“Maybe.” I’m not sure if I can sit across from her stepmom, knowing what I know, and not have smoke billowing out of my ears. Anyway, I’m guessing she only extended the invitation so I wouldn’t feel left out while they were here.
It’s getting harder to remember that it’s ElectricJay20 she loves, not me. If I let myself get too comfortable with her, I might slip up and say something I shouldn’t, or worse. I can just see her dad and I both reaching for the pitcher when she asks, “Could you please pass the sweet tea, Daddy?”
All week, April and I work on making the kitchen and living room presentable for guests. Come Sunday, my baby girl’s a ball of anxiety, jumpy and unfocused, like a squirrel preparing for winter.
I hear her swearing in the kitchen.
“Shit... Jonathan, do we have more paper towels?”
“Hall closet,” I yell from the dining room where I’m keeping myself busy peeling wallpaper. I’m not used to seeing April so frazzled. I don’t like it.
The doorbell chimes.
“Oh, god,” she grumbles. “I’ll get it.”
April clip-clops through the house in her clogs. I hear the front door whine.
“Hey guys,” she says. “Glad you could make it.”
“It’s a lot farther away than you led us to believe.” I can only assume the speaker must be Eloise. “Oh, you have a cat.”
“His name is Mango,” April says. “Let me take your coats.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” says a man, probably her dad.
There’s a quiet pause while April walks to the hall closet and back.
“I’ve always preferred dogs,” says Eloise. “Where’s your landlord?”
“He’s working on the dining room, so he won’t be joining us for dinner.”
“If he’s working on the dining room then where will we eat?”
“I’ve set us up at the kitchen table. Can I get you guys something to drink?”
April leads her parents into the kitchen. I hear the plink of glasses on the countertop and the sound of the fridge being opened.
“Well,” Eloise says, “even if he’s not eating with us, I’d still like to meet the man you’re living with.”
“He’s really busy, Eloise.”
“And apparently very impolite.”
I bristle. I could give two shits about whether Eloise thinks I’m rude. But I don’t appreciate the way she places the burden of my hypothetical rudeness on April, like it’s her fault I’m not immediately rushing out to greet her guests.
“I’ll see if he can take a quick break.” A moment later, April pokes her head into the dining room. “Hey, um, I know you’re busy, but my parents want to meet you.”
I pull off my work gloves and shadow her into the kitchen, where Eloise is currently studying the décor like she’s giving it a report card. Her parents do a double take as I approach them.
“Dad, Eloise, this is Jonathan.” April clasps her hands. “Jonathan, these are my parents, Douglas and Eloise.”
“Good to meet you, Jonathan,” her dad says. “Let me guess, power forward.”
I suppress a sigh.
“Not since high school.” I force a tight smile as I shake hands with April’s parents. Douglas first, then Eloise.
On the contrary, if my teenage daughter was shacking up with a guy in his forties, I’d have a few questions. But then, I wouldn’t have waited this long to start asking them.
“I’m just making conversation.” Eloise eyes me expectantly. “Well?”
April mouths the word sorry over her glass of tea.
“No kids,” I say.
I hang back and let the family chat about their business, more than happy to fill my mouth with food in place of conversation. Now and then, I catch April glancing in my direction, sometimes checking in and other times in search of commiseration. Her dad’s voice is markedly absent from much of the discussion, unless prompted by his wife or daughter.