by R. C. Martin
“How long have you been doing that?” asks Neal.
“About ten years, now.”
“Ten years? Wow. Not many young people stick to the same profession for that long, these days,” he replies, seemingly impressed. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-eight? You’ve been making permanent marks on other people’s bodies since you were eighteen? Did you go to college?” asks Elizabeth. When I look at Roman, begging my eyes not to roll, he makes a face that clearly states: Yeah. That’s my mom.
“No, ma’am,” Trevor replies without missing a beat. “School wasn’t really my thing.”
“I see.”
“I was fortunate enough to find my passion when I was young. I worked very hard to get where I am today and I love what I do. Quite frankly, working toward a degree would have been a waste of my time, money, and skill.”
I clamp my lips together as I try desperately to contain my grin. I’ve never been more proud of Trevor than I am in this very moment. Looking at him now, sitting across from me, strong and proud, I know that no matter what comes his way today, he’ll do more than survive. He’s not here to prove himself to anyone. He’s here because he loves Daphne. His wife. Today, he’s her strength. Suddenly, I’m not the slightest bit upset that they got married without telling anyone. Roman was right. That’s just who they are. Now and forevermore, they were meant to take on the world—or Mr. and Mrs. Holloway—side by side.
As soon as we get home, Trevor’s getting laid. Honestly, listening to him stand up to my mother is almost as sexy as him wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants.
“I suppose you have a point,” mother say dryly. “Both of my children have degrees and they’ve yet to find their passion.”
“Bravo, mom. You managed to pay a backhanded compliment to Trevor and insult Roman and me all in one foul swoop.”
“Daphne,” dad and Roman chastise me in unison.
“Sorry,” I apologize. I understand that I’m not here to fight. As hard as that might be, provoking anyone isn’t going to work out in my favor.
“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll bring out our first course.” My mom leaves the room and we all sit in an awkward silence until she returns. She brings out a big bowl of salad and a dish full of what looks like Italian dressing. My dad says a prayer over our meal and our time together before he starts us off, filling his plate with the leafy mix of veggies.
“Are you from Fort Collins, Trevor?” he asks, jump starting the conversation again.
“No. I’m originally from Wyoming. I moved to Colorado seven years ago.”
“Do you still have family back home?”
“No.” When he inhales deeply, I know what he’s going to say before he says it. He’s about to rip off the bandaid and get the hard truth out there so he can get it over with. “My parents died when I was little and my grandmother passed away nine years ago.”
“Any siblings?” my mother asks.
“I had a brother. He died in Iraq.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she replies sincerely.
“Thank you.”
“Logan, what about you?”
Logan tells them about her parents, where they live, what they do for a living, and how she’s their only child. By the time she’s finished talking, we’re all eating and there’s another moment of silence. I wonder what everyone is thinking, how Trevor is feeling, and who will speak next. Turns out, it’s my dad.
“So, when was the wedding?” I can tell how much it kills him to ask the question. It’s not exactly something you should have to ask your daughter and I imagine he feels like he missed out on some big affair. I’m more than happy to put him at ease and correct that line of thinking.
“We didn’t have a wedding, dad. We eloped. Yesterday.”
“Oh,” he says softly. I watch as relief and curiosity shift the features of his face. “How long have you two been together?”
“Four weeks,” answers Trevor with a small, knowing smile. I smile too, conscious that he’s thinking of our little secret.
“Four weeks?” mother gasps. “That seems…impulsive.”
“Don’t let them fool you,” says Logan with a smirk. “The way I—actually, no—the way just about everyone in our group sees it, they’ve been dating for almost four years. They’ve been in love with each other forever.”
“Is that true?” mother begs to know.
I offer her a nod and a shrug. “We were friends for a really long time.”
“How did you meet?”
“He gave me my first tattoo,” I answer before shoving a bite of food in my mouth. Until today, they didn’t know I’d been tattooed at all. It’s not as if they were hard to hide, considering the frequency at which we actually see each other. Anyway, after they freaked out over my lip ring, there was no way I was showing up on their doorstep in anything less than a long-sleeved shirt.
“Your first? You have more than one?” asks dad. I nod, my mouth still full of food, and Trevor smiles at me as he answers on my behalf.
“She has two,” he says, lying with love.
Dad grunts his acknowledgment and mother takes a sip of her water, hiding her disapproval. I’m making them anxious and I probably should feel bad about it, but I’m actually relieved it’s them and not me. Thanks to Trevor, I’m feeling fine. I smirk at Roman who smiles and shakes his head at me. I’m sure he can tell my confidence is growing thicker by the minute.
“How about you two?” Mother shifts the focus of our conversation as she turns to address Roman and Logan. “I’ve been very interested to know how you stole my son’s heart. It’s been a long time since he’s brought a girl home. From what I’ve gathered over the years, you’re not exactly his type.”
“Mom!” Roman scoffs. Now it’s my turn to cast a sympathetic glance across the table to my bestie. It’s like a tennis match in here.
“Can you blame me for being protective?” she asks, bringing a hand to her chest. “The last pretty blonde you introduced me to broke your heart.”
“First of all, that was a long time ago. Second, it was a mutual split. And third, I’m tired of people telling me Logan’s not my type.”
“It’s okay,” says Logan as she rests a hand on his shoulder. “We didn’t see this coming, either. We should tell them the story.”
Roman lifts his eyebrows in question. “The real story?”
When Logan giggles and grins at me, I suddenly feel like I’m not the only one at the table carrying a secret. “Yeah,” she tells Roman. “The real story.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Trevor, taking the words right out of my mouth. “What real story?”
“Oh, the one where Daphne and I made a bet. I had been begging her to tell you that she wanted to be more than friends, but she was too chicken. So we struck a deal. As soon as I got a boyfriend, she would fess up. Of course, after the terms were set, I needed a fake boyfriend. Pronto.”
“She came to me,” Roman admits with a sly grin.
“What?!” I shriek. I feel like my eyes might pop out of my head, I’m so shocked.
“Obviously, I said no. I could hardly stand her.”
“I could hardly stand you,” she mocks, playfully hitting his arm.
He winks at her before he continues. “I told her it would never work and you’d never believe us. Then I came to see you and I remember you said something along the lines of: if I can’t marry Trevor I don’t want to marry anyone. I knew, then, that I had to do it.”
“Oh, my god,” I gasp, raking my fingers through my hair.
“You said that?” asks Trevor, sliding his hand onto my leg.
“Of course I said that,” I cry with a shrug, appalled that out of everything we just heard, that’s what he’s questioning. “That is so not the point right now.”
“We faked it for about two weeks,” Logan goes on to say. “After a few days in, we decided that we kind of liked each other for rea
l.”
“The deal was, once the two of you got together, we’d break up. But then the two of you got together and—”
“—we didn’t want to.”
“So I asked her to be my girlfriend, instead.”
I shake my head as I stare at Logan, completely and utterly speechless. “Don’t give me that look,” she laughs, pointing at my face. “It worked. You’re married! And I’m in love. I won. Twice.”
I laugh at the conclusion of their crazy story; partly because they have no idea how hilarious it is that Daph was freaking out while they were just pretending; partly because Daph is in such a state of shock hearing the truth now; but mostly because Mr. and Mrs. Holloway look so confused. When a timer sounds in the kitchen, I can tell that Mrs. Holloway is relieved to have an excuse to leave the table for a minute.
“Well, that is quite the story,” says Mr. Holloway.
Roman says something in reply, but I don’t hear him. Daphne places her hand on top of mine, which is resting on her leg; she grips my fingers, silently snagging my attention. When I look at her, I realize she didn’t mean anything by the act. Currently, she’s having another wordless exchange with Logan across the table. Even still, she holds my focus.
God, I love her. So much.
Being here, in her parents house where she grew up, it’s different than I thought it would be. She’s so…different than them. I can see how her and her mother could easily bump heads over anything. Something tells me that will never change.
It’s obvious that Mr. and Mrs. Holloway are just as traditional as Daphne described them to be. She and I will likely always be the outcasts at the dinner table. Nevertheless, this is her family. She belongs here. I know I’m new and I can tell they are weary of me, but that means they care. Even if they’ve forgotten how to show it.
I know that today was meant to be a small step; but regardless of how the rest of lunch goes, I’m determined to make sure this won’t be our last step. We might not ever be able to boast of a relationship that’s as healthy as the one that Roman has with them, but they’re the only parents that we have to look up to. I don’t have any idea what it’s like to be a dad. While I’m excited to find out, I’m also scared shitless. It’d be stupid for me to ignore the fact that Mr. Holloway has a clue. While we might have nothing in common, he’s still the father of the woman I love. That counts for something. If I walk away from today with nothing else besides this knowledge, and a sigh of relief from my wife, that’ll be enough.
“Psst,” Daphne whispers, snapping me out of my thoughts. “What are you thinking?” I shake my head, implying that I’ll tell her later. “Okay,” she replies with a nod. “Well, you’re doing great.”
“You, too.” I look around the table to make sure that no one’s watching and then I steal a quick kiss. I’m rewarded with a grin and then her mom is back with the main dish. Daphne’s face falls the instant a plate full of chicken alfredo is placed in front of her. “You okay?” I murmur.
She shakes her head and immediately pushes the dish in my direction. “I’m not hungry mom. Trevor will eat mine.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks as she hands Roman and Logan each a plate. “You love my chicken alfredo. Don’t tell me that’s changed, too.”
“No—it’s just—I’m not hungry. It’s fine. Trevor loves it more than I do. He can eat for both of us, right?”
I nod, suddenly understanding. “Yeah. I’ll eat it.”
“Nonsense, Daphne, you can eat a little bit,” she says, moving the plate back to the empty space in front of her daughter, as if she’s five years old.
“You can’t possibly be full already,” says Mr. Holloway.
She tightens her hold around my hand as she looks at me with worried eyes. When she starts to gag, I move the plate away from her. She leans toward me, turning her head away from the table as she rests her cheek against my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
I look at her dad, who has a worried scowl that looks just like Roman’s—or, I suppose, it’s the other way around. “Um,” I hesitate. “She’s off dairy, right now.”
“Off dairy?”
“Yeah,” I mutter lamely. “Hey,” I say, reaching around with my free hand to rub circles around her back. It worked this morning; it sure as hell is worth a try now. “How you doin’ back there?”
“You smell really good. It’s helping.” I can hear the smile in her voice, which is all the confirmation I need that she’s telling the truth.
“Daphne, what does he mean by you’re off dairy?”
“Nothing, dad. I’m just taking a break from milk products right now.”
“Why? What’s the matter?” asks Mrs. Holloway. “Have you developed some sort of allergy that we’re unaware of?”
“No. Mom, I’m fine. Can we drop it, please?”
She blows out an impatient breath. “Do you plan on sitting with your back to the table for the rest of the meal?”
“Maybe.”
“Daphne—” Mr. Holloway starts to speak but she cuts him off.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m pregnant! I can’t eat the damn alfredo because just the smell of it makes me gag. I mean, holy shit, did you put a whole head of garlic in the sauce? Milk and garlic should not be friends! At least, not right now.”
After her outburst, the table falls completely silent. I look around, curious to see everyone’s response. Roman seems concerned about his parents, his eyes bouncing from one end of the table to the other, waiting for one of them to respond. Logan looks like she’s holding back a laugh, probably because that’s the first thing Daphne’s said all afternoon that sounds like the version of her we know and love. As for her parents, the blank looks on either of their faces can’t be interpreted. At least not by me.
“Oh, come on,” grumbles Daphne, turning to address them. “Say something.”
“Congratulations, Daphne.”
She snaps her head in Mr. Holloway’s direction, obviously not expecting to hear such kind sincerity. “Thanks, dad,” she coos.
“Congratulations? That’s what you have to say? Less than an hour ago we learned we have a son-in-law and now this?” Mrs. Holloway chokes out a humorless laugh. “Good grief, we raised you better than this. Have you no respect? For us? For yourself? It’s as if you didn’t learn anything the first time. Now you’re twenty-two years old, you work at a coffee shop, and you’re married to a tattoo artist. Can you even provide for this child?”
Logan coughs before she mumbles, “Have you forgotten about the ring on her finger? I haven’t.”
“Beth,” Mr. Holloway tries to interject.
“No—Neal, she’s a child. You’re a child,” she declares, shifting her gaze in our direction. “You’re impulsive, irresponsible—and if you think you’re going to get any financial help—”
“Mrs. Holloway—”
“Mom!”
Daphne and I speak at the same time. She squeezes my hand and I know to let her go first.
“I am not a child. I am a woman! I resent the fact that you think you know anything about me. I’m not impulsive or irresponsible. I’m madly, deeply, passionately in love. I’m married to a man who loves me more than anyone ever has. God, Trevor is so much more than you give him credit for! I don’t know, maybe that’s my fault. Maybe you think so little of me that you can’t imagine that he could be as amazing as he is. But let me tell you what he won’t—he’s fucking incredible at what he does. He’s not just a tattoo artist, he owns the damn shop. Not to mention, he’s got a reputation that will draw in enough business to support our baby just fine. He’s good and kind and strong and he will take care of us without any help from anyone. So, don’t worry. We’re not here to ask for money. We don’t need it, or anything else for that matter!
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go throw up.”
We all watch her go. Not one of us gets up to follow her. I want to—not simply to make sure she’s okay, but also
because being anywhere but at this table seems far more appealing. Yet, I know I can’t leave without saying my peace. She might have been yelling at Daphne, but I take offense to everything Mrs. Holloway said. It’s not just my wife she was attacking, it’s my whole life. You’d think, after all these years, she’d have some sort of fresh perspective about her daughter; about relationships—about life.
“Congratulations would have been a better response, Beth,” says Mr. Holloway, breaking the silence.
I snicker because he is absolutely right.
“You find this amusing?” she asks.
I look right at her before I speak. “I see, now, where she gets her stubbornness from,” I begin. “She came down today to mend fences, not to put up more walls. She came to forgive you. We both came as a way of inviting you into our lives. Now,” I shake my head at her as I search for the words. “Now, her inherited stubbornness will kick in and she’ll leave today feeling no better than she did before we walked through that door. Now, you’ll lose even more time as she tries to find it in her to give you another chance. My guess is, it’ll be you who has to make the first move next time; it’ll be you who has to chase after her, because she’ll run from you. She’ll run—I guarantee it.”
I turn to Mr. Holloway as I ask, “Do you have sandwich bread and some peanut butter and jelly?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like to make Daphne a PB&J. She’ll want it, once the nausea wears off.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure—come with me.” He leads me back into the kitchen and I wait for him to gather everything I need. As I start to construct the sandwich, instead of returning to the table, he stands on the other side of the kitchen island and watches me. “I’m sorry we had to meet like this,” he says, softly.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“I’m glad she has you—that she won’t be going through this alone. It was smart of you to get married. I think it makes things a little easier.”
I stop what I’m doing as I look up at him. “If you’re implying that you think I married her because of the baby, I didn’t. I married her because I love her and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”