Page 27 of Not Your Valentine
“Is there a problem?” my father calls from the living room.
“No!” I shout, then turn to my mother and lower my voice. “You must be imagining it.”
“You’re saying you don’t want to smooch your boyfriend?”
“I don’t want to hear you use words like ‘smooch.’”
“What should I say instead?” She makes a bunch of cringe-inducing kissing sounds.
I can feel my blood pressure rising. See, this is why I’d be okay with spending the holidays alone.
“You’re so fun to tease,” she says.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She elbows me in the side.
“Mom, I’m holding a knife, okay?”
She laughs before critiquing my chopping technique, which is preferable to other things she could say, I suppose.
A few minutes later, I take a break to use the washroom. I don’t actually have to go; I just want to walk by the living room and see how everyone’s getting along. Make sure no one’s been maimed…or told the story of how I fancied myself a poet for a misguided six days back in grade seven.
The advantage of having known Taylor since grade nine science class is that he’s aware of what I was like as a teenager, and he even liked that person enough to become friends with her, so certain stories aren’t going to have much of an impact. And, yes, he likes most people, but still.
To my relief, Taylor is asking Bec about her job, and it all appears very normal.
The way I’m focusing on the curve of his back and the strand of hair that doesn’t seem to be behaving itself? A little less normal. I itch to reach out and touch his hair, let my fingers slide over the shell of his ear and linger on his face.
I also admire the way he seems at ease here, in a house he’s never been to before, with people he met fifteen minutes ago. I certainly wouldn’t be at ease in such a situation.
“What do you do for work?” Shirley asks Taylor.
“I’m a social worker at a hospital.”
“Huh. You know, I never thought of social workers in a setting like that, but it makes sense. What exactly do you do?”
“Counselling, discharge planning, connecting patients to community resources…” He moves his hands as he speaks, his passion evident.
I return to the kitchen, both relieved that everything is going okay with this meet-the-family event, and also the very opposite of relieved. I’m having fantasies about touching my fake boyfriend’s ear, and that can’t be normal.
Usually, there are five of us for New Year’s. Since there are six people today, my mother has taken the liberty of preparing extra food. Like, twice as much food even though there’s only one more person—and frankly, the amount of food she normally prepares for the holiday would already be enough.
There’s a whole fish and a whole chicken and pork belly. Longevity noodles and dumplings and various vegetable dishes. And wonton soup.
My pulse speeds up as I watch Taylor try his first spoonful of soup. Why am I nervous? I know he isn’t going to claim he likes it and later reveal that he thinks all soup is an abomination.
“Mmm. This is amazing,” he says to my mother. It’s impossible to doubt his sincerity.
Mom beams, then tries to pretend it’s no big deal and she doesn’t deserve such praise, but I know she’s pleased.
It’s a sign!
What’s wrong with my brain? I don’t believe in signs, and pretty much everyone loves my mother’s wonton soup. Charlie was a very rare exception. The fact that Taylor thinks it’s delicious doesn’t mean anything.
Though I’m unsettled by my thoughts, I manage to enjoy dessert. Chocolate cake, made by Shirley. Everyone in my family adores chocolate, and this is a tradition for us.
At twelve thirty, Taylor and I leave together, loaded down with multiple days worth of food as well as our red envelopes. Even though my parents had never met Taylor before today, there’s an envelope for him, too.
