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Daphne's dad chuckles. "Does that work?" Mr. Webb—I guess I should call him Miles, now that he's my father-in-law, looks to Dad and raises a brow. He has the same blue eyes Daphne does. She has his eyes and her mom's sharp features.
But then, I'm not here to marvel at the beauty of genetics.
I'm not here to do anything.
This is my house.
"You could have called," I say.
"See, that's what I was going to say," Dad says. "You could have called when you got married."
"Let them enjoy it, Tom." Mom laughs. "Remember our first week as newlyweds?"
Dad's expression shifts fromgrill my kidsto ooey, gooey romantic. After all these years, he's still madly in love with her.
And she still looks at him like he hangs the moon.
She does it now. He softens immediately. He enjoys their beautiful moment of togetherness.
"Congratulations," Mr. Webb, I mean Miles, says. He holds up a bottle of sparkling cider. "I believe we owe you a toast."
"Four toasts," Daphne's mom, Ms. Smart, no, Meg, says. "If my wordy husband leaves room for the rest of us."
"How could you say that, princess?" Miles teases her. "I'm a poet."
"And you know it," she rhymes.
He shakes his headthat was bad.
"Brevity is the heart of wit," she says. "And you're no Oscar Wilde."
"You don't think I'm witty now?" His voice drops to a flirty tone.
Is it because they're around my parents? They're regressing to their early twenties, the way Zack regresses to his teenage attitude around all of us.
The way I—
Well, this parental foursome is enough torture for one day. I don't need to give myself shit too.
"I didn't cook enough for six," I say.
"We'll order Thai," Dad says.
"Tom." Mom nudges Dad. "It's his place." She looks to me. "What your dad means to say is thanks for welcoming us."
"Yes, please stay for dinner." I nod to Daphne's parents. "Can I get you something to drink?"
Miles holds up the sparkling cider.
Daphne laughs. "We get it, Dad." She hugs her dad. Then her mom. "I'll get the glasses." She looks to me and mouthssorry.
I shake my head. This isn't the way I pictured the evening, but I'm glad to have our families here to support us.
"I'll put the food away." I follow Daphne into the kitchen, point out where she can find champagne flutes and water glasses.
She glances at the tomato sauce on the stove. "That looks good. I hate to miss it."
"We can eat the leftovers tomorrow," I say.
