Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Nolan

Three Days Later…

I strolled along the Embarcadero toward Portside Coffee & Gelato to meet Tyson for coffee, barely noticing the familiar sights of the USS Midway and Broadway Pier. My mind was focused entirely on the evening ahead, a mix of excitement and nervous energy coursing through me. My parents had flown in from Milwaukee and tonight they'd meet Zena for the first time. Their enthusiasm had been evident in every phone call since they'd seen us on television holding hands outside of the Nashville police station after Mitch was released. All they could talk about was wanting to meet the woman who had captured their son's heart.

I looked forward to catching up with Zena about her parents as well, but I knew that, true to his word, Mr. Dalton had already started changing his lifestyle. It was a relief to hear that he was taking his health seriously.

There was one small cloud on my otherwise sunny horizon: Mom's insistence on preparing a "special meal" for the occasion. Don't get me wrong, I love my mother dearly, but her culinary skills are, let's say … unique . I wondered what creation she'd conjure up this time and prayed that it was edible. Hopefully, Zena's palate was as adventurous as her spirit.

As I approached Portside Coffee & Gelato, I ordered our usual drinks—two iced Americanos—and settled at a table inside the glass dome that overlooked the bay. A minute later, Tyson walked in, his eyes scanning the tables.

I waved to get his attention. "Over here!"

He squinted dramatically as he approached, pretending he did not know who I was. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Hilarious," I said, standing to give him a hug.

Tyson stiffened. "Seriously, do you always hug strangers?"

"Only the ones whose butts I'm going to kick if they don't sit down," I retorted. "Besides, you were basking in the sun in Cabo San Lucas for the last few days. It's not like I could have seen you any earlier."

Tyson plopped into the chair across from me. "I wasn't basking, I was bronzing, big difference." He took a sip of his iced Americano. "Thanks for the drink. So, when's the wedding?"

I rolled my eyes. "You sound like my parents. Slow down."

"Me?" Tyson said. "You just met her this month and you're already riding on the freeway of love in your pink Cadillac."

"I have no idea what that means," I said.

"Aretha Franklin?" he said.

I shrugged. "Still no clue."

"What a waste of a perfectly good musical reference," Tyson sighed. "You need to listen to more eighties music."

"I'll get right on that."

"Anyway, I knew this was going to happen between you two! Didn't I tell you Zena was every man's fantasy girl?"

"Yes, you did, but you'll have your own soon enough," I said.

Tyson snorted. "I'm not holding my breath. I didn't tell you about my last disaster date."

"Do I want to know?" I asked, bracing myself.

"Picture this," he said, setting down his coffee and shaking his head. "She shows up and immediately starts telling me about her ‘plant babies.' Turns out, she has names for all thirty-seven of her houseplants. There's Fitzgerald the Ficus, Aloe Vera Wang, Kafka the Cactus, and Parker the Spider Plant."

I chuckled. "At least she's creative."

"Oh, it gets better," Tyson continued. "Throughout dinner, she kept getting texts from her plant-sitter. By dessert, she's in full panic mode because apparently, Hemingway the Hibiscus was a little droopy."

"How did it end?" I asked, already guessing.

Tyson sighed dramatically. "She called an Uber to rush home, but not before telling me that calendula would do wonders for my dry skin."

I smirked. "Obviously, you took her advice because you are positively glowing today."

We shared a laugh, then spent the next ten minutes swapping dating horror stories, each one more outrageous than the last. From ghosting to catfishing, it seemed like we'd experienced the full spectrum of modern dating disasters. Luckily, I didn't have to worry about that anymore.

"You know," Tyson said, his tone turning more serious, "hearing all this makes me realize how lucky you are with Zena. You two really click."

A smile spread across my face at the mention of her name. "Yeah, we do. It's different with her, you know? Like we don't even have to try, but still, it's exciting at the same time."

Tyson nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. "Are you nervous about her meeting your parents?"

I shook my head. "Are you kidding? They are going to love her, and vice versa. The dinner menu, however, is what scares me. Mom said she wanted to surprise Zena with one of her specialties."

"Oh boy," Tyson said. "What's it going to be? Her infamous tuna noodle casserole that has absolutely no tuna whatsoever? I forgot, what did she use for that one?"

"Chickpeas and seaweed," I said. "And here's the thing, I have no idea what she's going to prepare. You know how my mom gets with her experimental cuisine. She took over the kitchen at the apartment and said she did not want to see my face until it was time for dinner." I checked my watch. "I still have a little over two hours."

"Man," Tyson said, shaking his head. "I almost want to be there just to see Zena's face. Almost."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said. "Let's hope Zena's stomach is as strong as her patience."

"What's the latest on Mitch Redding?" he asked. "Does he still want to use your head as a hockey puck?"

I shook my head. "Nah, Zena brokered a deal: I stay out of his face, he focuses on getting us to the playoffs."

"Smart woman," Tyson nodded approvingly. "And it's working. Three wins in a row is nothing to sneeze at."

"Tell me about it," I agreed. "The game against Tampa Bay was something else. I'm looking forward to getting back behind the Zamboni this weekend for the Devil's game. Nothing like the smell of freshly polished ice."

Tyson glanced at his watch and winced. "Speaking of work, I've got to jet. Deadlines wait for nobody, especially when we're giving away seventeen thousand holographic trading cards at the next game."

"You've barely been here fifteen minutes!" I protested.

"Quality over quantity, my friend," Tyson said, standing up. "Besides, you know I came for the free coffee."

I rolled my eyes. "Always using me for my caffeine connections." We shared another quick hug, then I asked, "Still on for Lucha Libre tomorrow?"

"You bet," Tyson replied. "Noon sharp. Back to the scene of the crime! Too bad Zena can't join us. It would be fun to hang out with her."

"Yeah, she's got plans with a friend, but some other time, for sure," I said casually, hiding my smirk. Little did Tyson know about the secret set-up with Jing we had planned at the taco shop.

As Tyson disappeared into the crowd downtown, I strolled back along the Embarcadero to my car. A flutter of excitement danced in my stomach as I contemplated tomorrow's lunch. Playing Cupid was definitely outside my comfort zone, but hey, if lightning could strike twice, who was I to stand in its way?

I returned home after running errands, barely having time to catch my breath before the doorbell chimed. As I swung the door open, my jaw nearly hit the floor. There stood Zena, a vision in a black cocktail dress that hugged her curves like it was custom made by the gods themselves. The dress was elegant yet sexy, but it was her smile that truly took my breath away, lighting up her face like a supernova.

Before I could regain my composure or warn her I forgot to tell her about my parents' casual dress code, Zena launched herself at me. Her lips found mine in a kiss that was equal parts passion and sweetness, effectively short-circuiting whatever remaining brain function I had left. As I held her close, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her perfume, a small part of my mind wondered how on earth I'd gotten so lucky.

I laughed as we broke apart. "You know, I'd be perfectly okay with you going back outside and doing that again."

Zena grinned. "Later. I'm dying to meet your parents." She stepped inside, then sniffed the air curiously. "Is that dill pickle I smell?"

It sure seemed like it, but before I could answer, my parents appeared.

"There she is!" Mom exclaimed, hugging Zena warmly. "I'm Vivian, and this is Rowan."

Dad followed with his own hug. "Pleased to meet you."

Zena blushed. "You, too."

She glanced at my parents' casual attire. Their "young at heart" style was on full display, ripped jeans that looked more hole than denim, paired with faded band t-shirts that might have been cool when dinosaurs roamed the Earth.

"I'm way overdressed," Zena added.

"Nonsense! You are perfect just the way you are." Mom stepped back, beaming. "Oh my, you're gorgeous! The TV doesn't do you justice at all. Come in! I've prepared something special. Nolan told me you like sushi."

Zena's eyes lit up. "I love sushi."

I nearly choked on my saliva. Sushi? I couldn't remember Mom ever making sushi in her life. Why didn't she opt for something simple, like pasta or baked potatoes? This was going to be very interesting, to say the least. Or a disaster…

"Oh, you're in for such a treat," Mom beamed.

Mario Le Meow sauntered into the room.

Zena melted at the sight of him. "Oh. My. Goodness." She picked him up, and Mario immediately purred.

"No surprise he showed up at the mention of sushi," I joked. "He loves seafood."

Mom waved dismissively. "Oh, it's not that kind of sushi."

What was she talking about? What kind of sushi was it? A wave of terror washed over me, trying to imagine what she had been working on in the kitchen and if it was actually edible.

"Dinner is almost ready—I need a few more minutes," Mom added. "Rowan, could you open a bottle of wine?"

"Of course," he said.

As Mom and Dad disappeared to finish preparations, Zena turned to me, obviously noticing that I was a little tense.

"Relax," she whispered, setting Mario Le Meow back on the floor. "Your parents are adorable."

I looked forward to her hopefully telling me that again after dinner. Especially after Dad finished grilling her.

Zena wandered around the living room, glancing at the mocha leather loveseat and matching couch, her eyes landing on a framed photo on the mantle of me as a kid in a hockey uniform.

"Is that you?" she asked.

I nodded.

"You were the cutest," Zena said, picking up the frame. "How old were you? You look too young to be playing hockey."

"I was five in that photo, but I started playing hockey when I was three," I replied. "That was taken in Milwaukee." Then, for some reason, I added, "Fifteen years before the accident."

Zena's smile softened as she set the photo down, her eyes flicking to my leg. "I have been a little curious about the details of what happened to you, but didn't want to pry, in case it was a sensitive subject."

I nodded. "I can talk about it now, no problem at all. Back then, it wasn't easy because it was the end of my dreams."

"It was a skiing accident, right?" she asked.

I took a deep breath, the memories flooding back. "Yeah, in Sun Valley, Idaho. I was twenty, feeling invincible, you know?"

Zena nodded, her eyes encouraging me to continue.

"We were on a black diamond run. I'd done it a dozen times before, but this time …" I shook my head. "This teenager came out of nowhere, cut right in front of me. I swerved to avoid him and lost control."

Zena tensed, like she was anticipating what came next.

"I went flying off the trail and straight into a tree. The impact shattered my knee, tore my ACL, MCL, and gave me a tibial plateau fracture. It was a mess. It took three surgeries and a year of rehabilitation to get it to where I could walk without pain." I absently rubbed my knee, feeling the old familiar ache. "After that, the doctors said my knee couldn't handle the wear and tear of pro-level play. It was too big a risk."

Zena reached out, her hand gently squeezing mine. "That must have been devastating."

I nodded. "It took a lot of time and more than a few therapy sessions to accept it. Whenever someone glanced at my limp, I felt like a failure."

"And now?" she asked softly.

I smiled, surprising myself with how genuine it felt. "Now, I've found my place. The ice is still home, just differently. I still skate, when I give hockey lessons to kids over at UTC Ice Sports Center. And honestly? I wouldn't change a thing. Especially because it led me to you."

Zena's eyes shone with understanding and admiration as she kissed me on the cheek. It was a look that made me feel ten feet tall, limp and all.

"It takes a strong person to walk away from something they love that much," she said. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

Mario Le Meow chose that moment to lighten the mood by rubbing against Zena's leg and meowing.

"He really likes you," I said.

She scooped him up again and smiled as she scratched him under his chin. "I like him, too. And I can't believe I finally met someone cuter than you."

I smirked. "Yeah, but I don't shed."

We shared a laugh, and I cherished the intimate moment with Zena.

Mom's voice bellowed from the kitchen. "Time to eat!"

"Warning—my parents can be very direct and equally loud," I said.

Zena smiled. "Nothing wrong with that. I'll always know where I stand with them."

We walked side-by-side toward the interesting smell and came to an abrupt halt in front of the kitchen table. My eyes widened at the sight of the enormous platter dominating the center, piled high with what looked like a lab experiment gone horribly wrong.

"This looks so unique!" Zena said, her enthusiasm clearly overdone as she pointed at whatever it was. "Wow!"

I blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, but coming up blank. "Um, I thought we were having … sushi?"

"We are!" Mom beamed. "This is my take on Midwest sushi."

"Midwest sushi?" Zena said, her eyebrows raised in curiosity. "I've never heard of it."

Neither had I, which scared me.

Mom's eyes lit up. "Oh, it's quite the delicacy! It's also known as Minnesota sushi, St. Louis sushi, Iowa sushi. There must be a hundred names."

"Pickle pinwheels! Pickle dawgs! Pickle wraps! Pickle roll-ups!" Dad said with more enthusiasm than was necessary, especially considering they looked completely inedible.

I held up my hand, overwhelmed by their culinary tag teaming. "Okay, okay, I remember those pickle roll-ups, and they were pretty good." I gestured to the platter on the table. "But these look nothing like them. Is that Spam?"

"Yes!" Mom beamed proudly. "I wanted to create my own version! Instead of the usual deli ham, pickles, and cream cheese, I went for something that will hopefully knock your socks off."

Or blow my bottom out.

"I call them Spam-tastic Surprise Rolls!" Mom announced, her voice brimming with pride. "It's sauerkraut, mashed potatoes, and cottage cheese, wrapped in Spam and then topped with mustard-mayo sauce!"

Luckily, I controlled my gag reflex, but that was the closest I had ever been to throwing up in my mouth. I scanned the kitchen for something else, anything that looked edible. There was nothing! Was this all we were going to eat?

Mom caught my shocked gaze and said, "Relax, Nolan, we have frozen custard for dessert."

Her custard was amazing, but it wasn't enough to take my mind off the monstrosity in front of us. I loved Mom's experimental side, but why did it have to be tonight of all nights? I'd originally offered to take them out to dinner, but Mom insisted on preparing something special for Zena.

We settled into our seats and raised our wine glasses.

"To love!" Mom toasted.

"Cheers!" we all said in unison.

As we clinked glasses, Zena's eyes met mine. For a moment, the world and the food seemed to fade away, leaving nothing more than our shared smiles and the unspoken feelings we had yet to declare, if we survived dinner tonight.

Mom's voice broke the spell. "Let me get you started with some food."

Zena and I exchanged a look of silent horror when Mom piled our plates high with the surprise rolls, one after the other after the other.

Nine, ten, eleven …

Why would Mom do such a thing? Why not wait and see if we actually liked them before giving us more? We had way too many rolls to spit into a napkin!

I watched as Zena wasted no time to please Mom, popping an entire roll into her mouth. Her eyes widened, and she nodded, then her face suddenly contorted as she struggled to keep her composure. Luckily, I was sitting by her side, so projectile vomiting would have no chance of hitting me.

"Mmm," Zena said, finally swallowing, although it looked like she was trying to force a sock down her throat.

Odds are, the sock would have tasted better.

"I have never had anything like this!" Zena said ambiguously, her smile strained as she looked my way. "Your turn, Nolan."

Gee, thanks so much.

I reached for a roll and forced a smile at Mom before popping it into my mouth. The taste was like a flavor apocalypse and my taste buds were waving tiny white flags of surrender. My body was silently asking me, "what have I done to deserve this?" I let out a moan that I hoped sounded more like pleasure than pain, then wiped my mouth as cover to spit the entire contents into my napkin. As Mom stood to open the kitchen window, I executed a stealth mission, transferring three rolls from my plate to the napkin on my lap.

"Excuse me—bathroom break," I mumbled, making my escape.

There was a reason Dad did ninety-nine percent of the cooking in the family. He handed off his napkin full of rolls to me as I passed him, mouthing his usual "thank you" since we'd been through this exact scenario many times before.

After flushing the evidence down the toilet, tossing the napkins in the trash, and rinsing my mouth twice, I nearly collided with Zena on the way back out.

"Nolan," she whispered urgently, "we need a game plan. I can't keep this up. My napkin's about to apply for statehood."

I patted her shoulder. "You've got this, champ. I believe in you."

Zena's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're not going to help me? They're your parents. I beg you to spare me of this torture. I won't make it alone, I swear."

"Sorry," I grimaced, "every man for himself."

"You're going to be the only man for your lonely self if you continue to abandon me in my hour of need," she said. "This is not good sportsmanship."

"Go! Save yourself!" I whispered urgently.

Back at the table, both of us eyed our plates with dread. Suddenly, Zena piped up, "Oh, Mrs. Reid, could I trouble you for some water?"

She was up to something.

I could feel it.

"Of course, dear!" Mom said, getting up from her seat. "And no need to be so formal. Call me Vivian."

The moment Mom's back was turned, Zena sprang into action with the speed of a ninja. In one fluid motion, she scooped up two Spam rolls from her plate and deposited them onto my plate. I sat there, mouth agape, unable to believe the betrayal I'd witnessed.

There was no way I was going to let her get away with that. Launching my counterattack, I grabbed the two rolls Zena had so graciously "gifted" me and returned them to the main platter. But I wasn't done yet. In one smooth motion, I plucked not two, but four more of my rolls, and landed them squarely on Zena's plate.

Her eyes widened with shock, but without missing a beat, she grabbed six rolls and, with the dexterity of a Vegas card dealer, slid them onto my plate.

But the games were just getting started …

Our hands moved with the frenzied energy of caffeinated monkeys, rolls flying back and forth between our plates in a dizzying dance. It was as if we were playing speed chess with a timer, but instead of knights and pawns, our pieces were fake-meat rolls oozing with sauerkraut, and the stakes were our digestive systems. This was a matter of life and death.

Dad, clearly entertained by our food-shuffling circus, suddenly launched into an exaggerated coughing fit as Mom turned back to the table. Having swapped Zena's plate with mine, I was caught with my hands hovering mid-air like a poorly coordinated mime.

Mom set a glass of water in front of Zena, then beamed at our plates. "My goodness, you two sure have healthy appetites! Let me get you some more."

"No!" I yelped. "I mean, I'm full."

Zena nodded vigorously. "Me too. They are surprisingly filling and I want to have room for dessert."

Fortunately, Mom seemed to accept our answer with no suspicion, and our conversation shifted to hockey. Zena and I had survived the culinary disaster, our relationship stronger for having faced this trial together.

"Thank you so much for taking the time to prepare all this," Zena said.

"It was my pleasure, sweetie," Mom beamed, clearly pleased as she cleared the plates, then brought out the frozen custard for dessert.

I could see the glint in Dad's eye and knew what was coming. His infamous twenty-question routine was about to begin, something he always did when he met someone for the first time. Considering his lips had been sealed earlier, there was no way I could stop him now.

"So, Zena—I have a few questions for you, if you don't mind," Dad said, spoon poised over his custard.

Here we go …

"Go for it," she enthusiastically said, sitting forward in her seat.

"What is the most embarrassing thing that has happened to you?" Dad asked.

Zena looked surprised by the question, but after a few seconds, she offered him a grimace. "That's easy. It happened last week when Nolan and I walked in on my parents as they were, well, let's just say they were engaged in a physical activity sans their clothes."

Mom chuckled. "Oh, honey, nudity is completely natural. Nothing to be embarrassed about, no matter what age."

I smirked. "Trust me, Mom, there was nothing natural about the position they were in. I'm surprised Mr. Dalton is so flexible for being such a big man."

Zena playfully swatted my arm, her face turning a shade redder. "I don't want to picture that again!"

Dad's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Speaking of nudity, Nolan, remember that time we took you to that nude beach in Spain when you were thirteen?"

My eyes widened in horror. "Dad, please don't?—"

Mom was already diving into the story. "This was when he was developing, you know. His wee-wee was so cute, yet still like a tiny?—"

"Mother!" I practically shouted, my face burning hotter than the sun. "Please, for the love of sanity, stop talking."

Zena was doubled over with laughter, tears in her eyes.

Luckily, Dad took pity on me and launched into the next question. "If Nolan was a kitchen appliance, what would he be?"

"A blender!" Zena replied without hesitation. "Versatile, a bit noisy sometimes, but great at mixing things up."

"Noisy?" I shot her a playful glare, which she returned with a wink.

"Now, an important one," Dad said, leaning forward. "If you could change one thing about Nolan, what would it be?"

"Dad," I protested, but Zena held up a hand.

She pretended to think hard. "Well, if I had to pick something, maybe his insistence on using ‘Zamboni' as a verb. ‘I'm going to Zamboni the dishes after dinner' is not a thing, Nolan."

I burst out laughing. "What? I've never done that in my entire life! I should Zamboni your mouth shut for lying to my parents."

She cackled so hard she snorted, then reached over and squeezed my arm. I loved seeing how much fun she was having with my parents, who had joined her in laughter. I was amazed at how easily she'd charmed them and handled Dad's quirky questions.

"Maybe we should Zamboni this entire conversation and start over," Dad suggested, slapping the table with a satisfied grin.

"That's enough of your questions for one evening, Rowan." Mom beamed at Zena. "I think it's safe to say you've passed the Reid family initiation with flying colors. By the way, how is your father doing?"

Zena smiled warmly. "He's doing great. Thank you for asking." Her phone suddenly chimed twice within a few seconds of each other, cutting through the comfortable atmosphere. "I'm sorry, I left the volume up in case of emergencies. Do you mind if I check it?"

"Of course not, dear," Mom reassured her. "Family comes first."

I watched as Zena's expression shifted from polite concern to something darker as she read the messages.

"Uh-oh," she said, her brow furrowing.

"Is your dad okay?" I asked, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.

"He's fine, but …" Zena took a deep breath, her eyes still on her phone. "Both of my parents want to start planning their vow renewal tomorrow. I just got a message from each of them."

Mom's eyebrows shot up. "That sounds lovely, but you don't look too thrilled about it."

I cleared my throat, feeling the weight of the secret we'd been keeping. "The problem is, each of Zena's parents is planning a separate surprise vow renewal for the other person. Two vow renewals. On the same day."

Dad choked on his wine. "How in the world are you going to pull that off?"

Mom shook her head in disbelief. "It sounds like a logistical nightmare."

"It won't be easy." Zena shrugged. "We'll need to coordinate two completely separate guest lists, then combine them. But the hardest part, I think, is finding out Mom's preference for a venue, then somehow convincing Dad to use the same place. Or vice versa. And without either of them catching wind of the other's plans."

"We're about to embark on the world's most intricate game of romantic Jenga," I said. "We'll be stacking lies upon half-truths, hoping the whole thing doesn't come crashing down before we can get them both to say ‘I do' again."

"And if you fail?" Dad asked, his eyebrows raised.

I shrugged. "Then we'll have front-row seats to the most spectacular vow renewal implosion in history. Either way, it's going to be one heck of a show."