“Yes.”
“I mean, you can still back out. My parents can be a bit much, and … well, I guess it should go without sayin’, but—”
“Having second thoughts about introducing me to them?”
“No, no, no. It’s more, uh … I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Get me?”
I smirk. “Doesn’t seem like I’m the one who’s uncomfortable.”
He bites his lip. “Alright. Fair enough. It’s just that I … never, uh—”
“Never take girls home?”
He lands on a station, then looks up at me with a grave expression. “It’s been … a long time.”
“Like, last year Theatre gala long?”
“More like freshman year of high school Sadie Hawkins dance long.”
“Yikes.”
“They might be a tiny bit overexcited and weird and, like, cook you things and interrogate you and stuff.” His face is already going red and he’s not even pulled the truck into drive yet. “Just try to ignore it and play cool if you can.”
“Ignore your parents’ hospitality? That would be rude of me,” I return with mock offense.
“Hospitality? Alright, babe, if that’s what you call it.”
I eye him for the term of endearment, which he clearly said to annoy me judging from the crooked grin on his face as he pulls out of park and takes off.
We enter the interstate and cross through the dense downtown, dodging buildings that tower over the highway and sandwich us on either side. When the city passes by and becomes another shrinking thing in the rearview, the highway soon grows narrow until we exit and rip down a few streets at a speed I presume to be well over the limit. The cookie-cutter houses line the road now with neatly-trimmed sidewalks on either side shadowed by homely trees.
It’s at 702 Barkley Lane that he draws to a stop by the curb. Brant takes a deep breath in, then lets it out all over the steering wheel, his eyes popped wide open as he stares at his hands.
He is clearly tense and unprepared for this. Maybe he is having second thoughts.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him, patting his back in some totally inadequate gesture of assurance. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“My parents … are like … really, really, really—”
“Relax, Brant. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
He takes another breath, then shuts off the pickup, stealing away the music from the radio and casting us into silence. “You ready?”
I lean over the gearshift and kiss his cheek. The gesture comes so naturally, it startles both of us. “Ready.”
The outside of his little one-story house is peach-colored from corner to corner. There is a porch that wraps from the front around to one side with a two-car garage comprising the other. A cat looks up lazily from the top step of the porch as we ascend and couldn’t be any less bothered by our interruption of his nap.
When Brant rings the doorbell, dogs bark and yap and howl from within. I can’t tell how many there are, but the sound is overwhelming. I’m only used to one growing up, not the six or seven I imagine are awaiting us on the other side of that door.
The moment there’s a sound at the door handle, Brant’s hand snaps to the small of my back and he pulls me against his side. The maneuver is so sudden that I gasp just before the door swings open.
Standing before me is a pretty, petite woman with a blonde ponytail and enormous blue eyes. For a split second, I wonder if this is his sister before I remind myself he’s an only child. This is his mom?? The woman regards me with surprise for two seconds before a polite, expectant smile crosses her face instead.
“Mom, this is Penelope.”
I jerk at hearing my full name, giving Brant a bit of confused side-eye before facing his mom and extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rudawski.”
“The same to you, Penelope!” she exclaims sweetly. “Come on in! I have some iced tea mixed up, raspberry and peach, your choice. I can show you the guestroom as well, if you’d like to bring your things. We’ll get you settled in.”
“Mom, we don’t need a guestroom,” blurts Brant, his grip on me tightening. “This is my girlfriend. She’s staying with me.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” Mrs. Rudawski says, giggling. Her face flushes.
Girlfriend. The word is still ringing in my ears when I say, “Thank you,” and offer a smile that I hope doesn’t betray my inner misgivings.
Inside the house, I’m relieved and impressed to discover it was only two dogs that made all the noise: two Labradors, both cream-colored and panting. Even their eyes look the same. How do they tell them apart?