Page 77 of Play Along With Me
My mother's eyes light up with barely contained enthusiasm. I know that look—she's mentally filing away this information as proof that Audrey is the perfect hockey wife material.
"More couples should appreciate their independent time," she says sagely. "Your father and I have always maintained our separate hobbies. It keeps the relationship fresh."
"Mom's into gardening and community theater," I explain to Audrey. "Dad has his woodworking."
"And we've been happily married for thirty-five years," my mother concludes, as if their separate hobbies are the sole secret to marital longevity.
"That's impressive," Audrey says sincerely. "Thirty-five years is quite an achievement."
"When you find the right person, the years fly by," my father says, giving my mother a fond glance that makes me look away, feeling like I'm intruding on something private.
"The right person," my mother repeats significantly, looking between Audrey and me with all the subtlety of a neon sign.
Audrey steers the conversation away from this dangerous territory by asking about the jazz trio, leading to a discussion of music that carries us through dessert—where Audrey makes good on her promise to thoroughly enjoy the chocolate fountain, returning to the table with a plate so elaborately constructed it could qualify as an architectural achievement.
"I may have gotten carried away," she admits, surveying her creation. "But when life presents you with a literal fountain of chocolate, restraint seems like the wrong response."
"A woman after my own heart," my father approves. "Dessert should be an event, not an afterthought."
As we finish our meal, my mother excuses herself to the restroom, giving my father a meaningful look that I recognize as their silent communication for "give them a moment alone."
"I'm going to find our server for the check," my father says transparently, following my mother's lead.
Once they're out of earshot, I turn to Audrey, already forming an apology for my mother's behavior, but she speaks first.
"Your parents are wonderful," she says, surprising me. "Intense, yes, but in a good way. They clearly adore you."
"They're a lot," I acknowledge. "Especially my mom. I'm sorry about the third degree and the Instagram stalking and the not-so-subtle hints about our future together."
Audrey laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Don't apologize. It's actually nice to see parents who are so invested in their child's happiness. Even if their methods are somewhat... investigative… and obsessive."
"That's a generous interpretation of my mother's behavior."
"I'm a writer," she shrugs. "Finding sympathetic perspectives for difficult characters is my job."
"My mother is a difficult character."
"More like a woman who loves her son so much she sometimes forgets boundaries exist," Audrey corrects. "It's coming from a good place. That matters. You are her boy. Her son. Her pride and joy." She shakes her head so that her hair falls away from her face.
I study her for a moment, struck again by her ability to find understanding where others might take offense. "Thank you for doing this," I say quietly. "Not just showing up, but... making it real. You've gone way beyond what I had any right to ask."
"It's been fun, actually," she admits. "Your dad's woodworking stories were legitimately interesting, and watching your face when your mom brought up winter versus summer weddings was worth the price of admission."
I groan at the memory. "She's already planning our theoretical wedding. We've been 'dating' for two weeks."
"When you know, you know," Audrey mimics my mother's earnest tone perfectly, then breaks into a grin. "Honestly, Jake, this is all okay. This is good material for writing. We can call it character research. She is really not that bad."
"Glad to provide literary inspiration," I say dryly. "Though I'm a bit concerned about how we'll appear in your book."
"Don't worry, I'll change the names," she assures me with mock seriousness. "Instead of a hockey player, you'll be a... badminton champion. With a pet iguana instead of parents."
"Much better," I agree, playing along. "Completely unrecognizable."
She laughs again, and I find myself cataloging the sound—the way it starts low and builds, how her eyes crinkle at the corners, the slight tilt of her head. There's something magnetic about Audrey's laughter, something that draws you in and makes you want to be the cause of it again.
My parents return, my father insisting on paying despite my protests. As we prepare to leave, my mother pulls Audrey into another enthusiastic hug.
"This was wonderful, dear. We must do it again before we leave! Maybe dinner tomorrow night?"
