Page 93 of Personal Foul

Leaving her at home would probably be the safest choice for her. Because then if I were to face any backlash for dating her, at least it would all be solely aimed at me. And while I don’t think my parents would be awful to her face, there is a broad expanse between being horrible to someone’s face and coldly polite. And knowing my parents, even if they tried to pretend to be warm and welcoming, it would still come off as cold politeness, at least on my mother’s part. She’s not a very good actress.

Dad, on the other hand, would resort to his smarmy political persona. It’s worked well for him on the campaign trail so far, that unguent sincerity of a family man who cares about the working class people. Not that Dad has ever been working class a day in his life.

His grandfather was. My great grandpa worked in the mines in North Idaho. My grandpa was the one who moved to Seattle to attend law school after working to put himself through college. He’s the reason my dad is able to do the things he’s done, both professionally and politically. His claim that he understands the travails of the working class all stems from being a miner’s grandson.

And his shiny veneered smile, and his happy family posed with the family golden retriever, make for great campaign brochures.

If he’s running for governor, that means we’ll have to take new family photos. Maybe this time it can just be him and Mom, since Victoria and I are both out of the house now.

Somehow, I doubt that will work. At the very least, I’ll get roped into a photo with Mom and Dad and the dog, and Victoria and Cameron’s engagement photo will be used.

When we get to my parents’ house, I carry both of our bags while Charity gets her backpack and dress. I give the door a courtesy knock before opening it, and calling out, “Hey! We’re here!”

My sister is the first one to get to us, her face lit up with a smile. “You made it! At last!”

I drop the bags on the floor to give my sister a hug. “I told you we’d get here around ten. It’s ten fifteen.”

“I know,” she whispers, “But having another buffer to distract Mom would still be welcome.”

“Did you reserve the venue?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll tell you all about that mess later. Because right now, you need to introduce me to your girlfriend.”

With a laugh, I turn to Charity and gesture her forward. She holds out a hand to Victoria. “Hi, I’m Charity.”

Victoria waves aside Charity’s hand and goes in for a hug. “It’s so lovely to meet you. And I’m dying to see your dress. Did you go with one of the designers I recommended? Dylan said you found a place that carries their dresses.”

Charity’s eyes cut to me, and I can tell she’s not quite sure what to make of my sister. “Let us get in and get unpacked first, Tori. I’m sure Charity will be happy to show you her dress and tell you who designed it. I can’t even remember because we looked at so many, and I lost track of which was which.”

Charity nods her agreement.

Before Victoria can say anything else, Mom and Dad finally make it to the entryway, warm smiles on their faces.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Charity

Dylan’s sister seems really nice, even if I was caught off guard by her enthusiasm about my dress. I figured as the bride, she wouldn’t be all that interested in some random girl’s dress choice, even if that girl is her brother’s date.

Dylan seems to be doing his best to run interference between me and his family, redirecting his sister’s attention, and stepping in to give his parents hugs before introducing them to me. They’ve barely had a chance to shake my hand before Dylan ushers me toward the stairs. “Let Charity and I put our things away and use the bathroom. We’ll be back down in a few minutes.”

Before anyone can say anything, he’d picked up our bags again, and we’re heading up the stairs. “Nice to meet all of you,” I call over my shoulder, waving as best I can around the hanger clutched in my hand.

Victoria waves back, a grin on her face, and then they’re all lost from view as we turn down the hall. Dylan leads me to the second door on the right, taking me into what is obviously his old bedroom. A large bed sits against one wall, the headboard made of dark brown tufted leather. A royal blue comforter with white pinstripes covers the bed, with coordinating white and blue pillows piled against the headboard. The dresser, nightstands, and desk are all made of matching cherry wood. A set of bookshelves dominates one wall, mostly filled with books, but with a few trophies and knickknacks artfully arranged among them. It’s a similar aesthetic to the bookshelves in Dylan’s current living room. I’m not sure if that’s something he picked up from his mother or a design choice he made on his own.

The remaining walls bear a variety of awards, certificates, and concert posters, with a memo board above his desk holding snapshots of him and his friends from high school, as well as various papers that must’ve been important at one point. The whole room gives off the same clean, masculine vibe as his current apartment, though where he lives now is a little more mature. If he has football trophies, he doesn’t display them. Though he does have one small stuffed pig wearing a Marycliff football jersey tucked into one of his bookshelves in his apartment. When I asked him about it, he said it was a team tradition, and he got stuck with it for the off-season. From what I could gather, it’s some kind of game like hot potato, where they pass the pig around throughout the season.

It’s cute, though. You don’t expect a guy like Dylan to have little stuffed animals hiding in his apartment.

That, plus the way he was with my niece, makes him even more endearing than his general care and consideration already does.

Once the door’s closed behind us, Dylan lets out a big sigh. Propping his hands on his hips, he looks at me. “Well, we made it.”

Fighting back a smile, I nod. “Is that surprising?”

He grins and steps closer, reaching for me and taking the garment bag out of my hand. He tosses it on the bed, then wraps his arms around me. “No, it’s not a surprise. This was the easy part.”

My eyebrows lift. “When does the hard part begin?”

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