Page 74 of Play Along With Me
"She does," I agree honestly, hoping the sincerity in my voice doesn't make Audrey uncomfortable.
"You clean up pretty well yourself," Audrey says with a grin as I pull out her chair. "No signs of the rumored mullet, though. Disappointing."
My father chokes slightly on his water. "Mullet? Jake, you told her about the hockey mullet phase?"
"He didn't have to," Audrey says conspiratorially. "Some things you can just sense about a person. The mullet energy radiates from within."
My father laughs, a genuine belly laugh I haven't heard in ages. "I like her, Jake."
"Thanks, Mr. Marshall," Audrey beams. "I like you too, primarily because you haven't stalked my social media. The bar is low, but you've cleared it admirably."
"Call me Robert, please," my father insists. "And I apologize for my wife's... enthusiasm. She means well."
"Enthusiasm is underrated," Audrey says generously. "My own mother once created an online dating profile for me using a photo where I'm visibly crying at a wedding. Patricia's support is refreshingly positive by comparison."
"You poor thing!" my mother exclaims. "Well, you don't have to worry about dating profiles anymore, now that you have Jake." She pats Audrey's hand, and Audrey gives me a look like she probably has a few profiles, but I ignore it. "Now, tell me everything about yourself! Jake has barely said anything. I want details."
And so it begins. Before Audrey can even look at a menu, my mother launches into what can only be described as a comprehensive biographical interview:
"Where did you grow up? Do you have siblings? What does your father do? How long have you been bartending? Tellme about your writing! Do you like children? How many do you want someday? What are your thoughts on winter weddings versus summer weddings? Do you prefer traditional or modern décor? Have you ever dated an athlete before? What are your feelings on living in the suburbs versus the city? Do you cook? What's your specialty dish? Do you have any allergies I should know about for future family gatherings?"
The questions come rapid-fire, barely allowing Audrey time to answer one before the next three are launched. To her credit, Audrey handles it with remarkable grace, answering some questions directly, deflecting others with humor, and occasionally glancing at me with an expression that clearly says, "Your mother is certifiable but I'm rolling with it."
"Mom," I finally interject when she pauses for breath, "maybe we should order food before the third degree continues? Audrey came for brunch, not a deposition."
"Of course, of course! I'm just so interested in getting to know her. It's not every day my son brings home such a lovely interesting young woman."
"I technically wasn't brought home," Audrey points out. "More like ambushed at a hockey game and roped into an elaborate social scenario."
My mother dismisses with a wave of her hand. "The point is, you're here now, and we're getting to know each other. It's wonderful."
After we order—Audrey choosing the most decadent french toast on the menu, earning further approval from my mother who "can't stand women who just order egg whites and dry toast"—the jazz trio begins a new set. The music provides a brief respite from my mother's questioning as we all listen for a few moments.
"This is lovely," Audrey says, genuinely appreciative. "I don't get to hear live jazz often enough."
"Do you like music, dear?" my mother asks, seizing the opening for more questions. "Jake used to play piano, you know. Until hockey took over everything."
"Really?" Audrey raises an eyebrow at me. "Hidden talents, Marshall. Very intriguing."
"I wouldn't call it a talent," I demur. "More like six years of lessons that resulted in a mediocre ability to play 'Heart and Soul' and part of a Mozart sonata."
"Still more musical talent than I have," Audrey says. "I was kicked out of choir in fourth grade for what my teacher called 'aggressively creative interpretations' of the assigned songs."
"A euphemism for 'couldn't carry a tune in a bucket'?" my father guesses.
"More like 'insisted on adding dramatic key changes and interpretive movements that weren't in the original composition,'" Audrey clarifies. "I was a theatrical child. Still am, according to Leila."
"Leila is your best friend, correct?" my mother asks, clearly filing away every detail Audrey provides for future reference. "The one in the photos on your Instagram?"
Audrey nods, impressively unfazed by the reminder that my mother has essentially created a dossier on her life. "That's her. We've been friends since college."
"And you went to Emerson, studying creative writing, graduated six years ago, and your thesis was a collection of short stories about urban legends in New England," my mother recites, as if reading from notes.
Audrey blinks, finally caught off guard. "That's... alarmingly accurate. Did you hack into my academic records?"
"LinkedIn, dear," my mother says smugly. "You should update it, by the way. It still lists you as a barista at that coffee shop near Fenway, not the Liberty Hotel."
I sink slightly in my chair, mortified. "Mom, seriously..."
