Page 115 of Holiday Hopefuls
Unwinding my scarf and removing my coat, I shake my head. “No, thank you,” I say and take a seat on the couch.
Mom smacks Dad on the arm. “See? I told you. Something’s wrong. He’s refusing my brownies.”
Leaning forward, I place my elbows on my knees, wrapping my hands together. “Mom. Dad.”
Dad, whose eyes have been glued to the television, snaps his gaze my way. Slowly, he lifts the remote, pressing the power button.
“How did you know?” I ask. It feels like a frog has taken up residence in my throat. Maybe one of Callie’s plants invites all the neighborhood frogs to her apartment.
I’ll have to check when I get home.
Home.
“Know?” my dad repeats.
I nod. “You two barely knew each other. Only a couple of months, right?”
My parents exchange a look when Dad breaks out into a grin. “Can’t say I’m too surprised, my boy. You looked head over heels for that girl the moment the two of you walked into this house on Thanksgiving,” he chuckles. “And the way she doted on you, well,” he takes my mom’s hand, “all I can say is, it reminded me of someone else I know.”
Mom looks at him as if he’s the only other person on the planet before seeming to remember my presence. “Oliver, you just have to decide what’s right for you. And for Callie, of course.”
Wringing my hands together, a knot forms in my stomach about what has to come next. Especially since the Rutherfords know. “Well, there are, um, some things … that you aren’t … aware of.” Biting my lower lip, I feel like I’m in high school again.
Mom releases Dad’s hand, leaning forward. “Is Callie pregnant?”
Waving my hands around like a lunatic, I shake my head so fast my glasses nearly fly off. “What? No, nothing like that.” I don’t think.
“Then, Oliver Grant Rhodes, I would start talking.” That stare only a mother can accomplish threatens to burn a hole right through my head.
Sighing, I launch into the story from the beginning. With each new revelation, my face grows hotter. But to my parents’ credit, they sit there in silence as I spill my guts. By the time they’re up to speed, I feel ready to pass out.
Mom rubs her temples. “Oliver … ”
I flinch, waiting for the yelling to start, like with the Rutherfords. But it never comes.
Sighing, Mom lifts her head. “Honey, I am so sorry you felt like that’s what you had to resort to in order to make us happy.” After a couple moments of silence, she pokes Dad on the arm. “Marshall, say something.”
Shocked eyes look at his wife. “Like what? It’s honestly kinda hilarious. But it’s clearly turned into something that’s actually … something.”
“So,” my gaze flits between them, “how mad are you?”
Mom and Dad look at each other before looking back at me, but it’s Mom who speaks for them both. “We’re not mad.”
“Really?” Hope dares to bloom in my chest at not being sent to my room without supper.
“Really,” Dad answers. He sits up straighter in his chair. “Now, you wanted to know how we knew.”
I nod.
He beams at my mom, my favorite example of what love should look like.
Like what I’ve found with Callie.
“Son, everyone will have their own opinion on what you should do when you’re in love,” he continues. “Where you should live, how long you should date, what steps you should take. Where you should try and meet your partner.” He gives me a pointed look. “But, ultimately, it comes down to what you feel like is right for you and the person you decide to choose every single day for the rest of your life. Oliver, do you really love this girl?”
I’ve never been an emotional person. But my father’s question nearly brings tears to my eyes with how much love exists in my heart for this woman. “Yes.”
My father leans forward in his chair, eyes trained on me. “Then, son, what are you going to do about it?”
