Page 71 of Play Along With Me
"She's working," I lie quickly. "Bartending shift. Very busy bar. Can't get out of it."
"That's too bad," my mother sighs. "But I understand. Responsible girl, committed to her job. I like that."
My father, sensing my desperation, steps in again. "Patricia, why don't we show Jake the new blender we brought him? For those protein shakes he likes."
As my parents dive into yet another shopping bag, I quickly text Audrey:
Me: EMERGENCY. My mother wants to show you my childhood photo albums and sit with you at my next game. I told her you're working. Please, for the love of god, be "working" if she asks.
Audrey: But I was so looking forward to seeing your awkward braces phase and bowl cut era! Devastating blow to our fake relationship.
Me: I never had braces or a bowl cut, thank you very much.
Audrey: Everyone had an awkward phase, Hockey Jesus. Even you. ESPECIALLY you, Mr. Professional Athlete. I bet there are photos of you with missing teeth and a mullet somewhere.
Me: ... I refuse to confirm or deny the existence of a brief hockey mullet in junior year.
Audrey: I KNEW IT. Your mom and I are going to be best friends.
Despite the chaos unfolding in my apartment, I find myself laughing again. Audrey has a knack for defusing tension, even via text.
My mother, of course, notices. "Another text from Audrey? What's she saying?"
"Just making plans," I hedge. "For later."
"Ooooh, a date?" my mother presses. "Where are you taking her? May I suggest the Top of the Hub? Very romantic view of the city."
"The Top of the Hub closed years ago."
"Well, there must be somewhere equally romantic! The Public Garden? A sunset cruise on the harbor? Oh! You could take her ice skating at Frog Pond! Though I suppose that's rather pedestrian for a professional hockey player..."
My father, finally reaching his limit, puts a firm hand on my mother's shoulder. "Patricia, I think it's time we let Jake get on with his day. He had a game last night, remember? Needs his rest."
"Of course, of course," she agrees reluctantly. "We don't want to wear him out before his next game. When is it again, honey?"
"Tuesday," I reply. "Home against Willington."
"Perfect! We'll be there," she says cheerfully. "Our flight isn't until Wednesday morning."
Great. Three more days of this.
After extracting promises that I'll use the curtains, call the handyman about a loose cabinet hinge, and consider the merits of proper wine glasses ("Audrey seems like she'd appreciate a good Cabernet"), my parents finally prepare to leave.
"One last thing," my mother says, pausing at the door. "Would it be presumptuous to invite Audrey to brunch tomorrow? Just the four of us, very casual. There's a lovely place near our hotel that has a jazz trio on Sundays."
The fact that my mother considers live jazz to be "very casual" tells you everything you need to know about her.
"I'll ask her," I say noncommittally. "But she might be busy."
"Of course, of course. Just let us know! No pressure!" My mother beams, then pulls me into one last crushing hug. "I'm just so happy for you, Jake. She's absolutely perfect. Don't let this one get away!"
After they leave, I collapse onto my couch, exhausted despite it being barely noon. I text Audrey again:
Me: I apologize for my mother's Instagram assault and any future communications you may receive from her. She has been officially banned from contacting you, but enforcement is difficult without physical restraints, which I'm told are frowned upon.
Audrey: Your mom seems sweet. Intense, but sweet. My mom once created a dating profile for me WITHOUT MYKNOWLEDGE and used a photo from my cousin's wedding where I'm visibly crying. At least yours is enthusiastic about a relationship that you're actually in. Sort of. Technically. In a fake way.
Me: That's a generous perspective. She's also angling for brunch tomorrow. With a jazz trio. I told her you're probably busy.
