Page 87 of Play Along With Me
"Marge always jumps to conclusions," my mother dismisses. "Remember when Jake got a haircut, and she asked if he was joining the military?"
"To be fair," Audrey interjects, "based on the photographic evidence I've seen so far, any haircut would be a dramatic lifestyle change from the hockey mullet era."
I groan. "Can we please declare a moratorium on mullet discussions?"
"Absolutely not," Audrey says cheerfully. "I've been looking forward to mullet documentation all day. It's the foundation of our relationship."
"I thought that was your diabetic cat," I counter.
"Multi-layered foundation," Audrey amends without missing a beat. "Pet illnesses and questionable hairstyle choices. Very solid basis for lasting romance."
My mother watches this exchange with undisguised delight. "You two are just adorable together. Aren't they adorable, Robert?"
"They certainly seem to enjoy each other's company," my father agrees more diplomatically.
The waiter arrives to take our drink orders, providing a brief reprieve from my mother's enthusiasm. As we peruse the menus, I find myself watching Audrey instead of considering pasta options—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear as she reads, the small furrow that appears between her eyebrows as she contemplates choices.
"See anything you like?" I ask, then realize how the question might sound, but I really want to know the answer.
Audrey glances up, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Several appealing options," she says with just enough inflection to make me wonder if we're still talking about food.
My mother, naturally, misses none of this. "You two remind me so much of Robert and me when we were first dating. Couldn't take our eyes off each other. Remember, Robert? That little Italian place in St. Paul where we'd go every Friday night?"
"Gino's," my father nods nostalgically. "Best gnocchi in Minnesota."
"We went there for our first date, our engagement dinner, and the night before Jake was born," my mother informs Audrey. "Tradition."
"I love traditions like that," Audrey says sincerely. "Places that become part of your story as a couple."
"Do you and Jake have a special place yet?" my mother asks eagerly.
Audrey glances at me, a silent question in her eyes—how much fiction are we spinning tonight?
"We're still exploring options," I say, saving her from having to invent another elaborate backstory. "But Audreymakes an excellent case for any restaurant with a chocolate fountain."
"Priorities," Audrey nods solemnly. "A relationship built on solid culinary foundations."
As we order our meals—Audrey choosing the mushroom risotto, me opting for the veal saltimbocca—I find myself shifting slightly closer to her, my arm resting along the back of her chair. It's a casual gesture that could be interpreted as simply making space at the somewhat cramped table, but the truth is I want to be closer to her. The fake relationship is providing convenient cover for very real desires.
My mother brings out the promised photo album again, which she produces the moment our appetizers arrive.
"Now, this is Jake at his first hockey tournament," she begins, opening to a page featuring a gap-toothed seven-year-old me in oversized equipment. "He was so tiny then, but already so serious about the game."
Audrey leans in to see better, her shoulder pressing against mine as she studies the photo. "Look at that game face! You were intimidating even then."
"The helmet was three sizes too big," I explain. "I was just trying to keep it from falling over my eyes."
"And this," my mother continues, flipping pages, "is Jake's first shutout. Nine years old and he didn't let a single goal in during the championship game!"
"My glove hand was already elite," I joke.
"You look so proud," Audrey observes, her finger tracing the outline of my childhood smile in the photo. The small gesture feels inexplicably intimate.
My mother continues the photographic tour of my hockey development, while Audrey asks questions and makes observations that seem genuinely interested rather than merely polite. She has this way of engaging with people that makes them feel truly heard—a quality that's particularly effective on my mother, who thrives on attention.
Our main courses arrive, temporarily pausing the photo album exhibition. As we eat, the conversation shifts to Audrey's writing, with my father asking thoughtful questions about her novel concept.
"So this character can see regrets that haven't happened yet?" he clarifies.
