16. Meet the Parents

16

MEET THE PARENTS

QUINN

A MEMORY

The future is impossible to ignore when there's a giant banner hanging in front of me reading: PENDERTON UNIVERSITY… EMbrACE THE FUTURE. Those words in that font stir my worry.

"Magna cum laude," I say, nervously flipping through the commencement program. Bradley, Patrick's brother with the perfect hair and the law degree, sits next to me. We arrived around the same time and despite having never met us in person, he walked right up to me and chatted amiably with me as we found our seats. "It's really impressive."

"I was summa cum laude, but yeah." He sips from a mini bottle of water we were handed on the way in. We're in the Penderton stadium in uncharacteristic May heat. The football field is lined with rows upon rows of folding chairs in front of an end zone–spanning stage. Mr. and Mrs. Hargrave haven't shown up yet. I'm trying not to pick at my fresh manicure. I want to make a good impression, and making a good impression means having perfect nails that match our university colors—red and white.

Mom was supposed to be here, but she's never made a habit of showing up when and where she says she's going to, so I wasn't completely surprised when she called and started rambling about a dead car battery.

A little while later, Mr. and Mrs. Hargrave enter our section looking as if they've just stepped off the golf course at the country club. Sweat-wicking polo and hat for him. Head-to-toe white linen for her. I stand to greet them, feeling damp and underdressed in a silky, billowy blouse and drawstring trousers that I bought in the women's clearance section at a boutique.

"Quinn, it's wonderful to finally meet you," Mrs. Hargrave says, kissing me lightly, once on each cheek. She takes stock of my outfit but speaks nothing of it.

"Put it there," Mr. Hargrave says, wrapping my much smaller hand in a too-strong shake.

They say their hellos to Bradley, settle into their seats. Mrs. Hargrave produces a tiny, battery-powered fan from her ginormous bag. It sputters to life with a whirr, though I'm not sure it's doing much since we're sitting in direct, scorching sunlight.

"Bummer your mother couldn't come. Such a bummer," Mrs. Hargrave says, pulling out a compact mirror, presumably to see how shiny she is. "It's unfortunate we didn't know sooner. Patrick's Nan would've loved to be here."

"She's nearly ninety. There's no way she would've sat out in this." Bradley shrugs off his blazer jacket, so effortless. Patrick has always depicted him as the golden child, supremely polished. I thought he was exaggerating, but Bradley doesn't even have pit stains or a dewy forehead.

"I'd have brought her a hat. She'd have been fine." Mrs. Hargrave snaps the compact shut to punctuate her point. Already I can tell that she's no-nonsense. Mom's antithesis in nearly every way. "Oh well."

"Sorry," I say meekly, already feeling like I've done something wrong. Like I'm wrong. Wrong for not saying something sooner. Wrong for Patrick, maybe.

She pats my closest knee placatingly, and then the ceremony starts.

Any discomfort sedimented inside me crumbles away when Patrick marches in, long gown swishing as he walks. And, much later, when they call Patrick's name to receive his diploma, the four of us stand and cheer for the gods.

"I'm so proud of him," Mrs. Hargrave says, looking over at me with tears rimming her blue eyes that match Patrick's. She holds Mr. Hargrave's hand tightly. I wonder, for a moment, if Patrick's angsting over his parents' disapproval is more of a self-inflicted pain than a by-product of their true feelings.

"Me, too," I say, smiling. It's nice, this connection. This feeling of being one of them, having a person tying us together.

Afterward, Patrick joins us and kisses me. My head spins from how brazenly he does this in front of his family, and how sure he must be about me and our relationship.

An hour later, when we arrive at his house, Patrick takes me up to the second floor (a novelty to me!) and to his childhood bedroom with its blue walls and blue carpet and blue bedspread. It screams "a boy lives here!" Right down to the participation trophies for every sport imaginable lining the top of a bookshelf. I had some of those once. They got shoved in a box and forgotten about as soon as my dad left.

"Congratulations," I say to Patrick, looping my arms around his back. I know how hard he worked for five years to get his dream degree.

"Thank you. I hope my parents weren't grilling you too hard," he says.

"They didn't really have a chance to—"

"Quinn!" comes Mrs. Hargrave's voice through the cracked open door. "Would you mind coming downstairs and giving me a hand?"

"Mom—" Patrick starts to say.

"No." I place a hand on his chest. "I'll go. You need to get changed. I'll see you out there."

"Okay," he says before a quick kiss. "Thanks."

Back downstairs, Mrs. Hargrave sends Mr. Hargrave and Bradley out back to assist with the tents, the tables, and the chairs. I begin to follow them, to offer some extra muscle, but she stops me. "Oh, no, Quinn. They'll handle that. I need you here."

If she's insinuating something, I don't question it because we have a nice time chatting, getting to know each other. I wash my hands and begin slicing cucumbers for the veggie platter. The one the caterer sent over was, in her words, "unpresentable." It looks fine to me, but again, I don't question it.

"I'm so glad we could finally meet face-to-face. Patrick has told me so much about you." She's popping cherry tomatoes into a plastic container. "He really likes you."

"I really like him, too." I hope I don't come off as uncomfortable. I'm not in the practice of talking about my feelings, at least not the positive ones. That's not how Mom and I operate.

"And moving in together, that's a big step. A big step, indeed," she says. Her eyes shift sideways toward my face. Her burgundy lips turn up into a coy smile.

Shocked, I nearly cut off a finger because I'm not looking carefully at what I'm doing. "What?"

She obviously thinks I only misheard her. "Patrick showed me the photos of the apartment in Penderton he's thinking of renting. It looks lovely. I'm sure you two will be very happy there."

My heart skips into overdrive. I assumed he'd move home while he figures out his next steps like most other postgrads. This is the first I'm hearing of a hypothetical apartment for us. I rearrange my face so not to show that.

"Word to the wise," she says, giving me a conspiratorial look from beneath extra-long eyelashes. "Hargrave men are tough nuts. There are three cardinal rules to keep them happy. Three. Be agreeable and flexible. Don't interfere with their work. And always keep their plates full." She hands me a small plate loaded with veggies, then winks. "You'll thank me later."

After bringing Patrick the plate, I go through the motions of the party.

I drink plentiful flutes of champagne and meet aunts and uncles whose names I file away for safekeeping, waiting for the right moment to get Patrick alone so I can ask him about what his mother let slip. I don't know how I feel about it yet, but I'm erring on the side of elated that there's a future for us.

Throughout the duration of the party, Patrick shows me off proudly. Dances with me, barefoot in the grass, to music we're too young to know the words to.

It's not until the cake plates have been cleared, everyone having eaten different portions of Patrick's face pressed onto too-sweet buttercream, that I catch him alone, horizontal on a lounge chair beside their in-ground pool, staring up at the darkening sky. We're both on the drunker side of the tipsy continuum. There's a green bottle of champagne with gold foil flakes falling off it, sitting half-drunk on the ground beside his chair.

"Recuperating?" I ask. I kick off my sandals, roll up the legs of my pants, and dip my feet in the pool. The cool water feels good on my hot, sticky skin.

"Sort of." Patrick groans before getting up to join me. "How did you handle it all?"

"Pretty well," I say, meaning it. I'm not used to big family shindigs. It was always just Mom and me. Against the world. For better or worse.

The thought of my mom reminds me of his. "But your mom did say something interesting earlier."

He smacks his lips knowingly. "This is about the apartment, isn't it?"

"It's not not about the apartment."

He takes his phone from his pocket and pulls up a rental listing to show me. "I toured it. It's nice."

"It is." I scroll through the pictures.

"In my mom's defense, I told her I'd ask you last week, but time ran away from me."

"I get it." The more I scroll the more I see us there, in those rooms—sleeping there, entertaining there, growing together there.

But then, I get scared for a whole new reason. At Penderton, we were in a bubble. Our relationship existed in a vacuum. As of today, we are citizens of the world. Yes, technically, I may still be a student come August, but I'll be spending 85 percent of my time in a school classroom, not the lecture halls of Penderton. Whether we like it or not, an era of our lives is ending.

He places a hand on my thigh. "I think we should do it. While I apply for jobs, I think we should live together. You said you were feeling weird about the suite-style housing Penderton assigned you to with randoms."

"I am." The scariness of this step coils into anxiety. I wish we could stay as we are, right now. No differences. But, staring too hard at the water rippling around my feet in the pool, I suppose that's not possible. Time marches forward. I need to pick up my knees and start moving, too.

"I think we should do it." Patrick's tone is convincing, and his palm is warm, nearly creating an impression where it sits on my knee like the permanent impression he's already placed on my heart.

"But what about my housing deposit?" I ask.

"I'm sure they'll refund you. We'll figure it out."

"I'll be busy a lot with student teaching."

"That's fine by me. I'll need to be focused on working on my portfolio and applying for jobs anyway." He squeezes my leg. "I want us to do this."

Hacking my way through the dark reservations that grow like weeds around me, I take Mrs. Hargrave's advice. I choose to be agreeable and flexible. Even if it might upset Mom. Even if I'm not 100 percent certain it's the right move for me. I'm 100 percent certain Patrick is the right man for me. And that's enough. "Okay."

"Okay?" His smile is so heartwarming that it quells my worry.

"Yeah. Okay." I nod my head, pitching into him. My handsome guy. My partner. This will be good. "It'll be a brand-new adventure for us."

"Okay!" he shouts, arms stretched to the sky. Leaning back, he grabs the half-drunk champagne bottle and swigs from it before offering it to me. "Now we have even more to celebrate! Let's get drunk."

I kiss him then say, "You don't need to tell me twice."