Method

“Ouch,” I say. “You never told me that. Those little faded scars on your back?”

He nods.

“Well, you can’t know everything about the man,” my mother pipes in, “you’ve only been sleeping with him for ten minutes.”

“Mom,” I scold, before narrowing my eyes. She shrugs sitting as pretty as she pleases with her teacup in hand.

I can’t resist. I poke the bear. “Actually, mother dearest, ten minutes isn’t accurate. Lucas is far more generous,” I suck my bottom lip through my teeth, “the last round went well over an hour and a half.”

Lucas mutters an “oh shit,’ as she chokes on a sip of tea.

“Hello all,” my father interjects as he comes into the room, his warmth casting off her dark cloud. Relief washes over me as I hug him tightly in greeting.

“Hey, Dad,” I turn to see Lucas standing, and don’t miss my mother’s eyes rolling down his form. I decide then it’s going to be a dine and dash. I can’t subject him to this. Once we’re seated at the table, I swear I hear the bell ring, and it isn’t the dinner bell.

“So, where are you from, Mr. Walker?”

“Maïwenn, please call me Lucas and I was raised in West Virginia.”

I lean in, letting her have this round even though I know it’s wrong.

“And your parents?”

“They’re still there, I think.”

“Oh?”

Lucas pats his mouth with the napkin. “I cut all ties when I got to California.”

She sips her wine. “I see.”

“Seriously, Mom? This line of questioning is a page straight from the script out of every meet the parent’s movie conversation ever had.”

“Then he’ll be able to easily follow,” she turns and flashes Lucas a sickening smile.

I white knuckle my fork.

“So, Mila tells me you worked for the press?” Lucas asks, taking the reins. I lean in and whisper to him so only he can hear me. “I love you. Great battle tactic, kill, kill, kill.” The corners of his mouth lift and he grabs my hand under the table. I’m pretty sure his palm is sweating.

“Yes, I worked with the press. But I got out when I realized the type of circus I was supporting.”

My father clears his throat with a sharply whispered, “Maïwenn,” before he picks more pistachios from his loaf.

“Are you in the union?” my mother asks as casually as a fire alarm.

“Yes,” Lucas grins proudly. “I got my card when I was nineteen.”

“What job got you that paycheck?”

“Mom, money talk is rude. You taught me that.”

“It’s interesting, Mila, and a different line of questioning. That should please you.”

“A commercial,” Lucas referees easily passing me the salad bowl with a wink.

“Oh, would I have seen it?”

“It was an awareness commercial.”