by Jaclyn Jhin
He killed the engine. “You should come up, meet Kevin and Roy.”
These were his roommates and buddies he talked about all the time, and it would be good to finally put faces to their names. Before we even entered, I could hear men’s voices shouting from inside the apartment.
I stepped in, careful to stay on the linoleum foyer in my heels. Exposed brick lined the walls. Tasteful framed shots of beaches at sunrise added a nice touch, reminding me of an earlier conversation where Ian told me Roy dabbled in photography. A long narrow iron-crafted coffee table ran the room’s length. I was surprised to see it wasn’t topped with beer bottles, but instead with coasters and mugs, one of which featured Garfield and the quote, “I hate Mondays.” Just past the living room, I glimpsed a steel refrigerator and high-backed bar stools along a marble countertop.
Two guys around Ian’s age, also good-looking and clean-cut, sat on the couch in front of their 65-inch wall-mounted HDTV. It looked like we had just interrupted some heated conversation.
“And you must be the one and only Kelly!” said the skinnier one with a surprisingly good tan for this time of year.
“Yes, hi.” I gave a little wave to both of them.
“Kelly, this is Kevin and Roy. Guys, Kelly.”
“Skip the Anderson shindig and hang with us,” said Roy. “Kevin’s cooking a Turducken.”
“That’s turkey, chicken, and duck. Much better than just a boring old turkey,” explained Kevin.
“Sorry, guys. Save me some, though.”
Kevin sipped from what looked like a tiny espresso cup, leading me to believe these guys may have actually their very own espresso machine in the next room. The word “hipster” formed in my head. “Sure you don’t want to join us? There’s cranberry apricot compote in the fridge. Made it last night,” he turned and said to me. “Secret recipe.”
I just smiled back.
“Tempting,” Ian said. “Usually, I just go for the stuff out of the can.” He squeezed my arm. “Give me a sec, okay?”
Then he was gone. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, not knowing where to look or what to say. Some people are good at small talk. I suck at it and hoped this wasn’t a foreshadowing for the rest of the weekend.
“You can join us.” Roy motioned me with a welcoming arm.
Their friendliness reminded me a bit of Ian. I sat on the designer ottoman and crossed my legs. I plucked a blonde hair from Melissa’s jacket just to give myself something to do.
“I heard Ian almost killed you.” Roy sipped what looked like chai with two hands from a huge clay mug. Hipsters. Definitely hipsters.
I smiled. “He did say he was sorry afterwards.”
“Ah. And who says chivalry is dead?”
Kevin laughed. “We kid, but Ian’s a good dude. Top of every class and does all this work outside of school. If we weren’t best friends, we’d probably kill him out of jealousy.”
“Envy,” Roy corrected him.
“Yeah, whatever you say ‘Mr. Right’,” Kevin muttered.
“I’m not envious of anyone,” Roy emphasized the word. “Except maybe John Oliver. Dude’s whip-smart. Although I miss Jon Stewart. That guy was genius.”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “Kelly doesn’t want to hear about your man crush. We were talking about Ian.” He turned to me. “Seriously, Kel—can I call you Kel?”
I nodded my head. I found myself liking both of them already.
“Kel, everyone, even Roy over here, totally hates Ian for being annoyingly perfect.”
“Which means we love him,” Roy chimed in.
“You meet his mom yet?” asked Kevin.
“No, first time.”
Kevin shot Roy an apprehensive glance. Roy looked away. It seemed like they wanted to say something more, maybe to warn me, but Ian came out of the bathroom before they could go any further.
“Shit-talking about me?” Ian grabbed his jacket off the couch.
“Always.”
“Ready to go, Kelly?”
“Of course not,” said Kevin. “She told us while you were gone that Turducken intrigues her.”
“Sure she did.”
I stood up, smoothing out my skirt and still worrying what Kevin and Roy’s shared look might have meant.
Kevin hopped off the couch and opened his arms wide. “I’m a hugger.”
“Me, too,” said Roy.
After both of them embraced me, Ian led us out the door. “Okay. That’s enough scaring her for one day.”
“We’ll miss you,” said Roy.
“Good luck,” Kevin added.
I tried not to think about the warning tone in his voice as Ian and I drove out of the garage.
* * *
The drive to Ian’s family home in Connecticut took only two hours. The sun came out just as we left the city limits, spreading so much warmth we shut off the heater, cracking open the window to let the cool, autumn breeze filter in. I wasn’t used to seeing the changing seasons and loved the panorama of blazing orange, reds, and yellow leaves as we headed into the open countryside.
“Illinois!” I shouted, pointing at the out-of-state license plate zooming next to us on the freeway. “Isla Laminated Ladders ... In N’ Out Of ... Irene’s Shoes. Boom!”
Ian looked down at his watch. “Ohhh, just shy of 15 seconds!”
I punched the roof.
Ian laughed. “I think that’s part of the other game. Although I don’t know if I can count ‘n’ as a word.”
“One of the most successful burger chains counts it.”
“I told you, we don’t have those here. I barely know what you’re talking about.”
“Just because you’re ignorant doesn’t mean it doesn’t count.” I smiled, shrugging my shoulders.
Ian shook his head. “Am I seeing the competitive side of Kelly, now?”
“Maybe.”
A slower song came on the satellite radio, and I relaxed back in my seat, enjoying the window view of cottage-like houses and expansive green fields. Ever since leaving Ian’s apartment, I had tried focusing on anything else but meeting his mom. Whenever my thoughts wandered, they returned to Halmuni and the fact she hadn’t texted me back in weeks. I couldn’t believe she was being so judgmental. At the same time, I missed her. This would be our first Thanksgiving apart, and she hadn’t even bothered to call? Okay, I really needed to think of something else. Remember what Melissa said. Stay positive. Then I found myself thinking about the sleeping arrangements again. What if we really did stay in the same room? No. I couldn’t think about that, either. I was going to start sweating through Melissa’s jacket.
I turned to look at Ian. I had never felt more at ease with someone, even Halmuni. It’s no wonder his roommates adored him. It was weird, but I already trusted him like he was part of my family. I just had this great gut feeling he would always be there.
“I’m okay sharing a room with you,” I blurted out.
Ian looked over, wide-eyed, like where the hell did that come from? I was so surprised by my own words it felt like I saw them flying toward the windshield. Splat.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I tried to smile, then nodded my head, scooting closer. I put my head on his shoulder. Then he reached down and put his hand on mine.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I was dozing off to an instrumental song on Ian’s satellite radio when he gently nudged me. “This is our street.”
I sat up, looking out the window. This could not be real. The otherwise empty private road was wide enough to easily fit four cars side-by-side. We passed tall, perfectly manicured pine trees, well-groomed bushes, and majestic gates. Each entrance looked like it guarded a separate neighborhood, but we were the only car in sight and all of the well-swept curbs were empty. The more tucked-away mansions we passed, the more I felt like I was on a movie set for a film about some European royal family.
As we curved left, I noticed the edges of a colossal house—if that’s what you could call it
—peeking out behind a forest of greenery.
“Here we are. Home sweet home.”
Ian drove up a long and winding driveway that went on forever. A maze of bushes surrounded us on either side, expertly pruned down to the very leaf. I had to remind myself to keep breathing as we drew nearer.
“This is where you live?” I tried to keep my voice even. “It looks like a castle.”
“My mom likes things BIG. Jewelry, homes, that kind of stuff.”
I wondered if the people who lived in this area even knew their neighbors or if they all behaved as if they lived on their own private island—which they also probably owned. Ian stopped in front of a seven-foot-high gate with spiky metallic arches. An intercom stood atop a metal post a few feet away. Ian rolled down his window to press the button, then retracted his arm abruptly. He stared at the button as if deciding whether or not he should press it.
“You okay?”
He took a deep breath. “Sure.”
I studied him. Is he just as nervous as me?
He took another deep breath and pressed the button. There was a crackling noise, then we heard a man’s voice. “Anderson residence.”
“Franco, it’s me. Can you open the gate?”
The gate buzzed open, revealing a narrower driveway bordered by the healthiest, brightest green grass I had ever seen. The compound stretched in all directions with no clear end in sight. Readjusting my seat belt, I stared ahead. My nerves were settling in. The length of the drive made me feel like there was the possibility we might never arrive, but now everything I feared—his family, friends, our impending night—loomed right in front of me.
At last, we approached the Anderson mansion. More palace than house, it reminded me of an old Manhattan department store building, only with sheer white drapes in every window and multiple porticos jutting out to the extensive lawn. In the distance, I thought I could see the stable Ian mentioned. He had said his mom liked to spend her time there with her horses ever since his father died.
I tried to stuff down my growing anxiety and nausea as we pulled up alongside the fountain. Two statues representing baby angels playing flutes stood amidst columns of water jets five feet high. I was still staring at the gorgeous display when a man in a red uniform jacket opened my door.
I looked up. He was in his 50s or 60s and took my hand with a friendly smile. After bowing, he addressed Ian. “Welcome home, sir. Do you have any luggage?”
“Hey, Franco,” Ian threw his arms around him. “Yeah, we have two small bags in the back. And this is my girlfriend, Kelly.”
Franco bowed again. “Hello, Ms. Kelly. Pleasure to meet you.”
Franco took our things and escorted us inside. When he opened the giant, gold-trimmed doors, I felt like I needed to hang on to Ian for balance. A two-sided spiral staircase the color of ivory led to a magnificent second-floor landing. Tasteful sculptures and paintings adorned the vast foyer. A checkered marble-floored hallway broke off in different directions, leading to various wings of the house like the world’s biggest, most intricate honeycomb. I felt like I had just stepped into an issue of Architectural Digest.
Ian led us to the kitchen, which looked large enough to prepare meals for a small army. Everything sparkled and gleamed, from the polished countertops to the stainless steel appliances. (There were two refrigerators, each larger than my dorm room closet.) Ian immediately went to the bar overflowing with liquor bottles and poured himself a glass of Scotch.
“You want anything?”
Before I could answer, a pair of well-toned arms rushed toward him, outstretched. “Ian? Is that you, sweetheart?”
Extremely attractive, Mrs. Anderson did not look old enough to have a son Ian’s age. She had perfect porcelain skin, manicured nails, and long, blonde, perfectly styled wavy hair. She also had Ian’s piercing blue eyes.
When she released Ian from her hug, she saw me, then stepped back. “And who is this?”
“Mom. I emailed you—this is Kelly, my girlfriend.”
Emailed?
“Ian, I get emails all the time. I ignore most of them. You should have called. I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend.” She gave me a quizzical look, as if I was supposed to explain this phenomenon. At last, she came forward with an outstretched palm. “Hello, Kelly. Where are you from?” She said this in an overtly saccharine tone.
Before I could reply, she added, “And how did you manage to snare my son? He’s never brought a girl home before.”
She said this last part with a little chuckle, but I couldn’t help thinking she was deadly serious. Snare him? He went after me!
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Anderson,” I said trying to remain calm. Think of this as an interview, I thought. “I’m from L.A. I didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t know you didn’t know. If I’m intruding, I can always ...”
I began wondering how much it would cost to take a train back to Manhattan.
Before I could finish my sentence, Ian said, “Don’t be silly.” He put down his glass with a thud. “You’re staying.” He took my hand.
I looked to his mom, trying to smile, but she did not seem pleased.
“Yes. Of course, you are staying.” She waved her hand dismissively, like it was all some big mistake. Her eyes said something different. “And you can call me Beverly. Stay. If my son has fallen for you, then I should get to know you.”
Fallen for me? She made it sound like I duped him.
She leaned a bit closer and scanned me slowly from head to toe. I felt like she was inspecting a horse to decide whether or not she should buy it. “I do hope you brought something appropriate to wear for today’s party.”
This isn’t appropriate? Why didn’t Ian say something? “I ... I’m sorry. Ian said it wasn’t formal. I hope this is still okay?”
Beverly pursed her lips. “Dear, if you didn’t know what to wear, you should have asked. Do you at least have some decent shoes?” I was wearing my favorite black pumps, the ones I wore when I worked at B.B.’s law office. They seemed okay to me. But now, looking down at them and comparing them to what Mrs. Anderson was wearing, which were patent leather, pinkish beige, four-inch-high stilettos with small grey spikes along the side, my shoes looked drab and cheap.
“I ... I only brought this pair.”
“Well, nothing we can do about it now,” she said in an exasperated tone.
She patted me on the shoulder, kissed Ian on the cheek, then walked out. “Miranda!” she called over her shoulder.
A second later, a Hispanic woman in her mid-40s emerged with Windex and paper towels, hurrying after her.
I turned to Ian. “I should go.”
“No way. It’s fine. No one is gonna care what you’re wearing. And, besides, you look gorgeous.”
“But she doesn’t even want me—”
We heard the front door open, and a slew of guests entered. Couples offered their coats and hats to Franco. All of the women wore lavish designer outfits. My heart sank as I saw a blur of various colors of impeccably fitted dresses, black cashmere or fur wraps, and four-inch high heels (similar to Mrs. Anderson’s) whisk by. Stunning in all of their jewelry, the ladies looked like aristocrats you might expect to see in a royal ballroom. Beside them, the men wore tailored, dark suits with button shirts and French cuffs, nodding at Franco while adjusting their silk ties. I felt like I had stepped into a different time period, one in which every person had been required to go to etiquette school as a teenager.
Staring at them in their tailored finery made me blush with humiliation. I looked down at my own plain skirt, jacket (not even mine, actually,) and stupid shoes, wishing I was anywhere but here. I wanted to run as far as possible.
Ian must have seen the expression on my face, because he took off his blazer so he was just in his white-collared shirt. “Now we’ll both be underdressed.”
I know he was being sweet, but I wished I could take his jacket, wrap it around my whole body, and disappear. After all, no matter what
he did, Ian was Ian. The host’s son. He could’ve shown up in a hairy gorilla suit and people would’ve simply applauded his sense of humor. I was the one who would receive the unfriendly stares. I was the one they’d shake their heads at, wondering why I looked so out of place.
“Let’s join them.” Ian took me by the hand, leading me toward toward the crush of people surrounding the entrance to what could only be described as a dining hall, emphasis on the word “hall.”
Ian and I ventured into what could have been our school cafeteria, if that cafeteria was set to entertain some of the richest, most powerful men and women in America. Waiters dressed identically to Franco in red uniform jackets darted between groups of guests, offering champagne flutes and appetizers ranging from caviar toast to jumbo shrimp cocktail.
A massive oak dining table occupied the length of the room with engraved place settings. A small army of buffed and shined utensils accompanied each fine china plate. With a sinking feeling, I knew there would be no setting for me, making today even more awkward.
More and more guests streamed in the room, each looking more elegant than the next. There must have been 40 in attendance. If I didn’t feel so terrible, I would have taken out my phone to send Halmuni a photo with this text: “Here’s what the Real Housewives of New York look like.”
To my horror, Ian took me by the arm, leading me to the head of the table. The last thing I wanted was to be on display. I started to tell him so, but a woman cut us off.
“Ian, sweetheart, how are you?” Though the 60-something female had silver-grey hair and wrinkles around her eyes, her slender body looked like that of a 30 year old. She wriggled out of her coat, handing it to me. “Oh, thank you, dear.”
I dumbly accepted the cashmere coat, feeling its softness in my hands. Then she handed me a purple colored, crocodile-patterned bag.
“Mrs. Williams, this is Kelly, my girlfriend. We both go to Columbia.”
Mrs. Williams looked back at me with a slightly confused look. Just like Beverly, Mrs. Williams stepped back to examine me as if I was a lab specimen. “You are very exotic-looking. Are you Asian?”