Page 68 of Most Likely to Match
My bag is a black hole. Specifically for my keys and my lip balm, but mostly for my phone. And I could really use it right now. Or, at least, I could really use the calming benefits, the soothing look ofmyMagmaapp. This bag has a Place for everything, a pocket, a zipper, an insert, so that nothing can get lost. But those features only really work if you put your things where they belong.
Clearly, I have not done so.
I blink up at Dean’s house from my car. The garage is open, his mom’s sedan sitting in the middle of the two-car bay. His dad’s truck shines on the driveway. The cement is still dark from the wash he must have given it earlier today. Their front door is open, the screen door the only barrier to the cool early evening air and bugs. Late summer smells cling to the air, cut grass and warm asphalt. Somewhere not too far from here, children squeal and splash in a backyard pool.
Dean isn’t home. Matt is back in town, and he invited me for dinner with them, but I fibbed a little and said I’m training for a half-marathon and need to get some mileage.
I amthinkingof entering a half-marathon hosted in Ottawa inOctober, but I already got any mileage I might need for it done earlier today.
Dean’s parents got home from their European vacation last week. I haven’t been to his house since. He said he told them about us, but he didn’t go into much detail about their reactions, other than to say, “they’re happy I’m happy.”
I get it.
My mom still holds a grudge against the boy who was mean to me at sleepaway camp between fourth and fifth grade. I don’t even remember his name, but she remembers how he made me feel. How I called her, sobbing, terrified that he was right and that my parents wouldn’t pick me up at the end of the one-week session.
Whatever distrust they’re feeling about me, they’re entitled to it.
I’m not sure if showing up at their home, without Dean here, to plead my case is the best way to go about this. Actually, now that I’m sitting here, this is maybe a terrible idea.
“Keys,” I say to myself, wrenching open the gaping mouth of my bag to find them in this black hole. The squeaky sound of an old screen door opening wide draws my attention before I can find my exit plan. I glance back up at the house to see Dean’s mom, Wendy, standing in the doorway. She frowns until we lock eyes, and recognition slowly rolls across her face.
There goes the slinking away in shame option. I close the bag. Unclip my seat belt. Take a deep breath. And open the car door.
It’s prettyweird to sit in a deck chair with your boyfriend’s parents, staring directly at the spot on the deck where their son ate your pussy like he was being paid per lick just a few weeks ago.
To avoid blushing, I stare down into the glass of chilled red wine Dean’s mom gave me a few minutes ago.
“They do that in Venice, you know,” Wendy says as she takes the seat across from me. Her husband, Neil, sits beside her, drinking nothing.
“Oh?” I am not sure whotheyare or what it is they may do.
“Chill their red wine.” She nods emphatically.
“Oh!” I take a sip. “That makes sense,” I say. “’Cause of the heat.”
The table descends into silence, the pool water lapping gently against the steps a pleasant soundtrack to my awkwardness.
“Thanks.” I hold up the glass. “For inviting me in and…” I trail off, unsure of how to elaborate. Letting me speak feels too extreme. They’re not a high court where I’m to appeal my case.
Actually, they kind of are.
“Of course.” Wendy smiles at Neil, who has remained impassive and silent since she yelled for him to join us outside from the base of the stairs.
I take another sip of wine. The chill is kind of nice, though I’m too nervous to notice anything else. Fruity, dry, acidic,mouthfeelare all secondary to just cold.
“I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced.” Like the first time I saw Dean again, in my office, I have a speech of sorts planned out. “I wanted to speak with both of you privately.” But now that I’m saying it out loud, it’s all starting to sound wrong.
“Not because I want to hide anything from Dean,” I say quickly when the crease between Wendy’s brows deepens. “It’s just, you know, sometimes, it’s easier to be honest without barriers.”
Wendy’s brow lowers more.
“Not that anyone is lying.”
I stare down into my glass, to gather myself, and to, hopefully, stay the inevitable rush of tears that comes with this level of emotional overwhelm. I swear, sometimes Dean feels positively psychic. He’ll grab my hands and rub them between his, breathing intently, slowly. If the setting is right, he’ll lie down on a carpet and invite me to join him, and whatever stress I’ve been feeling will slowly leak out of me, absorbed by the high pile.
I imagine his hands in mine now, the slow circle of his thumbs over my palms, the gentle way he pulls each finger, wiggles them in the socket. The soft kisses he’ll leave on my hands.
“I love Dean,” I say quietly. “I think I’ve probably always loved him.”
