Page 167 of Unloved

I nearly jump three feet into the air when the flight attendant asks what I want to drink. Ro can barely stop giggling to order a ginger ale.

“Keep it up, Miss Poker Face While Listening to Sex Scenes on a Plane.”

“That’s a really long nickname,” she laughs.

“Just know, whatever the spiciest thing in this book is, that’s what I’m doing to you in your childhood bed when we get there.”

Her laughter dissipates almost immediately, skin flushing hot as she bites down on her bottom lip. The urge to kiss her is strong, but the urge to tease her is even stronger, so I manage to keep my distance.

As we land, I discreetly try to wipe a few tears from my eyes, but Ro catches it easily.

“It’s an angsty one, I know,” she says, rubbing my back as I shove our headphones back into the bag. “The first time I read it, I cried buckets.”

“I didn’t know it was going to get so emotional. The cover is two hot people ripping each other’s clothes off.”

She laughs and nods. “They’reromancenovels, not erotica. But I’m really happy you liked it.”

“I loved it, actually,” I say. “Make sure you pick a good one for our flight back.”

The Shariffs live in a modest, dark brown wood bungalow-style home near Solvang, which I’m realizing is a major tourist destination—especially for Christmas.

Our Uber drove us straight through the town, and I was in awe of the eclectic style and unique designs of the entire downtown strip. It must’ve shown all over my face how enthralled I was, since Ro leaned over and whispered, “I promise, we’ll come back and see it at night.”

Now, as we grab our bags from the trunk and send the rideshare off, the nerves catch up to me.

On the porch stands Ro’s mother, olive skin and dark curly hair cropped to her shoulders, dressed like a modern-day hippie. Beside her, in a wooden rocking chair, sits a man who I can only assume is her dad.

He’s a weathered man, a full head of gray hair and a darker beard. His body looks like he’s tall when he stands, and he might’ve been muscular at one point, but now he’s thin and frail. He smiles at Ro more slowly than her mother does, but seems no less enthusiastic to see his daughter.

I hang back, letting her greet them alone first.

“Mom,” she sighs, slumping into her tall, slender mother’s arms. They hug for a long, long moment, and her dad eyes me briefly.

Smiling like a loon, I keep my distance, sweating in the California sun.

“Hey, Dad.” She smiles, fluffing his hair lightly and bending down to hug him in his chair. Slowly, he wraps his arms around her in return, holding her tightly to him.

“Ro,” he croaks. “Who—?”

“I brought my boyfriend, actually.” Ro gestures for me to join her. “Mom, Dad—this is F—”

“Matt,” I say, cutting her off. “Nice to meet you both.”

Usually, it’s Freddy. I prefer thatonlyRo calls me Matt or Matty—with the exception of Archer. But Iknowhow much easier Matt will be for her father to say. I want him to feel comfortable around me. I want him tolikeme.

And I haven’t had much luck with that in the father department.

“So nice to see you not on a screen, Matt,” Mrs. Shariff says, squeezing her husband’s shoulders. “Let’s go inside and eat. I’m sure you’re both starving.”

I grab our bags and dump them inside the foyer, out of the way, but quickly return where Ro and her mother are helping her dad out of his chair.

“I can walk,” he says, speech sluggish.

“Go ahead,” I say to my girlfriend and her mom. “I’ll help you in, Mr. Shariff.”

“Don’t need help,” Mr. Shariff grumbles while grabbing my arm and using my body like a crutch.

I was right, he’s tall, and grumpy—though that seems to be a trait he’s reserved for me.

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