Page 32 of Things We Left Behind
“Ask the boy who climbed through your window if he wants to stay for dinner. We’re having meat loaf,” Mom shouted the invitation.
“Oh my God,” I muttered into my hands, mortified.
I glanced up at Lucian, and he grinned. A full-on, knee-dissolving, stomach-swooping grin.
“Thanks, Mrs. Walton, but I need to get home,” he called back.
“You’re welcome to use the front door,” Mom shouted.
I winced. “You probably should. Otherwise, they’ll just come up here.”
“Okay,” he said, not seeming too concerned with my humiliation.
Squaring my shoulders, I marched us out of my bedroom and down the stairs, unsure of what reaction I was about to face. Standing up for women’s rights was one thing in my parents’ eyes. Sneaking boys into my room was an entirely different kind of rebellion.
My parents met us at the foot of the steps in the kitchen. Dad was in a frumpy beige sweater that matched his khakis too closely. Mom was still in her work scrubs. Both had glasses of wine.
“Mom, Dad, this is Lucian. He, uh, helped me with my trig homework,” I said, awkwardly making the introductions.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Walton,” Lucian said, shaking hands like he was an adult. I had a vision of him in a fancy suit presiding over meetings with his serious face and strong handshake. Maybe “rich” wasn’t such a lame goal after all.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you officially, Lucian,” Mom said, shooting me a we’ll-discuss-this-later look.
“You’re always welcome here, especially if it keeps Sloane from hurling her math books across the room,” Dad said.
My toes curled in embarrassment. “Dad,” I hissed.
He reached out and ruffled my hair. I continued to die of the fatal, incurable condition of embarrassment.
“Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner?” Mom offered.
Lucian hesitated for just the barest second, and my parents were on him like pugs on peanut butter.
“Join us,” Dad insisted. “Karen makes a mean meat loaf, and I made the baked potatoes with horseradish sour cream.”
Lucian glanced at me, then at his feet before nodding. “Uh, if you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Mom insisted, steering us toward the kitchen island where the plates were stacked.
Oh my God. I was going to have dinner with Lucian Rollins. Yay!
And my parents. Boo!
It definitely wasn’t a date if chaperones were present. At least not in this century.
“Come on, you two,” Mom said, leading the way. “You can set the table.”
“Your parents are nice,” Lucian said as I shut the front door behind us. The scent of cherry blossoms was light on the crisp evening air.
“And embarrassing,” I said, cringing at some of the topics of conversation. “You really don’t have to help my dad get the summer decorations down from the garage rafters this weekend.”
My ladder-fearing, five-foot-seven father was thrilled by Lucian’s height. My mother was thrilled with his apparent inability to say no.
“I don’t mind,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Don’t let them hear you say that, or else Mom will have you moving file boxes at her office and Dad will enlist you to trim the taller branches in the backyard.”
“Your house is great,” Lucian said. It sounded almost like an accusation.
