Mister Fake Fiance

“Haha. No. You know how much I dislike big cars.” She turns to Erin. “I only have this monster because I have three boys who eat like starving dinosaurs.”

“We were never that bad,” I protest feebly, following her in.

“Yes, you were. I had to hit Costco twice a day! Anyway, let me go and fry you up some food.”

She slips into the kitchen. I shake my head, while Erin laughs quietly.

“Starving dinosaurs, huh?” Erin says.

“Hey, I was a teenager. What can you do?” I put a hand on the

small of her back and gently maneuver her further inside. The open floor plan hides nothing between the kitchen, dining and living rooms. Bread is already sizzling on a huge skillet, and I can smell bacon as well.

“You’re making bacon too?” I say, shocked. Mom almost never bothers with bacon when she’s making French toast.

“I thought Erin might like it.”

“I love it,” Erin says with a smile.

Mom raises both eyebrows. “See?”

Just then, Dad comes down from upstairs. “Hey, David. Hello, Erin. So good to see you again.” Dad’s in a dress shirt and slacks, no tie. His gray eyes crinkling, he shakes hands with Erin, and slaps my shoulder. “You know we have a special guest when your mom does the bacon and French toast.” He smiles at Erin.

That’s true. And when she makes bacon and French toast, she doesn’t try to force us to eat salad with it. Double win!

Erin flushes, biting her lip. “She didn’t have to go to the trouble.”

“Nah. She loves to pamper her family,” Dad says.

“If I don’t pamper my family, who will?” Mom calls out from the kitchen, repeating her lifelong mantra. She places plates on the eat-in counter with stools. “Eddie, can you grab the maple syrup and berries?”

“Yep.” Dad brings out a bottle that says VERMONT in large red cursive letters and a bowl of blueberries, strawberries and raspberries. Then he places a huge bowl of powdered sugar on the counter. “Won’t be complete without this.”

“You’re going to give yourself diabetes,” Mom says.

“Diabetes? Look at me. Do I look like I have diabetes?” Dad gestures at himself. “What do you think, Erin?”

“Hey, don’t drag my fiancée into your health debate,” I say good-naturedly. Mom complains every time Dad wants to douse his food with sugar. Erin just smiles.

Soon the French toast is done and we start eating. Mom wasn’t kidding about perfecting the perfection. Sweet baby Jesus it’s good. “This is amazing, Mom,” I say, wondering what she put in here, because it’s about a hundred times better than I remember.

“I know.” She smiles smugly. “You like it, Erin? If not, I can easily whip up some pancakes, or…”

“No, it’s really good. Excellent texture. Thank you, Mrs. Darling.”

“Oh, honey, you have to stop with the Mrs. Darling. Just Mom is fine. We’re going to be family soon,” Mom says, then bites into a strip of bacon.

Erin freezes for a split second. “Uh…” She shoots me an uncertain look, waiting for my cue.

Ah, shit. I mentally kick myself for not telling her that I want to make what we have more permanent. I can sense that she’s feeling squirmy about calling my parents Mom and Dad when the engagement isn’t real. No matter how busy and exhausted from work we were, I should’ve just said it.

Mom picks up on the hesitation. “Haven’t you set a date yet?”

“Not yet,” I say quickly, not wanting her to make Erin feel pressured.

“Well, if you need help with a venue, let us know. I’m sure we can arrange for something,” Mom says, ever supportive.

Erin flashes her a smile. I think it’s supposed to look grateful, but it comes across as awkward. “Sure.”