Kiss Her Once for Me (22)

Andrew notices the whole-body anxiety melt taking place in the passenger seat. “What is this? What’s happening?”

“I can’t go in there.”

“Well, we’re not going to spend the entire week outside.”

“Seriously.” I’m clutching the door handle. “I can’t do this, Andrew.”

“Hey there.” He pats the crown of my head in an attempt to be comforting. “Don’t worry. Everyone will be really nice to you. Even my dad. At least to your face.”

Sweat pools beneath the thick layer of my cardigan. So, naturally, I flail my hands under my armpits like little fans. Because the best thing to do with pit stains is draw needless attention to them in front of the handsome man who wants to fake-marry you.

“This—this was a mistake. We can’t get married. I can’t spend a week with your family.”

“Yes, you can.” He shuts off the engine. His voice is cutting and impatient, almost as if two million dollars were on the line. “Because you have no other choice. We’re already here.”





Chapter Seven


“You must be Ellie!”

Someone screeches these words the second Andrew opens the front door. I barely have time to consider how I would draw the entryway—high ceilings, oak paneling, large windows lining the backside of the house—before I’m accosted by a pair of soft arms that encircle me in a surprisingly tight hug. The anxiety I felt in the car moments before begins to seep out of me and into the arms of this woman who smells like red wine and ginger cookies. God, when was the last time someone hugged me?

“Sugar, it’s so good to meet you!” the woman coos into my hair. “And such a pretty little thing! Let me get a good look at you.”

The woman seizes both my shoulders and holds me at arm’s length, and I finally get a good look at her, too. She is an elderly white woman who can literally only be described as boozy. There’s a poof of gray hair circling her head like a chaotic halo, orange lipstick not quite colored in the lines of her mouth, a ruched top cut low enough to reveal a spectacular (if somewhat wrinkled) pair of breasts.

In describing his meemaw, Andrew neglected to mention that she is incredibly Southern, six feet tall, and the human antidote to an anxiety attack.

“Bless you.” She gives me another hug, and I never want to let go. “Aren’t you a doll?”

Then Meemaw plants a wet kiss on my cheek, and even though I can feel the imprint of her orange lipstick, I really don’t mind. “Welcome to the family, sugar.” She eats the r at the end, so it’s a musical suga rolling off her tongue.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Prescott.”

She swats my arm. “None of that formalness. You can call me Meemaw, and this here is Lovey.”

She gestures to the equally boozy-looking white woman on her right, who is sucking on what appears to be a vape pen. Likely to be high, indeed. To each octogenarian her own, I guess.

Laverne Prescott is wearing a Patagonia vest over a moisture-wicking button-down, a pair of patterned yoga pants, and Crocs with socks. She barely comes up to my shoulders, but her hug is just as soft and just as comforting as she wraps her arms around my middle. “Um, I was very sorry to hear about your recent loss,” I say, stupidly and uselessly to a woman who just lost her husband of almost thirty years.

But Lovey’s only response is, “You’re so tall! Pah! That’s the last thing I need! Another granddaughter to tower over me.”

My heart flutters at the base of my throat. Granddaughter.

And really, did Richard Prescott’s entire family despise him?

“Oh, well. I guess I’ll just have to get used to it. I’m doomed to a family of giants. Can I get you something to drink?” Lovey offers with her head still pressed against my shoulder. “Barbara made sangria.”

“You absolutely need sangria!” Meemaw announces, and she’s somehow conjured a glass of sangria to thrust into my hand. “Now! Andrew tells us you’re an artist. I’ve just recently gotten into glassblowing, and I found this instructor in Lake Oswego. He’s got an ass like a peach and hands like Michelangelo. Have you ever worked with glass? Or Italian men?”

I shake my head.

“Barbara, let the girl catch her breath,” Lovey scolds as she takes another hit off her vape.

Meemaw ignores her. “Ellie. That’s a pretty name. Short for Elizabeth?”

“Elena.”

Meemaw studies me for a moment, one eyebrow quirked. “Ah. Well, I can’t believe this one is finally settling down.” She thrusts a thumb at Andrew, who is casually standing back by the front door with an expression of gentle amusement. “Never thought he’d stop ho’ing around.”

“Hello, Meemaw.” Andrew smiles. “It’s always a pleasure to be harassed by you. And Lovey.” Andrew accepts two kisses from Meemaw before he stoops to embrace Lovey. The latter presses a papery hand to Andrew’s cheek, and the gesture is so tender, I have to look away.

The house smells like pine cones and winter spices, and John Lennon is crooning, “So this is Christmas,” over a speaker system, and he’s right. This is Christmas, the way I’ve always seen it in movies but never experienced firsthand. Grandmas who greet you with warm hugs. Holly up the banister and mistletoe in all the doorways, a collection of illuminated porcelain houses along a buffet table. Later, I will draw this place like a fucking Norman Rockwell painting. It makes me oddly nostalgic for something I’ve never had.