“That’s the only difference?”
“My grandfather was Edmond Harrison Maxwell while my father is Edmund Scott Maxwell.”
“Sunshineandseashells…” is muttered under her breath. “Are you telling me right now our son’s name has to be Anthony Maxwell since that’s your middle name?”
“Babe,” I softly begin, taking her hand into both of mine, “we can name our son or daughter whatever you want as long as it’s ours. That’s all that matters to me.”
Her shoulders noticeably relax.
I plant a warm kiss on her knuckles, offer her a loving grin, and return to guiding us to where the family is, most likely, gathered.
On our way, I mentally note the nervousness building in Brooklyn with each passing step. The further we get into the luxurious Victorian Era decorated home the more worry that physically manifests. Her efforts to maintain her smile and gracefulness are doubled, and watching panic pierce her stare has me ready to just turn around and leave.
Never do I want her to feel any of the shit she’s feeling.
More importantly, never do I wanna be the reason for it.
We’re ushered into the parlor by Donald to find most of the family is already in full fledge day drinking mode.
If only it were because it was the holiday and not their natural not working default.
“Scott!” My mother enthusiastically states, tossing her non-drink hand my direction. “Welcome home, son!”
“Mother,” I cordially greet prior to turning to her husband. “Father.”
“Scott,” he echoes between sips of his brandy. His eyes immediately cut to Brooklyn robbing me of the opportunity to make an introduction. “And, you’ve brought a…friend. Hopefully, she wasn’t too expensive given the holiday rates.”
“Wow,” my fiancée whispers out in disbelief.
“Brooklyn isn’t a friend, Father.” Clutching her hand tighter, I clarify. “She’s my fiancée.”
Everyone in the room seems to choke on what they’re consuming.
Okay.
Not off to an easy start.
Hopefully, smooth sailing is ahead.
“What?!” Mother’s voice squawks. “What?! What?! What?!”
Fuck, I’ll take smoother sailing.
Doesn’t have to be perfect.
“Brooklyn Headley, please meet my parents, Edmund and Eleanor Maxwell.” I cautiously lead her closer against the crashing waves of my good conscience. “Mother. Father. Please meet the lovely woman who agreed to marry me last night.”
“We’re going to be sisters?!” April joyfully squeals, jumping up onto her feet. “Ohmygod!” Her arms fly around my fiancée, knocking me back to allow them to awkwardly hug. “How exciting!”
While I’m certain she has a drinking problem, right now?
I’m grateful for it.
Her overzealous outburst may be the lifesaver we need.
“You’ve…met?” My mother inquires hand now toying with the pearls around neck.
“Of course, we’ve met!” April drunkenly scoffs. “We were the ones who told you Scott had a girlfriend, remember?”
Didn’t appreciate that or the phone calls that came afterward demanding details I wasn’t keen on delivering. Not because I’m ashamed of her or because I didn’t think they’d approve – though I knew it was less likely since she wasn’t a handpicked daughter of a Senator or some shit – but we don’t have that type of relationship. The more information my father has about me and my existence the more ammo he has for the next argument or proposition he wants to make. I’m all about lessening the collection rather than growing it.
“Oh,” my father adjusts his red tie, “and this is her?”
The question strikes us both uncomfortably, yet it’s Brooklyn who speaks as April flops back down on the couch, “Would it be an acceptable custom for your son to bring home an escort rather than his girlfriend?”
“It’s not my place to judge such behaviors.”
Wow.
What a wave of hypocrisy to drown us all in.
“How my sons choose to conduct their relationships is between them and their…lovers.” His tone and word choice are equally unsettling. “Relationships are not nearly as simplistic as the world would like them to seem.”
“Not bringing my mistress to meet my family before they’ve met my fiancée seems pretty black and white, Father.”
“Fiancée?” Harrison questions on a chortle, entering the room. “You finally asked?”
Father cuts him a glare. “You knew he was asking?”
“I did,” my brother quietly replies and looks back at me. “Took you fucking long enough. It was starting to get weird planning your bachelor party in that much detail when you hadn’t even made anything official.”
“Well, I have now,” I swiftly interject. “And, she said yes, although if you all keep ignoring her as you are, she may change her mind.”
Brooklyn’s nervous laughter doesn’t exactly provide reassurance.
“My son is correct,” Father states during his shooing of the waiter away to allow him to move closer