Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)(25)

“No big deal,” he chuckled, “I’m not really ‘meet-the-parents’ ready right now,” He said as he shagged his hair back and forth.

I petulantly stepped to the floor as he stood up. I tossed his shirt carelessly in his direction, admiring the view. He hugged me bare-chested before he put it on; when he pulled away I noticed a fairly large greenish bruise to the left of his navel.

“Jesus, what happened?” I asked, realizing that, by the color, it had been there for a few days. I’d been too involved in other parts of his body to notice.

“This? Nothing.” He brushed my hand away. “I was helping my friend in his barn last week and I bumped into his tool bench - serious idiot.” He shrugged into his shirt.

“Well, you better not damage anything else, I love this body.” There. I said love in a completely innocent manner and the floor didn’t swallow me whole.

Bo smirked, “And I love this body.” He pulled me closer and ran his thumb under my eye. I let my head fall into his hand for a second.

“Damn straight you do. I don’t go running for my own mental clarity - gotta keep it tight for the bedroom,” I joked, flexing my muscles.

Bo let out a full-bellied laugh and kissed me goodnight.

“See you tomorrow at the office, Mr. Cavanaugh,” I toned out derisively.

“It’ll be good, I promise. Goodnight.”

I left my hand on the door after he closed it, praying for a split second that it really would be all right.

At precisely 10:46pm, I heard the unmistakable sound of my parents 1980’s station wagon in front of my apartment. Their laughter carried them up the stairs before they knocked. The fact that I trained them to knock seared me with pride. Growing up, Ashby and Raven didn’t even have a door to whatever bedroom they lived in at the time. I braced myself and opened the door.

“Rae! Ash!” I cheered as they walked in. Calling them mom and dad was out of the question growing up. They said it forced an uncomfortable hierarchy in the household. You mean like parent and child? Imagine that.

“Bluebell!” My dad squeezed me around the waist tightly, his arm snuffing out any memory of Bo’s hands.

“Ember, baby, how are you?” My mom wrapped her arms around me and my dad before they both stopped dead and dropped their arms.

I turned to see what happened, and saw them staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the coffee table. I didn’t have time to put the guitar away, and now I was going to have to explain. I walked the long way around the coffee table and stood facing them on the other side. Talk about a five-ton elephant.

“November, what’s this about?” A hint of a smile graced my mother’s face.

“When did you take this out, Sweetie?” Dad had a “no judgment or expectations” air.

“I met this guy. He’s a musician.” My parents shot each other a look in the hopes I wouldn’t see. I did.

“No,” I continued, “I mean, Monica and I sang with him at Finnegan’s last week when he played a set. He’s from New Hampshire. He . . .”

My voice was gone. As I tried to put everything into words for my parents, the two people who had more love between them than anyone I had ever met, a heavy sob escaped my body. I crumpled to the couch with my elbows on my knees, crying into my hands.

“Sweetie!” My mom rushed to my side and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. My dad sat next to her and cocked his head in concern. He’s the only dad I know that’s not afraid of tears. Thank you, hippies.

For several minutes the tears fell. Each one I shed held reasons why I loved Bo, reasons why it was irresponsible, reasons why I didn’t care. My parents maintained their protective stance, and when I finally stopped I told them everything. The singing, the, meeting him at work, about his sister, his parents and about his foundation - it was all on the table. I told them that we had sex and it was the best thing that’d ever happened to me, physically and emotionally. When I explained that if our organizations collaborated we’d have to stop seeing each other - for a while at the very least, and forever at the most, I spilled more tears onto my mom’s shoulder.

“You are so perfectly amazing, November,” were the first words my mother spoke, “you need to decide what’s important right now.” Her words sat me up.

“Isn’t it all important? Didn’t you spend my entire life teaching me to follow my heart, and the wind, and whatever else?” Her practicality irritated me for the first time in my life.

“November,” my dad offered, “it is all important. But it all can’t be first-place. For instance, remember when you begged us to stay in one place long enough for you to go to one high school? While Raven and I valued our freedom as a family over everything else, the look in your eyes raised your desire for a home base to the number one spot on our list of things that were important.”

My dad reached across my mom’s lap and gave my knee a squeeze.

“What are you saying? That I need to give up this core-shaking love to focus on what could be one of the most important career moves I’ll ever have?” I was thoroughly confused.

“You need to really take time to think it all through. These are tears of confusion, love, sorrow and betrayal. Self-betrayal. You’re feeling like no matter what you choose - if you have to choose - you’ll be betraying the other half of yourself. Your free spirit and your practical spirit have worked together beautifully your whole life, and this is the first time they’re at odds with each other. It’s a bitch.” Mom nailed it.