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The front door swings open, and an attractive woman in her thirties sporting a short brown bob emerges. "Grey! I'm so glad you're here," she says, hugging him. She turns her attention to me, her eyes warm and soulful. "I'm Leslie. Nice to meet you," she says, hugging me too.
“Same here,” I reply with a genuine smile. “Thank you for having me. And congrats on your wedding. How exciting. I’m Sylvie, by the way.”
“I hope you’ll have a great time, Sylvie. Let’s go inside and meet everyone.”
I take a deep breath. This is it.
9
Grey
“Greyson, have you looked at the schedule for the next few days?” my mother, Evelyn, asks as we enjoy a cocktail before dinner on the terrace.
They hired world-class chefs to manage the menu for the duration of our stay, and if the canapes and appetizers are any hint of what’s to come, we’re in for a wonderful time.
“I’m afraid to,” I tell her, only half-jokingly.
My mom rolls her eyes. “Leslie loves activities, and you’d think she’d be busy getting ready for the wedding, but your sister is a natural over-scheduler.”
I look at my father, who’s nursing a glass of Mai Tai.
Mom is over-opinionated, and Dad has learned to listen carefully. So have I. We figure that if we do, she'll feel better about it and won't have to nag Leslie. We’re the modern-day sacrificial lambs.
“And how about your date? You told me nothing. She seems nice. Doesn’t she, Tom?” Mom nudges Dad’s elbow.
Dad dutifully nods. “She’s lovely.”
I raise my glass of wine to my lips. Over the glass rim, I see Sylvie talking to my sister and a few female cousins on the other side of the terrace.
We arrived a few hours ago, and it's been a whirlwind between introducing Sylvie, unpacking, and getting ready. Leslie’s fiancé, Jack, will arrive tomorrow and stay in a villa with his family and close friends.
“I can’t wait to get to know her better,” Mom says. “She seems chatty.”
"Mom, go easy on her," I say, protectiveness stabbing at me.
I've noticed that Sylvie gets nervous in social situations, so for the first ten minutes, she blurts information like she’s being interrogated by the enemy. But after a few minutes, she relaxes, and people get to know the real her—the caring, smart, funny woman who’s been in my thoughts every second of the day.
My mom tilts her head to the side, her short, platinum hair shining under the light as she stares intently at me. “Interesting. You like her.”
“Of course he does, Evelyn. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have brought her,” my father chimes in.
My mother gives him the look of death. “I’m glad. I was worried you’d bring a random woman so you didn’t have to come alone, given that Tamara will be here too.”
A pang of irritation stirs inside me, but I maintain my cool exterior. My mother is poking me, but I won't react. She doesn't know that Sylvie isn't a random person. Not now. She's fucking amazing. “Don’t be worried. I’m glad Tamara has moved on.”
“Yes, but isn’t Sylvie a tad, hmm, young? You ended your marriage because you wanted kids, and you’re dating someone half your age who I’m sure won’t want children anytime soon,” my mother says, a trace of concern in her voice.
“That’s for me to worry about, Mom.”
“Yes. Men can have kids later in life,” my father agrees.
I take a deep breath. I don’t want to have kids much later in life. I’m already in my forties. I’d hate to be a first-time dad in my sixties. Then again, why haven’t I found someone who wants the same things? If I continued with Sylvie after this weekend, would a relationship with her keep me from my goal?
I take another sip of wine. It shouldn’t. After all, this is all pretend. Isn’t it?
My mother and father engage in a conversation about the declining quality of my sperm that I successfully ignore. I move forward, leaning against the terrace railing, and look at the tiki torches lighting the night.
“Hey.”
