Page 21 of Game Day

But now they’re here. Days ahead of time.

In the kitchen, there's still a glass worth of champagne, but that's probably bad luck. I pull out a bottle of red. And another of white.

"How was your flight?” I ask.

"Dry air. Too crowded, even in first class."

Clay's parents are, he’s implied, successful. His father, Thomas, runs his own company. He’s confident and assured in the way fifty-something men in suits can be. His mother, Sandy, is slim with honey-blond hair cut in a sleek bob.

"Which do you prefer?" I ask, holding up both bottles.

“Sparkling water would be lovely for both of us,” Sandy replies, barely glancing at the wine.

“Right.” I return to the kitchen and pull open the fridge door. No luck.

When I bring Clay’s mother tap water, her lips thin. She and her husband are perched in chairs like matching bookends. I take a seat on the couch.

"We're so glad you could be here," I say.

"Our only son tells us he's planning to get married,” Thomas says dryly. “We took the first flight."

“Planning to,” not “is getting married.” Did he mean to make it sound as if our minds – Clay’s mind—might still be changed?

I’m sure he didn’t.

All parents want is to know how loved their children are. So, that’s what I’m going to show them.

“It was so nice to speak with you at the holidays and after finals. Clay talks about you all the time.”

It’s a bit of a fib, but it’s in the spirit of family, so I don’t think my fiancé would mind.

“Really? Last year was the first time we’d heard about you,” Sandy says.

My smile dies.

We make small talk for a few minutes, but it feels like playing a game by myself. Every time I start a topic, I have to carry it on.

The sound of the door opening makes me leap up with hope.

Clay enters, wearing gray jogging pants with a hat pulled over his head and a gear bag slung over his shoulder.

"Clayton, darling," his mother gushes.

My brows shoot up to my hairline. I’ve never heard anyone be ooey-gooey around Clay before. It’s not what I expect him to go for, or even tolerate. But he looks surprisingly relaxed as his gaze flicks between us once as his parents rise and embrace him, his father coming up to Clay’s chin and his mother barely reaching his chest.

"Could I borrow you for a minute?" I say once they’re finished greeting one another.

Clay follows me to the bedroom, where I carefully shut the door behind us.

"Did you know they were coming?” I fight to keep my voice low enough they can’t hear from the other room.

"Not tonight." He sets his bag on the bed and rubs a hand through his hair.

"But you're happy they’re here," I press. Clay keeps his emotions under wraps, even sometimes with me, and I want to be there for him.

"We decided to have the wedding here in part so we could include family and friends."

He’s right.

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