Page 23 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

Pete’s mouth dropped open. “Dude, that’s a big deal.”

“You didn’t propose to her or declare your love for her or anything weird like that, did you?” Mike asked.

“No.” I shook my head. “She didn’t care about my being in foster care. I told her by accident,” I said defensively when Mike shook his head. “And she wanted me to come meet her family anyway.”

“Look at that smile. You’re so stinkin’ cute!”

“Shut it, Utah.”

Rick put me in a headlock and ruffled my hair. “You’re so happy.”

Then I thought about how Dakota had sat there with a stunned, horrified expression on her face when I spilled my guts. “Maybe she just did it because she felt sorry for me?”

“A win is a win,” Erik said sagely.

“Yeah! Already meeting the parents.” Pete pumped his fist.

“Big step,” Mike agreed.

“I think it’s more of a casual thing.” I suddenly felt sick. “I’ve never ever met a girl’s parents before.”

“Damn, College Boy.”

“Good enough to fuck but not good enough to date?” Mike teased.

“Something like that.” I sighed.

“The curse of being handsome with a big dick.” Pete mimed punching me in the stomach.

The reality was, I’d always been a clinger in high school and college. I all but begged the girls to invite me back home, yearning to be welcomed into a loving family. I had missed my chance to be adopted into a family, but marrying into one was an achievable goal.

But they never did.

“I need to prepare. Figure out what I’m going to wear. I need a hostess gift.” I jumped up, heading abruptly to the bedroom. “A suit. I should wear a suit.”

“God, no. No suits. This is a casual thing. You cannot embarrass me and show up in a suit, College Boy.” Mike raced after me.

“Jeans?” I pulled them out of my closet.

“No. Too casual,” Pete said.

“Black jeans are fine,” Mike argued. “Boots. Flannel. Classic look.”

“No way!” Erik complained. “He’d look like he’s cosplaying as a lumber jack.”

“Can’t go wrong with a polo and khakis,” Rick said.

“All right, Utah.”

I swallowed the anxiety.I was more nervous than even before the playoffs or when a social worker was taking me to a new family.

My hair was slicked down and combed. I’d gone with gray jeans and a polo as a compromise. My shoulders were tight under the jacket as I stepped out of my truck.

Do not screw this up.

I remembered being a foster kid during the one time period I’d lived in a nice middle-class house where the couple had a lawn care service. I’d been amazed at the neighbors, who would always throw big parties with cars lining the street. I’d sit at my window and stare at the well-dressed people walking up the drive, wondering what it would be like to go to one of those parties with all those people. Now here I was.

I headed down the sidewalk past the rows of cars on the quaint street. The beautiful big craftsman-style homes, all decked out for Christmas, marched in a row like they were on the set of a holiday movie. It was the type of neighborhood I’d alwaysdreamed of living in. It would be amazing to grow up here, to raise kids here.

---