Page 70 of Play Along With Me
This is a nightmare. An absolute nightmare. I pull out my phone to check Audrey's Instagram—which I hadn't even known existed until this moment—and sure enough, there's my mother's account (@ProudHockeyMom35) leaving enthusiastic comments on photos from weeks before Audrey and I supposedly started dating.
"Mom, you can't do this," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "It's invasive and, frankly, a little creepy."
"I was just being friendly! I thought she'd appreciate knowing her boyfriend's mother approves!"
"We've been dating for two weeks," I remind her, the lie feeling increasingly complicated. "This is way too much, too soon."
My father, again sensing my distress, places a hand on my mother's arm. "Patricia, perhaps we should focus on helping Jake settle into his new place. Didn't you bring those curtains you wanted to show him?"
This successful diversion buys me a fifteen-minute reprieve as my mother excitedly unpacks the home goodsshe's brought—curtains, throw pillows, a set of actual matching dishes, and other items clearly purchased in a whirlwind shopping spree after learning of my call-up.
Just as she's explaining the importance of proper bath towels ("You can't have Audrey over with those thin things you call towels, Jake!"), my phone buzzes with a text. From Audrey.
Audrey: Your mother found my Instagram and has liked THIRTY-SEVEN photos dating back to 2021, including, tragically, one where I'm dressed as a sexy pickle for Halloween.
I stifle a groan.
Me: I am so, so sorry. Just discovered this myself. She's being talked to. Again, deeply sorry. The sexy pickle costume sounds intriguing though.
Audrey: It was a lost bet with Leila. The photos were supposed to be buried deep enough that no one would ever find them. Your mother must have Olympic-level scrolling endurance.
Despite my embarrassment, I find myself smiling at her text. Audrey has a gift for finding humor in situations that would send most people into a rage spiral.
Me: She's very... enthusiastic. She brought bagels and is currently redecorating my apartment after knowing I live here for approximately 12 minutes.
Audrey: Ah, so that's where your organization skills come from. Genetic predisposition to efficiency.
Me: More like genetic predisposition to bulldozing boundaries. I've confiscated her phone but the damage is done. Anything I can do to make it up to you?
Audrey: Actually yes. Tell her I prefer everything bagels with scallion cream cheese. For future reference.
I laugh out loud, earning curious looks from my parents.
"Is that Audrey?" my mother asks immediately, her radar for relationship developments apparently functioning at superhuman levels.
"Yes, actually," I admit. "She says hello and that she prefers everything bagels with scallion cream cheese."
My mother's face lights up like I've just handed her classified intelligence. "Everything bagels! I'll remember that! Does she drink coffee? Tea? Is she a morning person? What time does she usually wake up on weekends?"
"Mom, I don't know her beverage preferences or sleep schedule," I say, which is true but sounds implausible for someone supposedly dating her. "We're still getting to know each other."
"But you seemed so connected at dinner," she presses. "The way you finished each other's stories—it was like you'd been together for years!"
The irony that my mother found our hastily improvised fake anecdotes convincingly established is not lost on me.
"We just click," I say vaguely. "But that doesn't mean I know her breakfast order yet."
"Well, I think it's wonderful," my mother declares. "After that disaster with Jessica—"
"Patricia," my father warns.
"I'm just saying, medical residents have no time for relationships," she continues, undeterred. "Sixty-hour weeks, night shifts, constant studying. No work-life balance at all.Audrey seems much more flexible with her bartending and writing. She can work around your hockey schedule!"
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the headache intensify. "Mom, can we please talk about something else? Anything else?"
"Fine, fine," she concedes. "But just one more question—is Audrey coming to your next game? I was thinking we could all sit together! I could tell her all about your childhood hockey tournaments! I brought photo albums!"
The mental image of my mother showing Audrey baby pictures while narrating my entire hockey development is enough to make me break out in a cold sweat.
