Page 16 of Set on You

I toss the pillow back. It bounces off her knee and onto the floor. “What makes you think I’ll go Robert De Niro on him? I don’t own a lie detector test.”

“Yet.” She pauses. “And because that’s just what you do. You go into mama-bear mode. On everyone.”

I pull back, brows knit. “No. I don’t.”

She gives me a pointed look, as if this is something she’s been meaning to bring up. “You’ve hated every guy I ever dated. Did you know Seth was terrified of you? You didn’t even speak a word to him until probably six months into our relationship. And that was just to ask him to borrow his veggie spiralizer.”

I stare at her. I never did give the spiralizer back. Probably because zucchini pasta has become a staple in my diet, and also because I just knew Seth was going to suck. But maybe Tara has a point. The last thing I want to do is upset Grandma Flo if she’s found a second chance at happiness.

“I’ll be nice. I promise.”

chapter seven

MARTIN NO LONGERhas a mustache. I’ve spent the past half hour staring at the bare skin of his upper lip, as well as the sizable mole on his neck. There’s a hair poking out of the center that I’m resisting the urge to pluck.

He’s been droning on and on about his many family members as they enter the private room in the restaurant. He spares no detail with the backstories, like how his great-niece got straight A’s in every course in her latest college semester at Duke despite dealing with asbestos in her dorm room.

I know he’s just being friendly, trying to acquaint our families. But finding out the breadth of his eldest daughter’s latest shingles flare-up isn’t exactly ideal conversation prior to eating a four-course Italian dinner.

“Crystal, can you come here for a second?” Mom interrupts. She tugs at my elbow, gifting Martin a massively fake smile. I’veinherited her inability to temper her facial expressions, particularly when she is displeased.

“Yeah?” I whisper, leaning in.

Mom’s nervous gaze flutters around the candlelit room, taking in the awkwardness that is our two families, standing divided on either side of the table.

Mom’s side of the family, the McCarthys, are a formal bunch. We’re a small group, with Mom only having her brother and his two kids. We’re not overly boisterous, like the Chens, Dad’s side of the family.

Everyone is trying to remain calm and collected while feeling hella uncomfortable at the sight that is Grandma Flo draping her entire body over Martin on the chaise lounge, posing harder than Tyra Banks for photos. Martin hasn’t stopped showering her with cringeworthy affection all evening.

Martin’s family appears to be your standard white, down-to-earth, Midwestern, American-born-and-bred crowd. He has three kids, plus their grown children, and a bunch of siblings, all enthusiastically talking about their cottages and the upcoming fishing season. They’re also taking advantage of the open bar, cheerfully slapping each other on the back and shouting many decibels too loud for this room.

“Just wanted to save you from the shingles conversation.” Mom winks, pushing her bangs from her eyes. After one conversation, it’s clear Martin is an oversharer. The opposite of Grandpa’s perpetually crusty, reserved nature.

“How are you feeling about it all?” I ask her sympathetically. She, of anyone, probably took this news the hardest. She was really close to Grandpa. Tara claimed Mom was fine, but I don’t trust her, given her paranoia I’ll channel Robert De Niro and ruin the entire dinner.

Mom fiddles with her champagne flute, forcing another grin.“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be? If Grandma is happy, so am I.” Apparently Tara wasn’t exaggerating.

She has a point. Grandma looks so full of life, dressed in a classy gold lace dress and matching shawl. Her short gray hair is neatly styled into old-school waves. She is still tucked under Martin’s arm, mid–Julia Roberts laugh, as he gazes at her like she’s the light of his life.

“You look gorgeous tonight.” Mom takes in my navy cocktail dress. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you out of your Lulus.” As much as she’d deny it, I know her comment is a slight against my career choice.

“You know I can’t wear anything but Align leggings for the rest of my life,” I say, deciding this isn’t the time or the place to get into it. And besides, these leggings are everything. Lululemon credits me for converting hundreds of women to the glorious, life-changing comfort that is their Align legging. “No Hillary tonight?”

Mom lets out a sorrowful sigh and I immediately regret bringing it up. “The restaurant wouldn’t allow it without proper paperwork to prove she’s a service dog.”

I level a hard stare at her. “Mom, Hillary is not a service dog. You have to stop telling people that.”

Mom clutches her chest, appalled that Iwent there.“She’s like a therapy dog to me.”

“We talked about this. It’s a real certification, you know. Some people need them for legitimate health reasons. Not just because they’re obsessed with their dog and can’t leave them alone without having a meltdown.”

Mom apparently disagrees, rolling her eyes in defiance. She chugs the rest of her champagne like it’s water as Grandma Flo announces it’s finally time to sit down for dinner.

She made name cards for everyone, as she always does for family dinners. They sit among the brightly colored ranunculus floral arrangements, artfully prepared by Tara and Mom earlier today.

Unfortunately, the families are purposely intermixed, one of us between two or three of them, to help us get to know each other. An introvert’s worst nightmare.

I have the luxury of sitting smack-dab in between Martin himself and a place card that readsScottin flowing calligraphy. Of all the Ritchie family members I was introduced to tonight, I don’t recall meeting anyone named Scott. As the waiters begin to serve the salad, I notice every seat at the table is filled, except for Scott’s.

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