Page 6 of Boyfriend
“Why?” I demand. “For church?” My parents still insist on attending the same church. Neither one of them is willing to be the one who leaves. As far as I can tell, they sit on opposite sides of the room shooting daggers at each other while the priest stands up front preaching about love and forgiveness.
“Worse,” Stevie grumbles. “Mom is throwing an engagement party for Lauren on the day before Christmas Eve.”
“Oh shit,” I whisper. Then I let out a groan.
“Yeah.” My brother sighs. We both know what that means—Mom and Dad at the same party for the first time in three years. With alcohol, too. It could be bad bad bad. “You’ll be there, right? If you try to blow this off, I’ll tell Dad it was you who scratched his Mercedes by having sex up against it.”
“Rude,” I grunt. “You know that was a freak accident.” I’d set my date up on the hood and we’d had a fine time. Who could have guessed that her short little skirt had metal grommets on the back? What kind of fashion designer thought that was a good idea?
“Still your fault, though.” He snickers. “Don’t make me do it. If I have to go to this thing, then so do you.”
“Yeah, okay,” I grumble. It’s not my sister’s fault that our family has become just like a daytime TV show. If she’s crazy enough to get engaged, I’ll make sure there’s someone at her party who isn’t going to make a scene.
Even if it hurts me. And I expect it to hurt plenty.
“Who’s this date with, anyway?” my brother asks.
“Hmm?”
“Your date. On Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, uh, a new girl.” I haven’t chosen one yet, of course.
“They’re all new girls with you.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He snorts. “Yeah. But we’re not all hockey stars. The talent pool works harder for you than it does for us mere mortals, bro.”
“It’s good work if you can get it.” Just because I’m never marrying a woman doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy them.
“Later, Weston.”
“Later, punk.”
I slip into the back of the lecture hall and nab an empty seat. I’m just settling in to the lecture when my phone buzzes with a text. I don’t look right away, because I assume it’s Stevie busting on me again. He probably thinks he can guilt me into coming home for Thanksgiving.
But as the professor drones on about monetary policy, I decide to check. I don’t want to be a dick, but it’s a big lecture hall and I’ve perfected the art of texting while pretending to pay attention.
The number is unfamiliar. It must be another inquiry for Thanksgiving. I’ve gotten three already this morning.
Hi there, the new one begins. My name is Abbi. I saw your sign at the Biscuit, and I wonder if I could take you up on your Boyfriend Rental offer. I’m a junior here at Moo U, and my family’s place is just fifteen miles away in Shelburne.
Hmm. Two of the other inquiries are from girls who live further afield. So I already like Abbi. I’m just about to respond when an additional message appears.
She adds: You should also know that my step-stepmother is the sort of cook who goes to a lot of trouble. There will be a dozen homemade dishes on the table. Like butternut squash soup with shredded bacon and croutons on top. Roasted turkey, of course. But also steamed Chinese dumplings filled with turkey and scallions. Plus an army of side dishes, and three kinds of pie. She’s a superstar cook.
Well, damn. My mouth is watering already. And before I think better of it, I ask a follow-up question. Is there a dipping sauce with the dumplings? Wait, was that a rude opener? Let me try again. Hi Abbi! I’m Weston. I really like Thanksgiving, and your dumplings intrigue me.
Abbi: Your curiosity is justified. You can’t go home with just anyone for Thanksgiving, right? What if the mashed potatoes were out of a box?
Weston: Bite your tongue! Only a monster would make boxed mashed on Thanksgiving.
Abbi: I’m just pointing out that you have to be careful going home with strangers. And, for the record, last year there were two different dipping sauces for the dumplings. There was soy ginger and also cranberry.
That does sound promising. I think Abbi’s Thanksgiving spread sounds like a winner. I decide to just accept it on the spot, and let the other women down gently.
Weston: Okay Abbi, you’re on. Please text the details when you’re ready. I’m happy to meet you anywhere on campus. I don’t have a car though.
