Page 42 of My Unscripted Life
Our doorbell clangs through our house with a metallic racket that nearly causes my legs to collapse beneath me. My parents never replaced the ancient metal bell with a newer, more soothing model like I suggested. The original doorbell is literally a metal bell with a metal knocker that rattles like one of those old-timey alarm clocks, only much,muchlouder. It’s enough to make your fillings jangle.
“I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” I shout, hurtling myself out my bedroom door and down the hall. I skid through the foyer, stopping myself by grabbing on to the heavy iron doorknob on our front door.
“If you think I’m letting you leave here with that boy without saying hello, then that time I dropped you on your head as a baby did more damage than I thought.” I glance over my shoulder to see my dad leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest in what I imagine is meant to be an intimidating stance. Unfortunately, my dad is a five-foot-six-inch historian whose blond hair is getting awfully wispy on top and who has a difficult time keeping his round, wire-rimmed glasses on his nose.
“Please don’t embarrass me,” I hiss at him, trying my best to give him the puppy dog face that usually works on him. He doesn’t move.
My parents have always been pretty welcoming to whoever I happen to be dating, even when he shows up wearing shiny black pleather pants and a four-foot wallet chain, yet they can’t help but be suspicious of Milo. I don’t blame them. They’ve seen his face plastered all over the glossy tabloids under headlines such asRITTER TANKS, TURNS TO DRUGS?andLYDIA AND MILO’S WILD NIGHT!after all. They’re smart enough to know that most of that is crap, but they’re parents. It’s their job to remain skeptical.
I open the door and immediately break into a wide smile at the sight of Milo, clad in another tissue-thin V-neck, this one gray, paired with preppy khaki shorts and a pair of navy boat shoes. It’s a totally bland outfit, and he’s rocking it so hard I want to shimmy-shake with the beat.
“Hi! Let me grab my purse,” I say, holding up a finger indicating that he should wait on the porch and maybe not come in to tangle with my dad, who is clearing his throat behind me. I see Milo glance at him, then step into the foyer.
“I’m Milo Ritter,” he says, and reaches out to shake my dad’s hand like he’s any of the other totally normal nobody guys who’ve picked me up for dates (pleather pants aside). I almost laugh at how clichéd it is, watching my dad give Milo the firm, professorial handshake that he usually reserves for donors and students who don’t want to turn in their term papers. It would be slightly intimidating if Milo weren’t a good head taller than him. “Good to meet you, sir.”
I take the moment of their innocuous greeting to grab my purse from the couch, but when I get back I find my mother has wandered out of her office in full-on draft mode. Her hair is a frizzy mess, her glasses are falling down her nose, and she’s got a yellow no. 2 pencil stuck behind each ear.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she’s saying, transferring her empty coffee mug to her left hand so she can shake Milo’s. “I’m Marilyn, Dee’s mother.”
A flash of recognition crosses his face, and I brace for it.
“Marilyn Wilkie? As in, the romance writer?”
“That’s right!” she replies. Her eyes light up, and whatever plot problem that was weighing her down drifts away. Mom always loves getting recognized, which really only happens at book conventions and signings, when she’s standing in front of a full-color portrait of herself and whatever book she’s promoting. I’m sure it’s making her year that someone like Milo Ritter knows her name.
“You read romance novels?” I can’t keep the shocked, almost mocking tone out of my voice.
“My mom,” Milo says to me, then turns back to my mother. “She’s a huge fan. I think she’s read all your books.”
“Well, isn’t that just a kick! I’ve got a new one coming out. It’s sort of a departure—” Mom says, but I cut her off with aPlease don’tlook. Once she gets started talking about her work, it’s nearly impossible to get her to stop, which is why I know the plot to her entire Scottish rogue series despite having never read a single word.
“I’ll have to get you to sign a book for her,” Milo says with a warm smile, and my heart melts like a pat of butter on hot toast. “I’ll swing over to a bookstore sometime soon and then come by.”
Mom gives me anI like himnod of approval.
“Where are you two off to tonight?” Dad asks, affecting his deep professorial voice.
“Dad, we really ought to get—”
“Vintage movie night at the Parkland Drive-In. Triple feature of theBack to the Futuretrilogy,” Milo says.
Dad sighs, clutching at his chest. “It really hurts that my childhood is considered vintage,” he says.
“Better than antique, dear,” Mom replies.
“True,” Dad says, his voice still faux-deep. “Well, on your way there, have Dee take you to Central City Park. She can show you where she—”
“Dad!”
Milo gives me a side eye and a slight smirk, and I know that one’s going to come back to bite me at some point during the night. I’d really prefer not to tell the embarrassing story about why my parents are so hesitant to loan me the car, and why there’s a magnolia tree at the north end of the park that may never be the same.
Right on cue to add to the Wilkie Family Fun Night, Rubix lopes into the foyer, his nailsclick-clacking on the wood floor. He wanders up to Milo, does a lazy lap around his legs, and then lets all 110 pounds of yellow dog collapse in a heap on his feet. Notathis feet, like most respectable dogs, butonhis feet, rendering Milo immobile. I shoot Rubix the stink eye.Traitor.But he just lets out a howling yawn, then settles his head down on his front paws.
“Hey, why don’t you take Rubix with you?” Dad says, bending down to give the old dog a scratch behind his enormous ears. “He could use some adventure. You could walk him around the drive-in.”
At the sound of his favorite word, Rubix’s tail thumps heavily on the floor, but he doesn’t lift his head or move from Milo’s feet.
“Very funny, Dad,” I say, then turn to Milo. “Rubix is afraid of loud noises. We tried to take him to the drive-in once, and he drooled an ocean in the front seat and cried through the first hour until we took him home.”
