All Your Perfects(45)
“Wait,” Graham says, interrupting me. “Did you say comedians? Like as in people who tell jokes?”
“I told you it was weird. And yes. They were telling knock-knock jokes and yo-momma jokes. I was getting so angry because all I wanted to do was make you a bowl of Lucky Charms, but there were hundreds of tiny, annoying comedians climbing all over your kitchen, telling lame jokes. When you woke up and walked into the kitchen, you found me crying. I was a sobbing mess, running around your kitchen, trying to squash all the little comedians with a mason jar. But instead of being freaked out, you just walked up behind me and wrapped your arms around me. You said, ‘Quinn, it’s okay. We can have toast for breakfast.’?”
Graham immediately drops his face into the pillow, stifling his laughter. I shove him in the arm. “Try and decipher that one, smartass.”
Graham sighs and pulls me to him. “It means that I should probably cook breakfast from now on.”
I like that plan.
“What do you want? French toast? Pancakes?”
I lift up and kiss him. “Just you.”
“Again?”
I nod. “I want seconds.”
I get exactly what I want for breakfast. Then we shower together, drink coffee together, and leave for work.
We couldn’t even spend an entire night apart, but I don’t think this means we live together. That’s a huge step neither of us are willing to admit we took. I think if anything, this just means we no longer live alone. If there’s a difference.
His mother probably thinks we already live together since she thinks we’ve been dating a lot longer than we have. I’ve been to Graham’s parents’ house at least once a week since the first night he took me there. Luckily, he stopped with the fictional stories. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to keep up with everything he told her the first night.
His mother absolutely loves me now and his father already refers to me as his daughter-in-law. I don’t mind it. I know we’ve only been together three months, but Graham will be my husband one day. It’s not even a question. It’s what happens when you meet your future husband. You eventually marry him.
And eventually . . . you introduce him to your mother.
Which is what is happening tonight. Not because I want him to meet her, but because it’s only fair since I’ve met his. I show you mine, you show me yours.
* * *
“Why are you so nervous?” Graham reaches across the seat and puts pressure on my knee. The knee I’ve been bouncing up and down since we got in the car. “I’m the one meeting your mother. I should be the nervous one.”
I squeeze his hand. “You’ll understand after you meet her.”
Graham laughs and brings my hand to his mouth, kissing it. “Do you think she’ll hate me?”
We’re on my mother’s street now. So close. “You aren’t Ethan. She already hates you.”
“Then why are you nervous? If she already hates me, I can’t disappoint her.”
“I don’t care if she hates you. I’m scared you’ll hate her.”
Graham shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous. “I could never hate the person who gave you life.”
He says that now . . .
I watch Graham’s expression as he pulls into the driveway. His eyes take in the massive home I grew up in. I can feel his thoughts from where I’m sitting. I can also hear them because he speaks them out loud.
“Holy shit. You grew up here?”
“Stop judging me.”
Graham puts the car in park. “It’s just a home, Quinn. It doesn’t define you.” He turns in his seat to face me, placing his hand on the seat rest behind my head as he leans in closer. “You know what else doesn’t define you? Your mother.” He leans forward and kisses me, then reaches around me and pushes open my door. “Let’s get this over with.”
No one greets us at the door, but once we’re inside, we find my mother in the kitchen. When she hears us, she turns around and assesses Graham from head to toe. It’s awkward because Graham goes in for a hug at the same time she goes in for a handshake. He falters a little, but that’s the only time he falters. He spends the entire dinner as the adorably charming person he is.
The whole time, I watch him, completely impressed. He’s done everything right. He greeted my mother as if he were actually excited to meet her. He’s answered all her questions politely. He’s talked just enough about his own family while making it seem he was more interested in ours. He complimented her décor, he laughed at her lame jokes, he ignored her underhanded insults. But even as I watch him excel, I’ve seen nothing but judgment in her eyes. I don’t even have to hear what she’s thinking because she’s always worn her thoughts in her expressions. Even through years of Botox.
She hates that he drove up in his Honda Accord and not something flashier.
She hates that he dared to show up for his first introduction in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans.
She hates that he’s an accountant, rather than the millionaires he does the accounting for.
She hates that he isn’t Ethan.
“Quinn,” she says as she stands. “Why don’t you give your friend a tour of the house.”
My friend.