or how often we go at any of it, neither of us will ever get enough. That’s probably a good thing. Probably makes for a healthy sex life.
Blake’s lips feather my neck only seconds before my cell phone begins to ring.
“Need to answer that,” I whimper between his nips on my neck.
“It can wait,” he challenges, thumb now grazing my nipple. “It’s my birthday.”
If it were almost anyone else, yes, but I have been steadily avoiding hers for far too long.
I push him off with a sweet smirk. “It’s my mother.”
His face contorts to one of understanding. “I’ll go get our shower started then…”
“Thank you.” Quickly I dig out the device from the bag and answer the call, “Hello.”
“Good afternoon, Mable.”
“Good afternoon, Mother.”
“I’m quite surprised you answered,” she states with a bit of irritation in her voice. “I have become accustom to your voicemail.”
I grimace.
Not answering her and my father’s calls has mitigated a huge amount of stress from my life. I have spent the majority of my existence with them looming over my shoulder, judging every decision I make, and reminding me to ‘think about my future’ that it never occurred to me how at peace I might be with a little distance between us. They’re my parents. I love them, but they make it a bit difficult for me to love myself. Hell, they make it difficult for me to like myself or the person I wanted to become.
Sheepishly, I reply, “I have been…busy…”
“I didn’t realize the Highland Orchestra was that demanding. If you wanted that why didn’t you stay with Sparkcane? They have a much better, much more highly respected reputation.”
My eyes glance the direction of our cracked bathroom door. “Not just with work.”
“Something personal?”
“Very.”
“Classes? Perhaps finally going back for your doctorate?”
“No.”
Something I don’t even want to do, but have my parents constantly commenting I need to.
“Have you finally used the card of the nutritionist I recommended? Had a consultation for the adjustable gastric band surgery?”
The reference to my weight sinks my shoulders.
“You know the last thing you need is to become a diabetic Mable. You are obviously incapable of making healthy choices. The operation and consultation would assist greatly.”
And this…this is where the complex about my size began and why it is constantly re-established. Interesting how distancing myself from calls like this has actually aided in weight loss and a healthier life style.
With a heavy sigh, I state, “No. Not that either.”
“Oh.” The surprise in her voice is unmistakable.
Unlike Blake, whose family and anyone who follows him on social media seems to know everything going on in his personal life, I have always been a bit more private. There weren’t many people to share the minor details of the life I had outside of music, and now that there are I am still getting adjusted to opening up. Dana aside, I don’t have anyone else of my own. Sure, I’m developing relationships with Dawn, Sienna, and Ollie, but those are still very new as far as I’m concerned. I’m not close to my sister. I am one of the only women in the orchestra. My avenues to discuss how I spend my time are still quite limited.
“Is he in the orchestra with you?” When I don’t immediately answer she adds, “You do know that only someone in the business or who has been in the business can thoroughly understand the demands your career requires.”
I sigh again, “That’s not true, Mother. Blake is very understanding and very supportive.”
Including my decision to hold off on telling my parents about the two of us until I was more comfortable. I didn’t even have to explain how I wasn’t ashamed we were together, so much as just not prepared for the interrogation. His understanding has no end and I’m utterly grateful. I just hope his patience remains stable after meeting them. God knows they are going to test it in ways I never will.
“Oh, is he?”
“Rehearsal always comes first in our relationship.”
“As it should.”
“He invests time into listening. Time into watching me perform. Time into…making sure my body stays limber.”
Not just with sex, but hand rubs. He also asked Dawn for specific tips on finger and arm stretches since she used to do something in fitness.
“Why don’t we all have lunch together?”
She doesn’t reply.
“I have concerts for the next four weekends. I’ll arrange tickets for you and father for our Saturday matinee finale and afterward we can all have lunch together.”
“Sounds. Lovely.”
Ignoring the curtness in her tone, I question, “Would you like me to pick the restaurant?”
“Do you not trust…Blake, is it?”
His favorite restaurants consist of some combination of beer, burgers, and big ass flat screen televisions we can watch basketball or other sports on. I may have grown a fondness for them despite my distaste for sports still, but they are far from the type of place my parents would ever consider eating at.
“Yes, his name is Blake.”
She hums her judgment over his name.
‘A name is always more than a name’ is what my father used to say. He believes in the power it has to define, or at the very least influence you. They swear naming me after one of my great grandmothers is where my attachment to music is rooted since she was always singing gospel hymns. Sometimes I think they were disappointed I was given the hands of an angel rather than the voice of one.
“And Blake doesn’t know the two of you as well as I do Mother-”
“You’ve mentioned us to him, but not him to us?”
I cringe. “I was waiting for the correct timing.”
My comment receives the acknowledgement I expected. “Timing is quite important.”
Calling my parents punctual would be a gross understatement.
“We’ll make reservations at our favorite steakhouse downtown. Does he eat steak?”
Can’t imagine being raised on a ranch or farm or whatever it’s called when it’s both and him not eating it.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll make the arrangements.”
The sound of the shower cuts off at the same time I lie, “Looking forward to it.”
I’m not. It’s going to be a disaster and I’m not prepared to weather the storm quite yet. At least I will have four weeks to fortify my relationship from the possible pending doom.
Blake’s dripping wet body appears in the door frame to our bathroom gathering all my attention. He lifts his eyebrows in question, most likely over what is preventing us from more birthday sex. Apparently, a blow job before I rushed off to rehearsal and sex on the kitchen table before the gym were not enough.
“Mother, I have to go. I have plans I need to shower off and change for.”
“Alright then.” Her lack of argument deepens the lingering trepidation over the whole idea. “I expect you to call again soon.”
“I will.”
After I end the call, Blake’s face tilts in suspicion. “I know that look, Angel. What’s wrong?”
“We’re having lunch with my parents.”
“On my birthday?”
Quickly, I shake my head. “No. No. In a few weeks. They’re going to come see me play and then we’ll go out to lunch together.” A realization hits me in the gut expectedly. “Oh, God. I just assumed you wouldn’t be busy when I made the plans. Just assumed you would drop everything and be there, babe.”
“You assumed correctly,” he sweetly informs.
My shoulders drop in relief.
“We’ll look at my calendar tonight and I will do everything in my power to be there. And if we have to reschedule then we’ll just reschedule, Angel.”
I try to vanquish the nervous expression. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
He takes a step forward. “If you’re ready for to me to meet them, then I’m ready to do it. I love you, Abby, and my family is yours and one day soon, your family will be mine.”
The allusion to marriage receives a wide smile.
Blake hasn’t actually asked, but the hints are becoming less and less subtle. After we moved in together almost two months ago, he made it quite clear it was next on the agenda. At first, it made me uncomfortable. Everything seems to be too perfect and moving too fast to be “acceptable”, but he reminded me it’s not about what anyone else thinks. Just us. I know the minute he drops to one knee, I’m going to say yes. I knew he was it for me a long time ago. I think he’s just waiting until he’s met my parents first. I hope like hell they don’t change his mind.
With our original shower plan foiled, I decide to rinse off by myself while Blake answers another birthday call and gets dressed for the afternoon. He childishly pouts, but agrees we probably shouldn’t be any later to his birthday party than we already will be. My time in the shower is brief. The process of scrubbing away sweat, conditioning my hair, and pampering my face goes much quicker without another pair of hands on me to be distracted by. However, once I’m out and beginning to actually get dressed, Blake’s inability to keep his hands to himself returns.
With a sly smile, he blocks my path back to the closet. “We’re gonna be late.”
I drop my hands onto my string covered hips. “Not if you move. I just need to put on my jean skirt and a little bit of makeup.”
His fingertips glide down the front of my thong forcing a shudder to run through me. “Like I said, we’re gonna be late.”
Blake lowers to his knees, tugs the thin white material to the side, and gives my clit the lightest lick possible. I moan and lean back against our dresser, gripping the edge for leverage. His tongue continues the teasing until I spread my legs wider for better access.
Softly, I beg, “More…”
The feeling of him smiling against my pussy deepens the ache his teasing has created. He carefully drapes one leg over his shoulder and pushes his tongue firmly against me. I lift my hips to help in the gentle lapping and Blake groans in approval. Rather than help me wiggle out of my thong, he rips the lace curtain to completely expose the treat he’s more than ready to consume. Before I have a chance to fuss at him for ruining my panties, his hot mouth is sucking on my clit with such fervor I begin to suffocate on my own screams. His savage groans are muffled because his face is buried so deeply. The vibrations only heighten the pleasure and my pussy buzzes with bliss. Blake’s large hand palms my ass tightly and uses it to thrust me against his insatiable tongue. One set of my fingers winds through his damp hair as my entire body relentlessly rides his mouth, eager to come, and even more eager to have him lick up every last drop. I continuously gasp, lungs burning for air, while he ruthlessly ravishes.
His tongue curls inside and strokes deeper than I can handle. On a silent shriek, I finally surrender an orgasm and Blake relishes the scorching wetness, licking up every last drop like honey at the bottom of the bowl. My entire body quivers from his continued action with such ferocity I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to walk again.
Gradually, he removes his tongue, making sure to give the entire area one last kiss goodbye. His glistening face beams up at me. “We’re gonna be really late…”
I whimper yet Blake helps relocate me from the dresser to our bed.
It is his birthday. Shouldn’t he get what he wants?
Blake’s mother who insists on being called Mama starts placing plates and napkins on the kitchen table. “Guess those boys are too busy playing monsters and aliens to come have cake.”
“The Avengers,” I correct from my seat beside Blake.
Everyone in the room gives me a puzzled look.
“They’re playing…Avengers….like the movie.” Without waiting for anyone to ask how I know, I blurt, “They’re obsessed. We had to watch it three times when we watched them for the weekend. It’s the only reason I know. I really don’t know much about movies. Or pop culture. Or really anything outside of classical music.”
“But we’re changing that,” Blake defends me against myself. “You know more than you think you do.”
His mom smiles widely. “That explains why Reed keeps roaring like an animal.”
“He’s The Hulk,” I inform. “We even painted him green before feeding him green Jell-O.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Those boys seem to love you as much as they do Blake.”
I was terrified they wouldn’t. Adults can barely tolerate me, why on earth would children be able to. I wasn’t even a good child when I was a child. When Blake agreed to have us watch them last month over the weekend, it felt like the argument of the century. I pulled every excuse I could think of. I would be at rehearsal both Friday and Saturday until early afternoon. He promised he was fine being alone for a few hours. He had done it numerous times before. I expressed concerns for having five young boys running around the house and potentially breaking very expensive things, including my cellos, he swore if anything became broken he would replace it, but that they understood boundaries better than I was giving them credit for. The discussion continued back and forth until it spiraled into a yelling match. One of the only we’ve ever had. However, he never budged. Them not staying wasn’t an option. By the end of weekend, I was glad it happened. I may have ended up watching more Avengers than I enjoyed but playing with them was so much fun. We went to the park. Gorged on pizza and cookies. Had races in my backyard and even went swimming in the neighborhood pool I’d never been too. Not only did the weekend with them make me feel like a part of their family, it got my mind wanting our own someday. Seeing how good he was with them whether they were behaving or needed to be reprimanded was like looking into a fortune teller’s crystal ball. I loved what I saw and I know even if I’m the world’s worst mother, it’ll be okay because he will be the world’s best father.
“I am hands down the best uncle,” Blake brags at the same time his father sits down at the table.
“You are not,” Ford argues from across the table.
His thumb strokes my shoulder and I scoot a little closer. “I’m always takin’ them to do cool shit. Not just on Sundays either.”
Sundays are family days in the Shaw world. While Blake and Ford have dinner every Sunday night possible with his parents, the others don’t, but do just as often. They’re one of those families that loves being together. The consanguinity is something I would be jealous of if I wasn’t so welcomed into it.
“You’re also the one who is always returning them home with more bruises than they left with.”
“They’re kids! They’re supposed to be bruised!”
“You always were,” Oliver says as he enters the room. “I just assumed it was because your brain and your body couldn’t figure out how to get along.”
“And yet they did in the department it mattered most.” Blake winks.
Oliver grunts his disgust and sits in the seat opposite of his father.
Out of all of The Shaw sons, Oliver is easily the one I can most relate to. He doesn’t fit. Regardless of his size and somewhat similar features, he’s strikingly different. Even now, while we’ve all managed to dress comfortable in jeans and t-shirts, he has on khaki shorts and a polo. They start rambling about sports, he waits until someone brings up something about computers before speaking up. Earlier, they were tossing the football around with all seven of the boys, and he stood off to the side, chatting with Ollie about video games. In a way it feels like he dubbed himself the outcast. His brothers don’t seem to treat him that way, inviting him to join in on conversations whenever possible, and Blake swears growing up they teased him a bit, but never to the point he wasn’t considered one of them. I’m not sure if there’s more I’m missing or if Blake’s sugar coating their past. Either way, I know how much it pains Blake not to have the closeness with Oliver he does with his other brothers. It shows. No one else may notice it, but it’s definitely there.
“Who wants cake?” Mama, as she prefers everyone to call her except her grandchildren who are allowed to call her Mimi, asks with a smile similar to Blake’s. “There’s Blake’s favorite as well as chocolate fudge and cheesecake.”
“Sienna made all of those?” Ollie quickly questions. “From scratch?”
Pop nods. “Always does.”
“She really should have her own bakery,” Oliver sighs.
“Yeah,” Blake agrees quickly. “She’d do fantastic. She’d have a ton of business.”
“Maybe someday,” Mama says with a bit of defeat in her tone. “Let’s not discuss that now. Let’s just get dessert goin’ before my grand boys run in here and leave us just the crumbs. Who wants Blake’s favorite?”
“Second favorite,” he teasingly corrects. “I had my first favorite before we got here.”
The tacky sexual innuendo has me elbowing him in the side.
Blake chuckles but doesn’t back down. “Nothin’ wrong with havin’ a double dose of cake on my birthday.”
Pop folds his hands and states, “By that definition then all the Shaw men are probably havin’ a double dose today.”
My hand covers my mouth in surprise.
I know his family is open and sometimes vulgar, which is hilarious to hear, but it still takes me off guard occasionally.
“Well, not all,” Blake challenges. “Oliver probably hasn’t had cake since Netflix started streaming.”
“Fuck you,” his brother bites with no humor in his tone. “Just because I don’t post on Facebook or Instagram or SnapChat or Look My Dicks Bigger Than Yours every fucking thing that happens with my girlfriend doesn’t mean I don’t fucking have one! It doesn’t mean I’m not good enough to have one! And it damn sure doesn’t mean I’m some back up, second string asshole that’ll never be good enough for the woman of his fucking dreams.” He abruptly stands and storms out of the dining area.
The room remains so still I am hesitant to exhale.
After a few more moments of silence, Ford volunteers, “I’ll go check on him.”
I turn to Blake. “You go.”
His eyebrows launch into the air. “What?”
“You. Go.” Folding my arms across my chest, I state, “You pissed him off. You fix it.”
“Angel-”
“You poke and push and never apologize.”
“It was a joke.”
“And you were a dick. Now go.” I command with an unwavering firmness in my tone. “He obviously needs a brother to talk to…”
The underlying implication is met with a simple nod. Blake looks back at Ford. “Don’t worry about it, Runt. I’ll go talk to him.”
Ford’s face immediately cringes. “You sure? When you two talk it usually ends in something broken.”
“Don’t you break anything, Blake Jenkins,” Mama warns.
Blake’s signature smile crosses his lips. “I won’t.”
He pecks me with a kiss on the cheek and strolls off after his brother.
As soon as he’s out of ear shot, Mama sighs, “How the hell did you do that?”
Innocently, I ask, “Do what?”
“Make him…listen.” Her grin greets me and I exchange the expression.
“I don’t feel so good,” Ollie whimpers.
“Pregnancy does that,” Mama changes her focus.
A proposal wasn’t the only surprise the Shaw family got this summer. The news of her pregnancy is still fairly recent. They wanted to wait until she was six weeks and when she was we enjoyed a huge Sunday dinner in celebration. Sort of like Blake’s birthday party we’re having. Apparently this is what they do. They love spending time together and I have to admit, I’ve fallen in love with being included.
“Ford why don’t you go ahead and take her home to lie down. We’ll save her cake for when it passes.”
His panic filled eyes meet his mother’s. “And you’re sure it’ll pass? She’s been feeling sick a lot lately.”
“Morning sickness,” Pop announces.
“In the afternoons.”
“It can come at any time,” Mama explains from where she’s standing beside Pop. “Between the five of you boys, I have experienced ‘morning sickness’ at every possible time combination. Come to think of it, you, Runt, had me sick between the hours of two and four a.m.”
“Yeah, thanks for that,” Pop sarcastically says to him.
Ford’s face contorts in frustration at the jeering, but Ollie’s unhappy groans grab his attention.
The two of them slink off with Ford demanding Mama save him a piece of ice cream cake.
I try to ignore the automatic uncomfortableness of being left completely alone with his parents.
It’s not as if they don’t like me or aren’t used to the way I unconsciously snip rather than reply sweetly to things. But they’re still his parents. The last thing I want is for them to wish he would leave me for someone….kinder like Ollie or someone who might fit in better in the kitchen like Sienna. I already spend enough time wondering if I measure up. When we’re alone on rare moments like this, the realization I probably don’t is blatantly more apparent.
“Do you want me to grab you cake now or would you like to wait for Blake?” Mama asks warmly.
“I can wait,” I quietly reply. “Blake would lose his mind if I tried ice cream cake for the first time and he wasn’t around.”
“You’ve never had ice cream cake?” Pop questions completely flummoxed. “Ever?”
“No.”
Mama sits in the seat Ford had been occupying. “What kind of cake did your parents make you growing up?”
“They didn’t.”
“Oh, no bakers. Alright. What kind did they buy?”
“They didn’t.”
“Cupcakes?”
“No.”
She offers me a sympathetic look, which slumps my shoulders.
Is it really so sad and strange to have not had birthday parties or cake?
“Blake mentioned he stole you away for a concert for your birthday last month,” Pop veers the conversation away from what he assumes to be a sensitive subject. “What’d you get him?”
“A gym membership.”
The two of them tilt their heads in unison.
“You know how he loves to jog?”
“Boy has been runnin’ since he learned to walk,” Mama snickers. “Same day.”
I helplessly smile at the thought. “Well, when he moved in with me, he had to give up going to gym since it was through his apartment, so I got him a membership to Gym Life, that way he could still lift weights when he wanted or run on the treadmill or their indoor track when it gets too hot outside. Plus, they have all these fitness classes, which he is excited for us to take.”
“That sounds like Blake,” his mother laughs and this time I join in. She sweetly wonders, “Do you enjoy workin’ out with him?”
“Uh…” My head bobs back and forth. “Sometimes. It’s becoming more enjoyable. Not the fastest jogger and will probably embarrass him if we take a class together, but hey, at least I’m trying, right?”
Her smile strains. “Are you tryin’ because you want to try to do things he enjoys or are you tryin’ ‘cause you think you need to be a certain size to keep him happy?”
The boldness of her question strikes me off guard.
“Because, honey, let me tell you, you should never be concerned with bein’ a specific size for anyone other than yourself. And if my boy has ever given you any other implication, I will beat his ass black and blue no matter the age.”
“As will I,” Pop supportively agrees.
Touched by their kind words and even kinder nature to defend me over their own son, I quickly shake my head. “He hasn’t. He loves me regardless of my size it seems.”
“Good,” she hums out obviously pleased at the information. “You’re more than just a weight on a scale. You don’t have to be a certain size to be considered beautiful. Women should be celebrated and appreciated in all forms. Didn’t your mother teach you that growin’ up?”
Quite the opposite actually. Her and my father both insisted their children be as fit as possible and weren’t above food denial if they felt nutrition had been met. Unfortunately, genetics disagreed with them and I was given a much fuller figure than they approved of. Late night college cramming developed poor eating habits and unforgiving rehearsal hours while traveling the world simply furthered it. These past few months have been filled with the healthiest eating I’ve done since I was a child yet I don’t hate it. Blake and I cook together when possible, balancing the lean with the naughty. Between better meals, even when we go out, and some exercise as opposed to none, my body is finally curving in a way I approve of.
I pass on the decision to spill out more trauma with a simple shake of the head to answer her question.
Thankfully, Blake walks back into the room alone.
Pop darts his eyebrows down. “Where’s your brother?”
“He needed to make a phone call.”
Mama cocks her head curiously. “To the sheriff or fire department?”
My boyfriend chuckles as he slips back down in his seat. “Neither.”
His parents respectfully end their questioning, but I don’t. “Then who?”
Blake slides his hand to my thigh. “His girlfriend.”
Shock covers my face at the same time we lock eyes.
“And you were right. He needed a brother to talk to. I was definitely the best choice…”
“You sound awfully cocky about that.”
“His words. Not mine.”
The addition of information tugs at my heart and smile.
Mama lets out a joyful sigh.
After Blake gives me a chaste kiss on the lips, he asks, “So what were you all talkin’ about?”
“We were just about to ask Abby what it is her parents do for a livin’,” Pop casually answers as he folds his hands with Mama.
Blake’s face contorts to confusion. “You know…I don’t even know the answer to that.”
There’s a reason…
“Probably would be a good idea to have some knowledge of what they do before I meet them in a few weeks.”
All eyes swing to me and I try to smile. “My mother works in the medical field.”
“She’s a doctor?” The excitement in Mama’s voice adds to my hesitation to continue.
“A surgeon.”
“What kind?” Pop pushes.
I feel all the muscles in my body tense. “Neuro.”
“As in brain?” Blake chokes on his own disbelief. “Your mother is an actual brain surgeon?!”
“Technically, they’re called neurosurgeons, but yes. In less formal terms, my mother is a brain surgeon. One of the youngest in the field. She recently had an article published about her in a medical journal.”
He tries to collect his composure yet continuously fails.
Pop clears his throat. “And your father?”
“He’s a professor at Clover Rose University.”
“What does he teach?” Mama’s genuine interest almost eases the anxiety.
“Black History, but he is now head of the entire history department as of last fall. He is also working on his third book, this time about effects of proper funding to community organizations in inner cities.”
An audible gulp escapes Blake.
Accomplishments are a requirement to be an Atkins. The bar is always high and always expected to be met. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to prolong them meeting. I already don’t feel good enough. I hate the idea of Blake feeling it himself.
“Are you an only child?” Pop proceeds past his amazement.
“No. I have one older sister.”
“What does she do for a living?” Mama quietly questions.
“She’s head of the accounting department for a multibillion dollar security firm.”
“Wait, you’re the artsy, laid back one?” Blake croaks.
I take a moment to process the statement. “I guess I am…”
Pop lets out a deep exhale and offers me a wide grin. “Sounds like you come from quite a family and they seem to have raised quite a daughter.”
His compliment receives a sweet smile. “Thank you.”
“Worried they’re gonna like Blake?” He questions with mirth in his voice. “He is horrible in public. Can’t take him anywhere.”
“Hey!” My boyfriend tries to relax.
“Oh, I’m sure Blake will win them over,” Mama says with a wave of her hand. “That boy is too charmin’ for his own good.”
“Explains how he graduated college,” Pop teases. “And high school…”
“Let’s not forget elementary school. He probably would’ve never passed third grade had he not been showin’ up with flowers he picked every day for Mrs. Masey,” Mama sells him out.
“It’s my birthday, can we at least have cake with these embarrassing stories,” Blake laughs lightly and gives my leg a gentle squeeze.
His mother rolls her eyes, but returns to her initial task just as his nephews and their parents come barreling in.
The room is suddenly much louder and the atmosphere much more joyous.
I fold my hand with his, grateful for the change.
There will be plenty of time to worry about all the things that can possibly go wrong with him being introduced to my parents. As much as I want to believe nothing will change once he meets them, I’m not that naïve. For now? I plan to linger in the ignorant bliss we’ve cultivated over the past six months. If everything fails miserably, there’s a high probability these memories will be all I have left to keep me company besides my cello.