by Sarah Sutton
I shook his dirty hand anyway, smiling. “It smells absolutely amazing, Mr. Hunter.”
“I know it’s very clichéd, but please, call me Wes.” His smile was almost identical to Walsh’s real one, the one he gave people when he wasn’t trying to impress. The one he most frequently gave to me. “Well, please. Come in. Walsh, can you go upstairs and find your mother? She’s probably in her study.”
Walsh rubbed his hand over my back. “I’ll be right back.”
Wes reached his clean hand out to me. “You can help me mix the dressing for the salad.”
Though I’d been to Walsh’s house before, I hadn’t gotten the chance to go through the kitchen. And seeing it now—it was picture-perfect. White glossy cabinets reflected the pendant lights that hung over the large island, parked in the center of the space. Near the sink, there was a large picture window that overlooked the backyard, and in full view, I could see the cliff, the one I’d gone out to after Scott broke up with me. The one Walsh nearly catapulted himself over to rescue my journal.
Oh, my journal. The wound still felt fresh.
Wes filled the island and nearby countertops with dirty bowls, containers, and measuring equipment. He gave a nervous laugh at the sight of it, hands opening and closing over the mess. “A tornado came through here. I—I’m not a good cook. Or a cook in general. Janet usually does this kind of thing.”
I walked over and grabbed a few dirty dishes, moving them from the workspace. “Where is Janet?”
“Oh, her friend was hosting an event and asked her to help cater over in Hallow. Convenient, right?”
“Maybe she doesn’t like me,” I teased.
“How could she not? You’re the only friend Walsh has ever brought home to meet us, besides Zach. She was bummed to miss this.”
So many things caught my attention. How much did Walsh say about me? And wait, what did Wes say? I was the only friend Walsh brought over to meet his family? Surely Wes couldn’t have been serious. Walsh had tons of friends. Have seriously none of them met his parents before?
Before I had a chance to analyze Wes’s words any further, a sharp bang came from upstairs, like a door slamming closed.
A moment later, Walsh appeared from the other end of the kitchen, face tense. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Okay. Can you pull the garlic knots from the oven for me?”
Walsh looked at me as Wes slid from the room, reaching for a pair of oven mitts hanging on the wall. “So, listen,” he said slowly, quietly. Shakily. His teeth grazed his lip. “My mom…she’s a bit of a trip.”
“A trip to where?” I joked, not really sure what he meant.
“Crazytown.” His chuckle sounded a bit too breathy to be genuine. He grabbed the cookie tray, nudging the finished serving pan of ziti over so he could set it on the stovetop. “Just don’t let her get to you. She’ll say some things. Really stupid things. She does that. She’s amazing at that, actually.”
Again, his teeth bit at his lower lip, a small movement that let me guess how stressed he was. But meeting his dad was a breeze—how bad could his mom be? I thought of my own mother, my own family. “I can handle intense parents.”
I wished I would’ve been prepared for what happened next. I wished I could’ve warned my heart not to try and jump out of my chest. Because Walsh leaned forward and pressed his mouth to my forehead, my breath catching in my throat. Those lips made me forget, for the briefest moment, what I was doing. Because ohmygosh they were on my skin. Why were they on my skin?
And why did I never want them to move away?
My brain was a traitor, beautiful words whispering to my heart, meaningless nonsense. He’s kissing you and no one’s around to witness it.
“She’s right behind me.” Wes came back into the kitchen with a cheerful expression, but it almost looked forced. He glanced between us, making a guilty face. “Am I interrupting?”
Walsh curved his arm around my waist, pressing me into his side. “I was telling her to eat in small bites in case the food is poisonous.”
“It won’t be. Well…I don’t think.”
“You’re the girlfriend, huh?” a new voice said from behind us.
I shrugged out of Walsh’s grip to turn around.
Walsh’s mother wasn’t at all like I expected. I admit, I’d been stereotypically expecting a tall woman with long blonde hair and proper, expensive clothing.
But she wasn’t at all proper and prim and clean. She was petite, maybe five-foot-one. Her hair, sheared short into a rough bob, was jet black, locks jagged and tucked behind her ears as best as she could. Her sea-blue eyes were rimmed with red, with deep circles underneath. She tied her oversized shirt into a knot at her waist, resting on the waistband of torn up sweatpants.
There was a glassiness to her eyes when she met mine, and they couldn’t focus on me perfectly. Her voice pitched high and pretty, though it totally didn’t match her image. Or her words. “Does she speak?”
Walsh straightened, a muscle ticked along his jaw. “This is Sophia. Sophia, meet my mom, Penny.”
Penny made a face at his words. “Sophia. Sounds very sophisticated.”
The words were right at the tip of my tongue: And Walsh doesn’t?
“Penny, love.” Wes’s voice was chipper, totally offsetting hers. “Come sit down. Dinner’s done and just needs to be laid out.”
She pulled away from the doorway, moving like a little fairy as she edged past me, and I didn’t miss the scent she carried with her—the stale scent of alcohol. I pretended like I didn’t notice.
Walsh’s eyes followed her, and I reached down to grab his hand, giving it a squeeze.
“Well, don’t just stand around like a statue,” Penny called, heading toward the dining room. “Wes can take care of the food. Isn’t that right?”
Wes nodded, unwinding his apron.
“Why don’t you help him, Walsh? I can get to know your new girl here.” She turned and eyed me. The color there matched Walsh’s, and it felt disarming to see. “Sophie?”
“Sophia.” Walsh’s voice was firm. “She goes by Sophia. And I think Dad can handle it—”
“Sounds great,” I cut him off, letting go of his hand and following after his mother when she moved into the next room. My eyes sought his, trying to tell him it’s okay.
Penny’s footsteps were slow and uneven, swaying ever so slightly with each step she took. She went immediately to a china cabinet set to the side of the room, withdrawing a bottle of stashed wine. The red liquid sloshed inside as she poured it into her wineglass, and not a single drop slipped out.
“So.” She dragged the word through the air, moving to fill the next wine glass. “How’d you two meet? You and my boy.”
I moved to sit across from her, careful not to let the chair cut along the floorboards. “We met at school.”
After filling the two glasses, Penny slammed the wine bottle down with such force I was surprised that the table didn’t crack, or even the bottle. Her nimble fingers snagged her wine glass, eyes never leaving the swirling liquid. “So you met at school. What, you do his homework for him? Help him pass calculus?”
Ha. I mean, there was that time he cheated off my test.
Wes hurried into the room holding a covered dish of the ziti, placing the pan in the middle of the table. His eyes noted the full wine glasses at the table, and he paused before turning to go grab the other dishes.
“Look at him, playing the perfect host,” Penny said, sniffing her wine. “Walsh is a lot like his father. Always looking for the best in people.” She tilted her head. “I haven’t heard Walsh say anything about you.”
I had to admit, in some kind of twisted way, she did remind me of my own mother and how she interacted with Dad. I couldn’t help but smile a little at that. “I could say the same thing.”
“I’m not his favorite person.” Penny’s eyebrows shot up and down, almost like saying I wonder why, and she ran her hand along her chin. “That boy has no appr
eciation for his mama.”
Walsh walked in then, holding a bowl with a towel folded over it, and set it down next to the ziti. “What are you talking about?”
Penny gave a wide grimace of a smile. “How my son is just the hero of the needy.”
He took a seat next to me and also took in the full glasses of wine. “I take care of you, don’t I?”
Wes came in with the last bowl of salad, now missing the apron. “Look at me! I think Janet would be proud. I should take a picture and show her.”
“It does look really good,” I agreed, really wanting to dig into those garlic knots.
Wes walked around the table and took the salad tongs, gesturing them toward me. “Sophia, put your salad bowl up here.”
He helped Penny next, who sat back in her chair and watched him with lazy eyes. She ran a hand through her chopped locks, finishing off her first glass of wine. “That’s enough,” she said, putting a hand up.
“Any for you, Walsh?”
He shook his head. “I’m not much of a salad eater; you know that.”
Wes looked at me, explaining, “I keep trying to cure him of his hatred for greens, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate it.”
“Carbs do an athlete good. We burn right through salad.”
We got through the first course with no issues. Penny had poured herself another glass of wine but let this one sit for longer. Wes made small talk as he dished out the ziti, the perfect host with the biggest portions. He’d asked me what my parents did for a living and the other routine questions: whether or not I had siblings, how long we lived in the area, what my plans were after high school.
“Sophia writes for the school newspaper,” Walsh told his parents, cutting his ziti with the side of his fork. “She did an amazing article last year about the importance of recyclable straws and how they’re amazing for the environment. She’s working on an article now about baseball.”
I fought the urge to close my eyes. It was bad enough his parents were subject to our fake dating lie, but now I had to involve them in the article? I was a bad person. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing,” Walsh scoffed. “She wants to be a journalist. In the fall, she’s going to be interning at the Bayview Blade.”
“Maybe. I mean, they pick one student from each school, so it’s not guaranteed.” None of it was guaranteed—not even my journalism program.
I took a bite of ziti, all the tastes mixing in my mouth. It was the first time I’d tasted a meal cooked with genuine enthusiasm—usually my mother would heat up frozen meals or my dad would order Chinese for dinner—and it made my mouth water for more. “This is so good, Mr. Hunter.”
Wes’s eyes lit up at the compliment. “I’m glad you think so! I’ll have to save some for Janet so she can taste my success. And package a plate up so you can take it home, of course.”
“Yeah,” Walsh said. “Janet never would believe it otherwise.”
“Does your dad do a lot of cooking, Sophia?”
“We alternate the cooking between the three of us,” I told Wes. “But he’s definitely better than my mom. She can even manage to ruin macaroni.”
A bug of guilt crawled its way into my stomach when I thought about how I left my parents today, scuttling around at the idea of what my parents were doing now, but I shoved it down. Squished it with the bottom of my shoe.
Wes nodded sympathetically. “Well, I’d love to meet your parents one day.”
I tried to imagine that scene, our parents interacting. Dad would’ve liked Wes—they were a bit alike, both putting off the businessman-type vibe—and I think Mom would’ve, too. With Wes’s infectious grin, it was hard to believe otherwise. It actually wasn’t too bad of an image.
Penny laughed, holding her hand in front of her mouth to try and stifle it. Wes looked at her levelly, wearing something in his expression. It looked sharp. “Food go down the wrong pipe, hon?”
“It’s just that—” she got out, shaking her head, reaching for her glass. “Oh, this is just funny. Meeting her parents? Please.” Penny drank the last liquid from glass number two, pushing her plate of ziti away from her. “I think this is silly. This whole thing is silly.”
A frown etched into Wes’s features, though his voice was level. “That’s enough, Penny. Why don’t you eat some more ziti? I followed the recipe you found for me.”
“And I don’t care what you think,” Walsh responded, almost as if his father hadn’t spoken. “Unless it’s about this amazing food.”
“Of course you don’t.” Her reply came cold, covered in ice. Her words sounded a bit wild now, the carefulness of her enunciation lessened by the effects of the wine. “You haven’t cared in a long time.”
Wes looked at me from across the table, speaking to me over them. “Please, ignore them. Walsh. Enough.”
“I used to,” Walsh argued back, and it was the first time that I heard his voice shake. It was a small tremble, one that I never would’ve noticed before we’d gotten to know each other. But as he watched his mother, threw words back and forth, I could hear it plain as day. “I used to care.”
“Enough.” Wes’s voice cut firmly between them, trying to build a wall in the middle of the table. But he wasn’t building it fast enough, frantically reaching for supplies that weren’t there. “I mean it, you two.”
Penny glanced at her husband for a mere moment, taking a second of deliberation before deciding that he wasn’t worth listening to, and she looked back to Walsh. “I don’t know why you’re introducing Sophie to us if you don’t care what we think.”
“It’s Sophia,” Walsh corrected again, “and maybe I wanted you to meet her because she’s important to me.”
For some reason, I found myself reaching under the table again and touching his knee, wanting to defuse the situation. Why was he getting so passionate about defending me, anyway? Was he really pretending about our relationship to this extent, or was it just to argue further with his mother?
“She seems way out of your depth, Walsh.”
“And at least she isn’t a drunk,” he said loudly, exasperated.
At those words, Wes slammed his fork down, causing the table to shake. It made both the wine and me jump.
And for a moment, it was eerily quiet. No one spoke. Penny’s back stiffened as if a board had been tied to her shoulders, propping her up straight. Her eyes got this faraway look, glazing over as her mind wandered.
Penny looked from Walsh to Wes, then down to her plate. I didn’t know her well enough at all to read the expression that crossed over her features, barely there, blink-and-it’s-gone. It reminded me of Walsh’s hidden expressions, moments before he covered his feelings with a mask of a smile.
“I’m not hungry, as it turns out.” She looked at me before she left the room, her eyes scanning me. In that moment, I could finally see the resemblance between her and Walsh. She placed her hands on the table, ready to push to her feet. “I’m going back to my room.”
As Penny abruptly stood, she upset the placemat that her wineglass rested on, sending it crashing to the floor.
The wineglass splintered with a scream onto the hardwood floor, the shattering ring echoing in the silence that followed. I felt Walsh stiffen beside me, but I couldn’t look at him. My gaze was latched onto Penny, my heart pinching tight for her.
Her cheeks darkened with each second of quiet that ticked by before finally looking to me. The strength of her voice was gone, leaving it quivering as if she were about to cry. “Hope our introduction was impressive, Sophia.”
Without another word, Penny hurried from the room.
After breaking from the state of shock, Wes grabbed his napkin and started cleaning up the mess. I moved to help him, my chair making a harsh noise as I pushed it back against the floor. With a napkin full of glass shards, he quickly said, “Oh, Sophia, please. I would feel even worse if you helped.”
Awkwardly, I sat back in my seat.
“We had a guest and I wanted to make
this special,” Wes spoke in a low voice, speaking to Walsh but not looking up. “Nice for Sophia. You couldn’t have held back, Walsh?”
Walsh looked at his father incredulously. “Are you kidding? She was insulting Sophia! What’d you want me to do, agree with her?”
“No, but you didn’t have to provoke her. You didn’t have to keep at it. You know she’s like that when she’s…well, when she’s—”
“Been drinking? That’s no excuse, Dad!”
Wes rose from the floor, clutching his now stained fabric napkin, filled with glass shards. “I know.” He set the pile down upon the tablecloth, scrambling to put a garlic knot on his own plate and Penny’s, scooping just a little bit more ziti to his pile to keep what was underneath warm. And then, he picked up both of the plates. “Sophia, it was very lovely having you in our home. Despite the evening, I hope you come back. I’m sorry we couldn’t get through the dinner, but there should be some of Janet’s cookie dough in the fridge if you two want dessert.”
As soon as his father walked from the room, Walsh pushed his plate back, slumping into his chair and rubbing his hands over his face. Strained silence made the atmosphere in the room tense, almost tangible.
“Walsh,” I began, but he let out a harsh breath.
“Please, I just…” Walsh didn’t look at me but at his plate of food. “I’m sorry. I hoped she would be on her best behavior. She said—Dad said she’d try, but she never does.”
“It’s okay,” I told him truthfully, mirroring the way he slouched in his seat. A sharp pain clenched in my stomach at the idea of him hurting, looking at where his cheeks were pink with embarrassment. Through the hair falling in my eyes, I met his gaze. “Are you okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean about the stuff she was saying.”
Walsh sat up, turning that incredulous look on me now. “Of course I’m not okay! She was awful to you—”
“She wasn’t trying to hurt me.”
His lashes kissed his cheeks once, twice. “Uh, were you present for that conversation?”
If the air weren’t so tense, I might’ve smiled. “She wasn’t lashing out at me, Walsh. She was lashing out at you.”