Page 44 of Considering Us

“Chicken pot pie. I know you like it.” I went through my recipes to find the most classic New England winter dishes I could.Nothing fancy, she had told me.

She caught my eye. “I like the frozen one I buy at Hannaford.” She knew exactly how to antagonize me.

“Well, maybe you’ll like this one, too,” I replied, determined not to let her get to me that afternoon. “Mom, this is Heath Davis. Heath, meet Camille Paige.”

“Ma’am, so nice to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Aren’t you handsome?” she asked, and I groaned audibly. “Well, he is. I don’t think anyone can argue with that. He must know he’s handsome. Don’t you, honey?”

“Um, thank you for having us over,” he said, looking at me with wide eyes. I silently conveyed the messageI told you sowith my expression back to him.

“Devon brought the food,” she said. “Always so fancy, this one. I bet she added all kinds of herbs and wine to it.”

I had. “It’ll be fine,” I said. “Let’s turn on the oven so we can heat it up.” I didn’t want to spend any more time there than I needed to.

“Whiskey sours?” my dad asked. He had already taken out the well-bourbon he used and the bottled sour mix. I had tried bringing the good stuff with me one time years ago, and it wasn’t particularly well-received. My dad was polite about it, but he liked what he liked. I could imbibe some neon yellow mixer every now and then for the good of the relationship.

“Of course,” I answered. “Heath?”

“Yes, absolutely.” I’m sure he could have used twelve drinks, given the situation I had brought him into.

When we eventually sat down to eat, Mom launched right in. “When Devon said she was bringing someone to meet us, we assumed she was engaged,” she said, taking a forkful of chicken pot pie and examining it.

“Youthought that,” Dad said, shaking his head. “I was just glad to spend time with you and to meet your friend.” It was about the most he would ever push back on her, but I was grateful for whatever I could get.

“Anyway,” I said, taking a sip of water. “Heath and I have been spending time together for the past six weeks or so. We’re still getting to know each other. We met at Rockwood when a soccer player passed out in the dining hall due to dehydration.”

“Isn’t Kyle the soccer coach?” asked my dad, draining the last sips of his third whiskey sour.

“They know Kyle?” asked Heath with a nervous tremble in his voice. Heath didn’t know much about the Kyle situation–only the most basic details—but my parents knowing him would add another dimension and more depth to everything between him and me.

“My dad cleaned up the library with him after Midsy last weekend. They met then. Remember I told you how they came down to work that day?” I tried to keep everything nonchalant and low-key.

“That’s right,” Heath said.

“Yes, Dad, Kyle is the soccer coach. Anyway, I rode in the ambulance with Jamie, the boy who needed to get checked out at the hospital. And Heath, of course. He ended up driving me back to Rockwood. We went out for the first time soon after that.” I took another bite of my creation. Despite my mother’s criticisms, it was delicious.

“This needs salt,” Mom said, shaking an excessive amount across her plate.

“Dad, what do you think?” I asked, ignoring her.

“I love this crust,” he said. “So different from what I’m used to.”

I smiled, and I felt Heath’s foot tap mine under the table. “It’s the same pie crust I use for lots of things. Let me know if you want a fruit pie next time.”

“It’s not really pie season anymore, Devon,” my mother said, now gobbling up her sodium-enriched dinner.

“Apple pie tastes good any time of year,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m making about twenty of them this week.”

We only lasted another forty-five minutes when I fibbed and told my parents I had to return to campus for a meeting with the kitchen staff in preparation for the week ahead. We said our goodbyes, and I could’ve sworn my mother patted Heath’s backside on our way out of the house.

“I’m so sorry,” I said to him once we started driving.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked. “You warned me about everything. Your dad is very nice. Your mother is a handful and should appreciate you more. It is what it is. Don’t be so tough on yourself, Devon. I’m glad I got to meet them.”

“You’re a very good person, Heath,” I said. He was. I wasn’t sure if having him meet my parents changed anything about how I felt about Heath, except it cemented in my mind that fact even more than it already was: from everything I had seen up to that point, Heath was a good guy.

I dropped him off at his apartment and headed back to Rockwood. Sitting in the parking lot outside Wentworth, I pulled up my email on my phone. There was one waiting for me from my dad.

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