Page 37 of Side Out

“Come on, Mom, we’re going to be late!” This woman knows I can’t stand to be late anywhere I go, but she insists on waiting to “put her face on” until the last minute.

She’s always called it that, “putting her face on.” And every time I think of it I chuckle at the thought of little me having no clue what that really meant and then telling my teacher that my mommy takes her face off at night, and that’s why she has to put it on in the morning.

Don’t get me wrong, I love her, and she’s one of the most beautiful women I know, but I also don’t think she’s ever been on time for anything in her life.

“Here I am! Let’s go,” she rushes out while coming down the stairs of my childhood home. It’s an old farmhouse that’s been in our family for generations, and while my parents have renovated a good portion of it, you can still hear the floors creak every time you walk. It made it impossible to sneak out as a kid, but now… now every time I hear the sound it brings me back to a simpler time in my life. And I love it.

I’ve been visiting my parents back in Virginia for the last week of my “summer break.” It’s not as long as the students’, but I don’t really need it to be. I usually get antsy when I have nothing to do. My mind tends to wander. And as of late, that’s more dangerous than ever. So, I figured why not trade the Florida humidity for an even more stifling Virginia summer.

“You know you’re supposed to tell her thirty minutes before the actual time of when we need to leave.” My dad playfully smacks my stomach and adds, “I think you’ve been gone too long, Son… You’ve forgotten the rules.”

I chuckle, but he’s right. It’s been too long. Regardless of this nagging voice in the back of my head, the one that tells me I’m always letting my family down, I find myself constantly missing them. “This dinner’s at the same time every year, Dad. She knows what time we have to be there.”

For as long as I can remember, we’ve had this long-standing invite to the Koches’ family house for the end of the summer dinner.

?*Bridget’s parents’ house.

It’s surprisingly not how you would imagine two extremely well-off families would ever act at dinner. There are no crystal champagne flutes, no caviar, no butlers serving dinner. It’s actually all very casual. And, without fail, it always seems to burn Bridget’s ass that her parents aren’t more pompous.

But, as much as her spoiled attitude grates on her parents’ nerves, and as much as I love them, they only have themselves to blame.

For Bridget’s entire life, she’s gotten everything she wanted handed to her, and then some. Not to mention, her parents weren’t exactly around much to discipline her even if they would have wanted to. I’ll give them credit where it’s due; they threw everything into creating the business they have today, but they gave up raising their daughter in the meantime. And let’s face it: a hired nanny can only do so much.

The only kickback I’ve ever received from my parents is my dad’s slightly back-handed comments about me one day taking over the family business. I think he gets worried about not keeping the vineyard in the family, but I’ve also never told him that I wanted it. So, I do what I do best.

Ignore it.

Like everything else in my life.

Bridget got in today from working another brand trip and had a car drive her out to her parents. I have no doubt she’s been lounging by the pool since she arrived.

My parents and I hop into the golf cart and head down the road to Koches’ house. It’s about a five-minute golf-cart ride just to get down our long driveway, up the road, and back down theirs. I spend the time doom-scrolling my social media apps looking for any trace of Jax.

And just like every day since he left me standing in his driveway, I don’t see a fucking thing.

I pocket my phone as we’re approaching the house and take a deep breath to prepare for the show I’m about to have to put on.

They knew me before the engagement, obviously, but hiding my disdain for Bridget is getting harder and harder. And she only seems to be getting harder to deal with. Maybe her mom will finally notice her attitude and say something to her.

A man can only hope.

I hear the snarl in my fiancée’s voice before we even enter the Koches’ kitchen. “Father, you really should remodel again. This kitchen is looking so dreary.”

“Pumpkin, we remodeled the kitchen not even ten years ago. Your mother loves this kitchen. There’s nothing wrong with it.” Her dad has the patience of a saint when it comes to her. Which again… has only coddled the problem.

“It’s allsooutdated.” She hears us enter the kitchen and turns around with her practiced smile plastered on her face. “Carol, Ronald, so nice to see you both. It’s been way too long.” Bridget rushes over to give my mom a hug.

“Oh, you look so good, Bridget. How’s everything been? How are you liking Florida?”

“Work has been so good. I just got promoted,again. Florida is hot and nasty, but what can you do?” She waves her hand absentmindedly. The promotion is news to me, though. But I don’t outwardly react. We don’t really talk enough to share news like that, anyway.

Bridget’s dad yells across the kitchen, shaking me from my thoughts. “Theo, my boy! I didn’t even see you sneak in! How are you?”

I give him the bright smile he deserves and tell him, “I’m doing good. Really good.” It’s only a little bit of a lie… right?

We all bullshit and mill around the kitchen, grazing on a huge charcuterie board, and I can feel her parents’ eyes on me, but I don’t make any effort to move or even acknowledge the tension between Bridget and me.

When we finally sit down at the table for dinner, it’s like Bridget’s mom is on the verge of popping with how fast she asks, “Have we set a date yet for the wedding, Bridget?”

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