by Xavier Neal
The room remains so still I am hesitant to exhale.
After a few more moments of silence, Ford volunteers, “I’ll go check on him.”
I turn to Blake. “You go.”
His eyebrows launch into the air. “What?”
“You. Go.” Folding my arms across my chest, I state, “You pissed him off. You fix it.”
“Angel-”
“You poke and push and never apologize.”
“It was a joke.”
“And you were a dick. Now go.” I command with an unwavering firmness in my tone. “He obviously needs a brother to talk to…”
The underlying implication is met with a simple nod. Blake looks back at Ford. “Don’t worry about it, Runt. I’ll go talk to him.”
Ford’s face immediately cringes. “You sure? When you two talk it usually ends in something broken.”
“Don’t you break anything, Blake Jenkins,” Mama warns.
Blake’s signature smile crosses his lips. “I won’t.”
He pecks me with a kiss on the cheek and strolls off after his brother.
As soon as he’s out of ear shot, Mama sighs, “How the hell did you do that?”
Innocently, I ask, “Do what?”
“Make him…listen.” Her grin greets me and I exchange the expression.
“I don’t feel so good,” Ollie whimpers.
“Pregnancy does that,” Mama changes her focus.
A proposal wasn’t the only surprise the Shaw family got this summer. The news of her pregnancy is still fairly recent. They wanted to wait until she was six weeks and when she was we enjoyed a huge Sunday dinner in celebration. Sort of like Blake’s birthday party we’re having. Apparently this is what they do. They love spending time together and I have to admit, I’ve fallen in love with being included.
“Ford why don’t you go ahead and take her home to lie down. We’ll save her cake for when it passes.”
His panic filled eyes meet his mother’s. “And you’re sure it’ll pass? She’s been feeling sick a lot lately.”
“Morning sickness,” Pop announces.
“In the afternoons.”
“It can come at any time,” Mama explains from where she’s standing beside Pop. “Between the five of you boys, I have experienced ‘morning sickness’ at every possible time combination. Come to think of it, you, Runt, had me sick between the hours of two and four a.m.”
“Yeah, thanks for that,” Pop sarcastically says to him.
Ford’s face contorts in frustration at the jeering, but Ollie’s unhappy groans grab his attention.
The two of them slink off with Ford demanding Mama save him a piece of ice cream cake.
I try to ignore the automatic uncomfortableness of being left completely alone with his parents.
It’s not as if they don’t like me or aren’t used to the way I unconsciously snip rather than reply sweetly to things. But they’re still his parents. The last thing I want is for them to wish he would leave me for someone….kinder like Ollie or someone who might fit in better in the kitchen like Sienna. I already spend enough time wondering if I measure up. When we’re alone on rare moments like this, the realization I probably don’t is blatantly more apparent.
“Do you want me to grab you cake now or would you like to wait for Blake?” Mama asks warmly.
“I can wait,” I quietly reply. “Blake would lose his mind if I tried ice cream cake for the first time and he wasn’t around.”
“You’ve never had ice cream cake?” Pop questions completely flummoxed. “Ever?”
“No.”
Mama sits in the seat Ford had been occupying. “What kind of cake did your parents make you growing up?”
“They didn’t.”
“Oh, no bakers. Alright. What kind did they buy?”
“They didn’t.”
“Cupcakes?”
“No.”
She offers me a sympathetic look, which slumps my shoulders.
Is it really so sad and strange to have not had birthday parties or cake?
“Blake mentioned he stole you away for a concert for your birthday last month,” Pop veers the conversation away from what he assumes to be a sensitive subject. “What’d you get him?”
“A gym membership.”
The two of them tilt their heads in unison.
“You know how he loves to jog?”
“Boy has been runnin’ since he learned to walk,” Mama snickers. “Same day.”
I helplessly smile at the thought. “Well, when he moved in with me, he had to give up going to gym since it was through his apartment, so I got him a membership to Gym Life, that way he could still lift weights when he wanted or run on the treadmill or their indoor track when it gets too hot outside. Plus, they have all these fitness classes, which he is excited for us to take.”
“That sounds like Blake,” his mother laughs and this time I join in. She sweetly wonders, “Do you enjoy workin’ out with him?”
“Uh…” My head bobs back and forth. “Sometimes. It’s becoming more enjoyable. Not the fastest jogger and will probably embarrass him if we take a class together, but hey, at least I’m trying, right?”
Her smile strains. “Are you tryin’ because you want to try to do things he enjoys or are you tryin’ ‘cause you think you need to be a certain size to keep him happy?”
The boldness of her question strikes me off guard.
“Because, honey, let me tell you, you should never be concerned with bein’ a specific size for anyone other than yourself. And if my boy has ever given you any other implication, I will beat his ass black and blue no matter the age.”
“As will I,” Pop supportively agrees.
Touched by their kind words and even kinder nature to defend me over their own son, I quickly shake my head. “He hasn’t. He loves me regardless of my size it seems.”
“Good,” she hums out obviously pleased at the information. “You’re more than just a weight on a scale. You don’t have to be a certain size to be considered beautiful. Women should be celebrated and appreciated in all forms. Didn’t your mother teach you that growin’ up?”
Quite the opposite actually. Her and my father both insisted their children be as fit as possible and weren’t above food denial if they felt nutrition had been met. Unfortunately, genetics disagreed with them and I was given a much fuller figure than they approved of. Late night college cramming developed poor eating habits and unforgiving rehearsal hours while traveling the world simply furthered it. These past few months have been filled with the healthiest eating I’ve done since I was a child yet I don’t hate it. Blake and I cook together when possible, balancing the lean with the naughty. Between better meals, even when we go out, and some exercise as opposed to none, my body is finally curving in a way I approve of.
I pass on the decision to spill out more trauma with a simple shake of the head to answer her question.
Thankfully, Blake walks back into the room alone.
Pop darts his eyebrows down. “Where’s your brother?”
“He needed to make a phone call.”
Mama cocks her head curiously. “To the sheriff or fire department?”
My boyfriend chuckles as he slips back down in his seat. “Neither.”
His parents respectfully end their questioning, but I don’t. “Then who?”
Blake slides his hand to my thigh. “His girlfriend.”
Shock covers my face at the same time we lock eyes.
“And you were right. He needed a brother to talk to. I was definitely the best choice…”
“You sound awfully cocky about that.”
“His words. Not mine.”
The addition of information tugs at my heart and smile.
Mama lets out a joyful sigh.
After Blake gives me a chaste kiss on the lips, he asks, “So what were you all talkin’ about?”
“We were just about to ask Abby what it is her parents do for a livin’,” Pop casually answe
rs as he folds his hands with Mama.
Blake’s face contorts to confusion. “You know…I don’t even know the answer to that.”
There’s a reason…
“Probably would be a good idea to have some knowledge of what they do before I meet them in a few weeks.”
All eyes swing to me and I try to smile. “My mother works in the medical field.”
“She’s a doctor?” The excitement in Mama’s voice adds to my hesitation to continue.
“A surgeon.”
“What kind?” Pop pushes.
I feel all the muscles in my body tense. “Neuro.”
“As in brain?” Blake chokes on his own disbelief. “Your mother is an actual brain surgeon?!”
“Technically, they’re called neurosurgeons, but yes. In less formal terms, my mother is a brain surgeon. One of the youngest in the field. She recently had an article published about her in a medical journal.”
He tries to collect his composure yet continuously fails.
Pop clears his throat. “And your father?”
“He’s a professor at Clover Rose University.”
“What does he teach?” Mama’s genuine interest almost eases the anxiety.
“Black History, but he is now head of the entire history department as of last fall. He is also working on his third book, this time about effects of proper funding to community organizations in inner cities.”
An audible gulp escapes Blake.
Accomplishments are a requirement to be an Atkins. The bar is always high and always expected to be met. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to prolong them meeting. I already don’t feel good enough. I hate the idea of Blake feeling it himself.
“Are you an only child?” Pop proceeds past his amazement.
“No. I have one older sister.”
“What does she do for a living?” Mama quietly questions.
“She’s head of the accounting department for a multibillion dollar security firm.”
“Wait, you’re the artsy, laid back one?” Blake croaks.
I take a moment to process the statement. “I guess I am…”
Pop lets out a deep exhale and offers me a wide grin. “Sounds like you come from quite a family and they seem to have raised quite a daughter.”
His compliment receives a sweet smile. “Thank you.”
“Worried they’re gonna like Blake?” He questions with mirth in his voice. “He is horrible in public. Can’t take him anywhere.”
“Hey!” My boyfriend tries to relax.
“Oh, I’m sure Blake will win them over,” Mama says with a wave of her hand. “That boy is too charmin’ for his own good.”
“Explains how he graduated college,” Pop teases. “And high school…”
“Let’s not forget elementary school. He probably would’ve never passed third grade had he not been showin’ up with flowers he picked every day for Mrs. Masey,” Mama sells him out.
“It’s my birthday, can we at least have cake with these embarrassing stories,” Blake laughs lightly and gives my leg a gentle squeeze.
His mother rolls her eyes, but returns to her initial task just as his nephews and their parents come barreling in.
The room is suddenly much louder and the atmosphere much more joyous.
I fold my hand with his, grateful for the change.
There will be plenty of time to worry about all the things that can possibly go wrong with him being introduced to my parents. As much as I want to believe nothing will change once he meets them, I’m not that naïve. For now? I plan to linger in the ignorant bliss we’ve cultivated over the past six months. If everything fails miserably, there’s a high probability these memories will be all I have left to keep me company besides my cello.
There’s no real reason for me to be nervous. Even if I have never met parents in this capacity, I have met parents before. Two of my older brothers did get married and I did have to be appropriately charming for their in laws. Meeting Abby’s parents is going to go smoothly. They’re going to like me and once they see how much I care about their daughter, they’re going to love me. Afterwards, I can finally put the ring I let Oliver help me pick out two weeks ago to its rightful use.
“Excuse me?” A woman’s voice redirects my attention away from the stage. When I turn to make eye contact with the dark-skinned woman, she states, “You’re in the wrong seat.”
The instant look of confusion on my face causes the tall man who also has similarly shaded skin to inform, “That seat is for our daughter’s boyfriend.”
I plaster a welcoming smile on my face and extend my hand. “That’s me. I’m Blake Shaw.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Atkins says with displeasure.
Not a great start…Not a great start, but I’ve rebounded from worse.
Mr. Atkins places his hand on her shoulder snapping her out of whatever thoughts were tumbling around. She shakes at the same time she introduces herself, “I’m Nina.”
“Nice to meet you, Nina.”
Our hands drop and I shake her father’s. “Charles.”
“Nice to meet you as well.”
The hum is one I’m all too familiar with.
Abby makes the same sound when she’s biting her tongue.
How can they be unhappy with me already? Should I have stood up? Should I have been gushing about how much I love her from the moment I opened my mouth?
Nina sits in the seat beside me yet angles her body towards her husband so her back is somewhat my direction. While the message is loud, I try not to let it derail me from making conversation.
“Abby-”
“Mable,” her mother instantly corrects.
I swallow my instinct to question why they insist on calling her something she hates. “Is really excited the two of you came to hear her play. She says you haven’t done it often since she left Sparkcane.”
Charles replies with the same hum his wife did earlier.
“She’s been excited about it for weeks.”
Nervous if I were being honest, and I’m quickly gathering why.
“She should be enthusiastic about better things,” her mother says with sardonic sneer. “Like moving on from this dreadful ensemble.”
“She loves bein’ with the Highland Orchestra, ma’am.”
Neither glance away from their programs yet her father mutters, “She. Shouldn’t.”
“She loves-”
“Such a strong word,” Charles chomps. “Refrain from using it unless you are absolutely certain and prepared to provide facts to back it up.”
A lump of ire begins to form. “She enjoys how they do more than jus’ concerts, sir.”
“Concerts are crucial to a musician,” her father argues.
“Yes, but Highland also records with pop artists-”
“Banal,” Nina not so quietly interjects.
“-for their albums and for movies.”
“Films.”
There are so many things about Abby that are finally making more sense.
I clear my throat again. “Above everything else, Abby-”
“Mable,” they correct together.
“-is thankful to no longer be constantly travelin’.”
“She loves to travel. She loves learning about other…cultures,” Nina says from behind gritted teeth.
“Maybe a little too hands on now,” Charles sarcastically chuckles, which causes his wife to smirk.
Is that…Is that in reference to me? Is my accent coming out too thick? Do I sound like some under educated fool?
Pushing past my self-concerns, I continue to advocate for Abby. “The constant traveling was wearing on her spirit.”
“You are speaking for our daughter,” Charles finally looks up, irritation piercing his expression. “She can speak for herself. She doesn’t need someone to do it for her. She doesn’t need someone to stifle or take away her voice.”
“Amen,” her mother mumbles.
My attempt at making conversation and p
roving I do know something about her career backfires tremendously. “I never meant to imply she couldn’t, sir. I-”
“It’s starting,” Nina announces as the lights flicker in warning.
