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“I’m sure my grandmother will be right out,” I tell him. “Go ahead and have a seat.” I gesture to the couch which is overflowing with multiple colored throw pillows — none that match — and several blankets of assorted types and textures.
Christian eyes it. His blonde eyebrows shoot up his forehead and then his eyes narrow. His full lips drop into a deeper frown. He seems fairly convinced that the couch is not okay to sit on. Maybe he thinks it is too old. It’s hard for me to say. Instead, he pulls out a wooden chair from the table and sinks into it. I take the chair next to him, pulling it out so I can face him with our knees almost touching.
“It really isn’t necessary for me to meet your family,” he starts after we sit in silence for a few minutes. “We don’t have that kind of situation.”
I look into his eyes and see a flash of desire there. He must be remembering something good because he reaches a large hand out and grabs my waist. Putting my hands up, I push a bit against his shoulders, but I know the struggle is useless. He pulls me off my chair until I am standing between his legs. His lips are inches away from the sensitive skin of my breasts. I can hear and feel his soft breath.
A loud slam causes us both to jump away from each other. Christian stands. Neither one of us had noticed that Bubby had come into the room. She stands at the entrance to the hallway, another book in her hand poised to be dropped. Once she is sure that she has our attention, she sets the book down slowly.
“It is absolutely necessary that you meet Amanda’s family,” she says seriously. The sternness of her face is cold. Her eyes are icy.
Her reaction throws me off a bit, and I find myself stepping back towards Christian, bumping into him. Bubby isn’t dressed in her usual, colorful way either. She is wearing an elegant, but simple, black cocktail dress and a string of pearls. I’ve never seen her wear anything so conservative. Somehow it feels like she is dressed up as a character.
A giggle escapes my lips. It echoes in the silent room. It’s like the tension has jumped up to twenty-thousand times what it was before. I stifle my uncomfortable laughter and turn to look up at Christian.
He looks less sure of himself. His frown changes into something different, something more twisted. Now he looks like a pouty child who has just been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to — like stealing from the cookie jar — and doesn’t want to be punished. With a slight shake of his head, he reaches his hand out to Bubby.
“I’m Christian Keeley.”
His frown never changes. He looks as uncomfortable as a man can get, and I regret bringing him here. Even though my grandmother was insistent, I should have made up some sort of excuse. He’s never going to accept my family.
Bubby takes his hand in a gentle manner, pressing the tips of her fingers around his and shaking quickly. Once the handshake is done, she doesn’t let go. “Elizabeth Burmmell. Mr. Keeley, I welcome any friend of Mandy’s to my house.” Bubby pulls Christian’s hand towards her until he has to lean forward — his face inches from hers. “You are Mandy’s friend?”
“Ah,” Christian stutters. My grandmother lets go of his hand, leaving him a bit off-kilter. “I’m a partner at McKenzie Tech. Mandy is working for me.”
Bubby puts her hands on her hips. She raises one of her bleach-blonde eyebrows, turning from one of us then to the other. “You are working together? Overnight? On a Friday? And a Saturday?”
Christian shrugs. Although he does it all the time, in this instance, the gesture looks juvenile. “Well, we were. Our work plans had to be put off.”
Keeping us both in her sights, Bubby scans our faces. I find myself rubbing my hands on my skirt. My palms are damp with sweat even though the room isn’t warm. Bubby tends to be a wild card, and after Christian neglected to tell his father about our relationship, I have the feeling that he will be offended by my grandmother easily.
“Hmm,” she grunts, reaching out to tap him lightly on the shoulder. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
Christian shoots me a glance. His eyebrows pull together in confusion. “Believe what?”
Bubby doesn’t answer his question. Instead, she saunters towards the kitchen. “Set the table, Amanda. Mr. Keeley, have a seat at the table, anywhere you like. Dinner will be served shortly.”
I think what Bubby serves is a duck. As with all her food, it’s dry, tough, and hard to chew. Most of our dinner is silent and awkward. Occasionally, Bubby starts discussing one of her new projects as Christian and I pretend to listen. Presently, she’s explaining the finer points of cabinet making while waving her fork full of duck in the air.
