“Were you drunk?” my dad asks.
I stiffen.
“Noah wouldn’t be drunk, honey,” Mom says, laughing. “He’s a responsible man.”
This time, Finn stiffens. The pleasant conversation has veered into unpleasant territory.
“I care about your son,” Finn says, not making eye contact with me. “He is incredible. You should be very proud.”
My parents nod, appeased.
I wait for them to muse about the oddness that I’m married to a guy, not a girl, but the statement never comes, and before long we leave to walk to the fancy restaurant Finn has selected.
Boston has fortunately decided not to rain tonight, and we stroll the short distance to the wharf. The harbor is quiet and still, and the bright lights of the city are reflected in the water, until a tiny boat smashes through it, making the lights disappear in its ripples.
“This is beautiful,” my mother exclaims, and my father grins and kisses her cheek.
“They’re holding hands,” Finn whispers, and I shiver when his warm breath hits my ear.
“They’re disgusting,” I say, because God, they’re my parents.
Finn flinches. I want to shove the words back into my mouth. Finn steps away from me, and I’m suddenly aware of the coolevening breeze.
Why is disappointment on his face? Did he want to hold my hand? I mean, obviously, he didn’t. But he doesn’t look happy. He’s probably not impressed with my acting abilities.
I reach out my fingers to him, and he smiles and grips them in his hand. My heart stumbles, and I’m breathing through my nose and mouth, just to get enough oxygen. Because Finn’s hand is warm and large and a completely different experience to holding Abby’s hand. I like it. He squeezes my hand, and something zings through me. Huh.
Probably I was cold. His hand is warm. We’re still holding hands even when we wait in line for the hostess, and even when she brings us to the table that overlooks the water. Only then do I remember that our hands are still linked, and I give an awkward giggle when he drops his hand.
A waiter guides us through the menu, and another brings a small table for my mother’s handbag.
Big band music floats through the evening air, and my mother’s eyes widen as she takes in the black-suited bandmembers playing their shiny brass instruments. “How lovely.”
“Uh-huh.” My father nods in agreement, and his face softens as he gazes at the twinkling lights, happy people, and the dark harbor.
“Oh, honey. This is great,” my mom chatters. “Is this one of your favorite restaurants?”
“It’s my first time too.”
“They just got married,” my dad reminds my mom, and the awkwardness that Finn had successfully banished earlier returns in full force.
“This is one of my parents’ favorite restaurants,” Finn says, bringing out his wide smile again. “You’ll get to meet them tomorrow.”
“So they’re, um...” My father’s voice trails off, but not before his glance bounces between us.
Finn glances at me.
“I think my father is trying to ask if your parents mind that we’re married.”
“They only mind they didn’t get to see it,” Finn says.
My father nods rapidly. I want to ask him if he has more questions, but I don’t like the guilt and confusion and even anger that bubbles up. So instead, I concentrate on the menu and let Finn launch into a lengthy discussion about his mother’s enthusiasm for birthday parties and horror at what she might turn a wedding into.
My mother tries to laugh in all the right places, but the catered affair his mother evidently enjoys is so far from our own experiences.
“There will be some reporters at tomorrow’s event,” I warn them. “You don’t have to answer any questions.”
Four waiters swarm us with food at the exact same moment, averting the crisis of having some of us be forced to wait for the others’ food to arrive. My parents exclaim at the grilled seafood and their immaculate presentation.
