Page 90 of Sunflower Persona
“No. I’m going to meet Kori’s parents.”
“It’s that serious already?”
“Yeah, I think it is.”
“Damn, then I definitely need to meet this girl. I’ll make sure your classes are covered that weekend. Focus on making a good first impression. I’m happy for you, kid,” he says as he stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder before leaving me alone in his office.
Kid.
I snort at the thought. Coach is only a few years older than me, but I swear sometimes he still sees me as the scrawny seventeen-year-old who begged him to take me under his wing.
He’s right that I need to worry about making a good impression, though. I have no illusions that my relationship with Kori won’t come with a healthy heaping of criticism from people who don’t know us, but I’m hoping her parents can accept us—me—without too much disdain. I know I’m not the man they dreamed she would bring home, but I will do everything in my power to keep her safe, happy, and loved for as long as she’ll have me. All I can do is hope that’s enough.
Chapter 28
Kori
Excitement fills me as we pull up the long paved driveway that leads to my childhood home. My parents must hear the rattling roar of Gage’s car, or maybe they still keep tabs on my location, either way, they step out onto the front porch before he has a chance to put the parking brake on or kill the engine.
My boyfriend, on the other hand, is frozen in the seat beside me. His spine grew stiffer as we drove through my neighborhood’s streets, and that mask of stone-cold indifference covered the relaxed smile I adore. After a few seconds of sitting in silence, he squeezes his hand on my thigh and takes in a deep breath.
“You ready for this?” he asks with a rasp to his words.
“They are going to love you. I promise,” I reassure him.
What isn’t there to love?
He nods, climbs out of the car, and comes around to open my door for me. I’ve told him time and time again he doesn’t need to do that, but he insists it’s something he wants to do, so I let him have it. I’m sure my parents will appreciate the gesture; my dadhas always made a point to “show his girls exactly how women should be treated.”
His grip on my hand borders on painful as we walk to the door. I squeeze back, trying to calm him, but it does nothing to alleviate the tension holding his body rigid beside me.
“There she is,” my mom says as she pulls me in for a hug.
My fingers slip from my boyfriend’s grasp during the exchange, and the distance is only made worse when my dad swoops in to hug me the second my mom lets go.
“How have you been? How are classes? Nothing giving you too much trouble, I hope,” he says as he pulls back.
“No. I—” I start, but I’m interrupted as my mom sets her sights on my guest.
“Oh, and you must be the boyfriend,” she gushes.
I don’t even have to look at my man to know his ears are likely growing flush from the attention.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Gage Maher. Thank you for inviting me to your home.”
It’s so strange seeing him so formal. My Gage commands rooms with a few words, not whatever this is.
My dad greets him with a firm handshake, and once the initial introductions are done, my mom ushers us inside with the promise of dinner. The stench of burnt garlic slams into us as we walk through the door. I lock eyes with Dad and stifle a groan. It looks like Mom is on a cooking kick again. I guess it was too much to hope they would order in tonight.
“There are pizza rolls in the freezer if you are still hungry later,” my dad says with a wink as he throws his arm over my shoulder. We both know my mom’s cooking is hardly ever edible. She knows it, too, but that hasn’t stopped her from trying.
Gage trails behind us without grabbing my hand again. Even though it’s only a few feet, that distance between us aches. Histouch has become a constant for me—a lifeline when the world gets to be a little too much. I hate how empty my hand feels without it.
As we approach the table, my parents bombard me with their endless stream of questions. He sits without a word, content to let my parents get it all out. I take the seat next to him as my mom brings out whatever ungodly concoction she created in that casserole dish. My hand finds his under the table, and I squeeze his fingers tight in mine.
Nothing is said for several minutes as we all make our plates. Thank God for premade sides. I can survive off rolls and bagged salad if I need to. It wouldn’t be the first time. I grab some mac and cheese, too, even though I know it will be runny. Mom insists on rinsing the noodles once they’re done cooking, even though the instructions explicitly say otherwise, so the cheese sauce never sets right. It’s a real tragedy.
Once everyone is settled, my dad turns his attention to Gage.
