Fluffy(50)

And there’s no imagining the horror of my mother’s bangle bracelets jingling the death march of a kiss as she waves at us.

“We thought we’d stop by and see Mallory’s office!” Mom chirps as Will shakes Dad’s hand, then leans against his desk.

And cracks his knuckles.

“How’s that China deal?” Dad asks Will. “The one you left dinner for on Friday?”

“Fine. Big real estate acquisition company buying up some of our West Coast properties.” Will’s voice is crisp and flat at the same time.

Dad lets out a conspirator’s whistle. “Sounds like a solid business deal.”

“Speaking of which,” Will says, smiling at me with pride. “Your timing couldn’t be more perfect.”

“What?” I croak.

“Mallory just clinched another deal. Helped get my parents’ house under contract at full price. Took her less than a week. That house sat on the market for five months. It took her extraordinary eye to make someone see how special it really was.”

He’s talking to my parents, but he’s looking at me.

Will's phone rings. He grabs it. “Tony! I was just talking about the Maplecure house. What’s that? Great!”

Dad beams at me. “Congratulations, Mallory! I was skeptical when you took this little job, but you turned it into a gem. Maybe Will can find a more permanent position for you?”

In bed, I think to myself.

Doesn’t your mind go to silly Chinese-fortune-cookie jokes like that when you’re under stress?

Or just, you know, want someone so much that every word out of everyone’s mouth is a double entendre, even your own father’s?

No? Just me?

Will moves away from us, his voice a string of business jargon that makes it clear he’s just getting started.

“I, uh–we need to get back to–”

The kiss, I think.

“WORK!” I shout over my own mind, as if I can drown it out. Pfft.

It floats.

“You don’t have to be so adamant about it, dear,” Mom says, smoothing a spiral lock of hair off my face.

Dad leans in and asks, “How much you making?”

“One point two five percent.”

His whistle is appreciative. Nice to hear it directed at my accomplishments for once.

“No worries about living in our basement with that kind of deal,” he says, beaming. “Good for you, kid. Beats that porn gig you tried.”

“Dad!”

“Roy!”

“Am I wrong?” He snorts, then looks at Mom. “Let’s get outta here. Looks like they’re busy.”

No kidding.

They start toward the door and I walk along.

“So much for lunch,” Mom sighs.

“You were going to invite me out for lunch?”

Mom’s eyes flit back to Will.

“Mommmmm,” I groan. “Dad, you too? Quit trying to make Will happen. It’s not happening.”

Especially when you keep interrupting us.

“We’re just, you know...”

“Interfering meddlers?”

“Concerned parents.”

Same thing.

“Got it,” Dad says as he hugs me. “No lunch. No more dropping in on you two. You can just acquire cats and live alone with your Netflix and your bananas dipped in Nutella.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

Mom gives me a fast hug as Dad drags her away, muttering “One point two five, huh?” as they leave.

I return to my desk, heart racing, my skin ready to pack up and move to Sweden and practice hygge with cozy, oversized sweaters and big mugs of elderberry tea in lopsided stoneware. Can I just hide from the world right now?

Or at least, from my parents?

“They’re really intrusive, aren’t they?” Will asks from behind me, making me squeak with surprise.

“Yes.”

“Downside of living at home.”

“I don’t live at home. I have my own apartment.” Want to see it? I think to myself.

His eyes reflect that thought right back at me.

But his words don’t.

“I mean living in our hometown.”

I bristle. Here we go. “Nothing wrong with staying in a place I love.”

“Do you? Really?”

The way he adds that really makes me turn and face him, taking a deep breath to prepare myself.

“Love this place? Of course. How can you not love a place that has a town festival called the Dance and Dairy? I can’t wait for Saturday! Hesserman's Dairy will be there with the ice cream VW bus!”

He looks at his phone, then slides it into his front pants pocket. “Are you going to the reunion?”

All this air is trapped in my lungs, ready to form into words that eviscerate him, and he asks me that?

“What?”

“The high school reunion. Class of 2009, Harmony Hills, the whole bit. Just got a reminder text about it. It’s Saturday, in fact. You going?”

“I–I don’t think so. I have to help with the Habitat for Humanity tent at the D&D.”

“D&D? You play that?”

“What? No. Not Dungeons & Dragons. Dance and Dairy. You know — the summer festival?”