Page 19 of Obsessed with the Man of the House

“Okay, but I’m holding you to your promise,” I say in a light voice before placing the loaf back on the counter. “I didn’t slave all afternoon just to have my special arabesque meatloaf go uneaten.”

“You were cooking all afternoon?” Gray asks suddenly, his blue eyes sharp. Something about his question is odd, but I ignore the feeling.

“No, of course not,” I pshaw, already reaching for my jacket. “I went into the office today to do some work this morning, but there wasn’t much to do. Just some administrative bullshit, so I came home early and put together this awesome meatloaf.”

Gray’s eyes are shuttered as he holds the door open for me.

“Ah, I see,” is all he says. “After you, Vanessa.”

Again, there’s that weird feeling in my belly. But I ignore it and smile in anticipation of our date. Fortunately, the drive to the restaurant is uneventful, and within half an hour, we’re seated at a table at the Atlantic Grill.

“Oooh, they have swordfish,” I say, looking over the menu. “But I think I’m going to get their special lobster roll.”

Gray nods, still studying his menu. His profile is so serious that again, I wonder if something’s wrong. But then he puts down his menu.

“Good choice. I’ll get one too.”

I stare at him for a moment because Gray’s not really a lobster roll type of guy. He’s more of a surf and turf, or maybe even a beef tartare connoisseur. But just as I’m about to ask him about his choice, something catches my attention from the corner of my eye.

I turn to look, and it’s Allison Wheeler from my high school. Her long blonde hair cascades over one shoulder as she leans towards Trevor Whitesell, giggling while looking over at me and my stepdad. What the fuck?

Then, I notice Linda Peabody, who lives down the street from us. She’s a middle-aged woman who likes to water her lawn in the afternoons, often dressed in a bikini. She doesn’t have a bikini body, but Linda doesn’t care. She wants to get sun, and doesn’t give a damn if the whole world sees her spare tire in the process.

But at the moment, Linda’s also turned our way, her mouth open as she stares. What the hell is going on? I lean towards Gray, alarmed.

“This is so weird,” I begin. “But people are looking at us for no reason.”

But the older man’s expression is harsh.

“It’s not weird,” he rasps, his blue eyes blazing. “I know your secret, Vanessa, and they probably know it too.”

Immediately, my cheeks flush as I lean back, staring at him.

“My secret? What do you mean?” I ask in a trembling voice. But then a commotion breaks out, and I suddenly realize that the restaurant patrons haven’t been staring atme. Instead, they’ve been staring at a couple who are being seated right next to us. To my horror, it’s my mother and her younger lover, Jeremy. Renata jumps up when she sees us.

“Hi honey,” she exclaims in a bright tone. “Did you just come in? I didn’t see you. Hello Gray,” she greets. “You know my boyfriend, Jeremy Montgomery, right? Jeremy, Gray. Gray, Jeremy.”

Of course, Gray and I recognize Jeremy because he used to be our pool boy before my mom decided to have an affair with him. Jeremy looks the same as he always does. He’s a California surfer-type with sun-streaked blonde hair and muscles that are too big. He even raises his hand in a shaka-shaka greeting.

“Hey,” he drawls.

But Gray and I don’t reply because we’re both speechless. Instead, of being dressed in normal clothes, Renata and Jeremy are decked out in hippie gear. Renata has a long, patchwork dress on that floats about her skinny form. She literally has flowers in her hair, which is currently styled in long dreds that hang all the way to her waist.

Meanwhile, Jeremy doesn’t look like he’s shaved in weeks. His hair and beard are scraggly and long, and he’s got a white linen shirt on that’s open almost to the navel. He looks like Robinson Crusoe after a shipwreck, and both of them smell strongly of patchouli. I begin to breathe through my mouth because the scent’s making me faint.

“Mom?” I manage in a tinny voice. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here for dinner, of course,” Renata trills. “Although of course, as vegans, we’re not going to eat the seafood. Seafood is made from animals,” she says in a stage whisper, looking about the restaurant. “You arekillinglive organisms when you consume seafood.”

The other diners look stunned.

“Yes Mom, I think people know that. This is the Atlantic Grill, after all. But I had no idea that you and Jeremy were ... um, so health conscious now.”

“Oh, you mean the veganism?” Renata asks airily. “Yes, it’s part of our new thing. We’ve got an image to uphold, after all. People pay for access to our health and nutrition habits,” she winks.

I stare at the two of them. It’s true Renata and Jeremy are glowing with health, although beneath the heavy patchouli smell, I detect a bit of B.O.

“What do you mean they pay you?” I ask in a slow voice. “You mean, they ask for recipes and vitamin recommendations? And who is they anyways?”

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