Page 81 of Set on You

Every single time I think about how perfectly he fits into my life, how desperate I am to see him after work, and how my entire body hums with pure joy at the mere mention of him, I simply can’t imagine life without him. We haven’t said “I love you” yet. While I’ve been tempted to blurt it out on numerous occasions, or write it on a sign and stand outside his window, I’m stubbornly waiting for him to say it first. Despite his cocky façade, he wears his heart on his sleeve. If he hasn’t told me yet, he must not be ready. And the last thing I want to do is rush him.

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself. You need my dad’s permission first,” I tease, clapping as Dad swaggers off the stage, returning to our table at the end of his speech.

Scott gives me a confident wink before polishing off the remainder of his drink. “Pfft.Not worried. He already gave me his blessing long before we even started dating. Planted that seed early.”

I chuckle at the drunken memory of FaceTiming Dad the night of Flo’s and Martin’s respective bachelor parties. “What did you even say to get his approval?”

Scott’s momentarily distracted by the sight of the waiters delivering the entrées. Merrily leaving me hanging, he carefully unrolls my cutlery from the cloth napkin and neatly folds it on my lap. When his fingertips lightly graze my thigh, I shiver involuntarily.“Well, I said you were stubborn, self-righteous, territorial, especially at the gym...” he says, pretending to list my flaws. “Generally, a little unhinged. Your dad fully agreed. Said you’d always been that way and there was little chance of changing you. He practically begged me to take you off his plate.”

I give him a playful whack on the chest. “God, your ego really is the size of Boston.”

He squeezes my thigh under the table, a knowing grin spreading over his lips.

“Crystal, are you still on Instaworld?” Uncle Bill asks for the forty-seventh time as he demolishes his roast chicken leg with his bare hands as if he’s at KFC. Along with inquiring about how old I am, he condescendingly asks me about Instagram every single time I see him. I don’t know whether he’s genuinely curious, or if he’s teamed up with Dad to make a point. Either way, it’s highly ironic, given Uncle Bill’s addiction to reposting politically touchy and gently racist memes on Facebook with stunning frequency.

“Instagram,” I correct through a bite of salad. “But yeah, I am. Business has never been better, actually.”

Dad sighs heavily, taking his seat across from me. “Though her mother and I keep telling her about the importance of getting a proper job. Something more stable over the long term.”

Mom nods in agreement as she bounces Hillary on her lap, the dog occupied happily licking the crumbs on the edge of the table with her lizard tongue. This has to be a violation of the health code.

My hand immediately tenses into a fist, only softening when Scott wraps his arm around the back of my chair. “I do have a proper job,” I respond politely, so as not to make a scene.

“But how long is this Instagram fad going to last? What happens when people move on to another platform?” Dad asks, obviously unaware of how awkward this conversation is in front of the entire family.

“I’ll adapt,” I cut in, meeting Dad’s curious stare. “I have a degree in business and marketing, and multiple certifications in fitness and nutrition. I don’t need Instagram to spread my message.”

“Millennials,” Dad chides, eliciting a rumble of laughter around the table. “I just don’t understand.”

I catch Dad’s eye and hold it. “Dad, you don’t have to understand it.”

As he sets his napkin next to his plate, Dad’s face is unusually blank. Unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s pissed or embarrassed that we’re hashing this out in front of the whole family. He clears his throat, and finally, his lips curl into a smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be so hard on you.”

I take in a sharp breath. I definitely didn’t expect that. Dad may not have come out and said it directly, but I think that was his weird signal of approval, which he’s withheld the entire seven years I’ve had my Instagram account. Until now, I’m not even sure I knew I needed it. And it feels good.

Scott leans forward across the table to Dad. “Your daughter is the hardest-working person I know. I don’t know about anyone else, but I can’t wait to see what she accomplishes this year.”

My heart swells at his unwavering support, especially when Dad nods and says, “Me too. Really.”

The moment dinner ends, Scott pulls me onto the crowded dance floor. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume this was thewedding of a twenty-year-old couple, what with the DJ’s strobe lights and all the Ritchies (plus Dad) tearing up the dance floor to some oldies.

Dad has just attempted the worm, which tells me Flo and Martin’s open bar bill is going to be staggering. I make a mental note to keep a watchful eye. He has a history of getting a little overeager when there’s music, booze, and people. At the last family wedding, he split his trousers while getting “Low” to the age-appropriate musical stylings of Lil Jon and the East Side Boyz.

“This is the best wedding I’ve ever been to,” Scott yells enthusiastically over a Whitney Houston song as he loosens his tie. I don’t know if it’s the expertly tailored, dapper suit, but I can’t tear my eyes from him for longer than a minute. I’m used to drooling over him in a casual T-shirt, jeans, and a ball cap. But tonight, his hair is pushed back in a way that makes him resemble an old Hollywood movie star. I desperately want to haul him off the dance floor, find a darkened corner, and grope him with abandon.

When he twirls me, I channelDancing with the Starsand spin into his chest, utterly and completely content. Not even Uncle Bill accidentally stomping on my foot and spilling his beer on me five minutes ago is enough to dim my smile.

Hair caked to my face with sweat, I take a quick breather to get another drink, leaving Scott to dance with his sisters, both of whom are intensely enthusiastic about synchronize-dancing to the “Cha Cha Slide” and “Y.M.C.A.”

Whiskey sour in hand, I return a few minutes later to find Scott chatting with a long-legged redhead whom I recognize immediately as Holly Whitby, the granddaughter of Grandma Flo’s friend Ethel. Holly and I grew up together, thanks to our grandmothers.We were close friends as kids, but grew apart when I got into sports and she entered the beauty pageant circuit. She’s something of a local Boston celebrity, having participated in prestigious international pageants. Of course, I only know all of this from stalking her Instagram. I haven’t actually seen her in person since high school.

She was always gorgeous, with a nearly perfect symmetrical face, pouty lips, and angelic ice-blue eyes. But now she looks straight off a runway in Milan with her voluminous hair and lush lash extensions.

Holly leans in close to Scott, who nods politely.

“Dance with me,” she orders over the music, extending her dainty wrist.

His startled gaze flickers to me, with a sweet smile, not that I ever doubted him. Unbothered, I wave a hand toward her, signaling for him to go ahead and dance with her. He gives me anI’d rather notface.

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