Page 87 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
A pause. Then they both start again, overlapping.
"This is not how you announce you're getting married! We've never even?—"
"Are you kidding, Jenna? Is this real? Are you trying to?—"
Another pause, and Mom grabs Dad's arm, squeezing it before asking in a deliberate tone, "How did you even meet this fiancé of yours?"
"Work," Grayson says—at the exact same moment I blurt, "In a bar."
We share a look. We really need to get our story straight.
"It's kind of both," I admit quickly. "Are you going to invite us in?"
"Of course, of course." Dad recovers first, ushering us inside while Mom still looks stunned. "We'd, uh… love to hear all about it," he says. "Please, come in. Grayson, can I get you a beer?"
They clear the doorway, and Grayson steps inside, quietly taking in the house.
"You have a beautiful home," he says—and it actually sounds genuine. Does he really see the effort they've poured into restoring the place over the years? The careful Victorian details they brought back after decades of trendy TV-inspired renovations? Or is he just being polite?
I know this home, bought cheap at auction and lovingly restored bit by bit, is nothing compared to his properties—not in size or elegance—but I've always loved it. It's warm, comfortable, and has a kind of peace you can't bottle or buy. It proclaims that the people who live here are happy and content, as clearly as if there were a banner over the door saying so.
It's my comfort zone whenever the city gets too much.
"Thank you," my mother says, still eyeing him as she leads us toward the living room. "Well, at least he's taller than the last one. Better-looking, too."
"Mother!"
"Yes, very tall," my father adds. "Maybe we'll get basketball players for grandkids."
"Father!"
"Budweiser okay for you, Grayson, or would you prefer one of those newfangled microbrewery concoctions—India Pale Ale, is it?—I think we have some left from when your cousin Josh visited last fall."
"I'll have whatever you're having, thank you, Mr. Marlowe."
"Budweiser it is, then. Now, what about food? It's almost lunchtime. Are you two hungry?"
"Don't put yourself out," Grayson says. "I'm not hungry."
"Nonsense," Mom says. "If you're not hungry now, you will be by the time he's done talking your ear off." She gestures toward my father, who gives her a wink and heads to the kitchen to fetch the beers and put the kettle on for coffee—for the ladies, of course.
Surprisingly, the visit goes pretty well after that.
Dad starts interrogating Grayson, and the questions get pretty personal, but Grayson handles it smoothly—answering honestly enough, leaving out only what he must. Once Dad's satisfied, the two of them dive into sports talk.
Though I've never once seen Grayson watch a game, he somehow manages to sound knowledgeable. Then they move on to cars—his real wheelhouse—and that's when the two of them start getting along like old pals.
Meanwhile, Mom bustles in the kitchen, emerging a few minutes later with a tray piled high with sandwiches on freshly baked French baguettes—turkey and egg salad, neatly arranged—and a big bowl of Lay's potato chips with a tub of Heluva Good French onion dip. She's also brought two bottles of Lipton iced tea—for her and me—and two more Buds "for the boys."
She hands out plates, then hovers over Grayson until he takes a couple of sandwiches and a handful of chips.
"Oh wow," he says, biting into one of the turkey sandwiches. "This bread… It's fantastic, Mrs. Marlowe."
"Thank you, dear." Mom beams. "I learned to make it back during Jenna's Paris phase."
"Paris phase?" he asks.
"Yes. She used to be obsessed with the place when she was a teenager—read everything about the French Revolution, Marie Antoinette, all that. Then one year, her school organized an exchange trip near Paris, and she saved every penny for it. We pitched in too. Then suddenly, it was like she did a complete one-eighty. Wouldn't stop trash-talking the place because a friend of hers went and had a terrible experience. You know how kids are." Mom sighs. "Oh well. At least I learned how to make French bread. We have it all the time now, don't we, dear? It's become quite the tradition here."
