Not So Nice Guy
Page 32

“Should we drive to Vegas? There’s no waiting period.”
“It would take us 72 hours to get there and back. Let’s just wait here.”
“But I feel like we have to keep moving! Is this actually happening?”
He nods and turns right at the light.
“This isn’t some elaborate prank on your part? Because really, you could do much better than me.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re beautiful and funny.”
“WHAT?!”
It’s one thing to propose marriage and another thing entirely to call me beautiful and funny. I’m not sure which one is more important.
“Ian Fletcher thinks I’m beautiful,” I say to no one in particular. “Wowee.”
“Uh huh. Try not to look so stunned. Do you want me to drop back by Oak Hill so we can grab your bike?”
“Yes please.”
“What should we do for dinner? Want Chinese to celebrate?”
“Yes! Sesame chicken. Wait, shit—I have to go to over to my parents’ house. They got back from their cruise this morning, and I promised I’d eat dinner with them so they could show me pictures.” Dang it. “I could cancel?”
“No. You hardly see them.”
Such an understanding hubs.
“Why don’t you come and we can share the news with them together?” I ask, hopeful that he won’t leave me to fend for myself.
He shrugs. “I guess that’s not a bad idea. How do you think they’ll take it?”
“If the past few days have taught me anything, it’s that it is completely useless trying to predict the future. Let’s just roll with it.”
I was intentionally ignoring the obvious outcome. My parents, Genine and Thomas, are deeply boring and old-fashioned. My mom didn’t let me cut my hair until I was 7. I couldn’t wear makeup until I was old enough to buy it for myself. They don’t drink alcohol. They’re judgmental, and I generally try to avoid them while at the same time not cutting them out of my life completely.
When I show up for dinner with Ian unexpectedly in tow, they act deeply put out.
“It’s just that I only set the table for three,” my mother says, as if they only keep three plates in the entire house.
“And I only bought three steaks,” my father grumbles.
“If we all cut off one quarter, everyone will have ¾ of a steak!” I point out cheerfully.
“I like all my quarters,” continues the grumbler.
“Oh-kay, you can have all of mine.”
I’m too nervous to have any real appetite. Also, that milkshake was huge.
“I suppose that’s fine,” my mom says with a sneer.
After they’ve made it abundantly clear that he isn’t welcome, I expect Ian to make some kind of strained excuse (He left the oven on? Has to wash his hair?) and then exit stage left. But, no, he stays right by my side, accepting of the fact that I still have a death grip on his hand. By now, our skin is fused. He’ll have to go in for surgery if he wants to remove me.
As if reading my thoughts, my mom glances down at our hands and her expression makes me look down as well. She looks so horrified I briefly think, Oh no, are we accidentally having sex or something?
No, just holding hands like the loose, immoral people we are.
“Samantha, would you like to use my bathroom to freshen up before dinner?” my mom asks, continuing her perusal of me and clearly finding my appearance lacking. “I think I have another dress you can put on if you’d like.”
I’m still wearing my blue dress from school. It’s fine. In fact, I felt kind of pretty in it before she said something.
Ian meets my gaze, narrows his eyes, and shakes his head. “You look great,” he says loudly enough for both of my parents to hear.
Right. My mom turns to continue prepping dinner with pursed lips. For a few minutes, there’s no conversation while my dad fusses with the steaks at the stove and my mom hurries to add a fourth place setting at the table.
She mumbles under her breath the whole time, pleasantries like, “Would it have been too much to call ahead of time?”
I don’t engage her. If she’s this upset about an extra dinner guest, how is she going to take an extra member of the family?
When my dad declares the steaks ready to eat, my mom directs us to the table and tells us to take a seat. I begrudgingly let go of Ian’s hand.
“Can I help with anything? Get drinks?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “No, no, we have everything taken care of. Would you like still or sparkling water?”
What I wouldn’t give for a whole trough of wine.
“Still is fine. Thank you,” Ian replies, and I agree.
Then, the dinner from hell begins. My father sits at the head of the table. My mom sits across from him, and Ian and I are smashed in the middle. It’s not that the table is that small, but their judgement takes up a lot of space.
“So how long have you two been an item?” my mom asks with a snippy tone.
“Oh, um, just for a little while,” I say, sidestepping the truth with a generality.
“I wasn’t aware things had progressed. Weren’t you just friends before this?”
I nod and offer as few details as possible. “It’s new.”
“Ian, what is it that you do for work again?” my father asks, staring over at him from beneath his thick scraggly eyebrows.
“I teach at Oak Hill with Sam.”
“Oh yes.” He nods. “I remember now. And do you make good money there?”
My eyes bulge out of my head.
“Dad.”
Ian doesn’t care about the intrusion. “The pay is okay, but money has never been my motivation.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those hippies who thinks money isn’t important. Hate to break it to you, but peace and love don’t keep you warm in the winter.”
Ian keeps a straight face as he replies, “You’re right. Luckily, I worked in pharma for a while after college, saved up quite a bit, and I’ve invested it well over the years. It’s enough to keep the gas on, anyway.”
My dad’s brows rise in shock, mainly because Ian had the audacity to call him on his bullshit.
“But as a side note, peace and love get you pretty far in life. Sam and I don’t need much to be happy.” His gaze catches mine and I smile.
My dad grunts, and it’s clear he thinks Ian has a lot of growing up to do.
“Just wait until you have a family to feed. It’s expensive raising kids.”
KIDS.
Heat travels up my neck. We haven’t gotten that far. Ian might not even want kids. I look down at my 3/4 steak and know I won’t be able to force down even one bite.
“We’ll manage, I’m sure,” Ian replies with an amused tone. He hates this. He doesn’t understand why I bother with my parents at all. “I’m thinking if we have 9 or 10 kids we can put them to work as chimney sweeps—”
“Oh, have you two already discussed the future?” my mom interrupts with a high-pitched lilt.
Ian and I lock gazes again and his brows rise. His point is clear: Take the opportunity. It’s now or never.
I set down my fork, take a deep breath, and then proclaim simply, “Ian and I are engaged.”
Cutlery falls to the table dramatically. I glance over and my mom has her hand pressed over her heart in shock. “Engaged?!”
She exclaims the word as if she’s performing for a packed Broadway theatre.
I smile, easy and simple. “Yes. We’re getting married in 72 hours.”
“72? Hours?! What—”
My dad’s question gets cut off by an errant sob from my mom.
“Samantha Grace, what are you talking about? 72 hours?! This is nonsense.” She stands and slams her linen napkin down on the table. “Is this a joke?”
Ian and I both shake our heads.
“We’ve put a lot of thought into this.” All of twenty minutes.
“This is extremely sudden,” she says, pacing and pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “You two weren’t even dating the last time I checked!”