He playfully slaps my ass. “You know it.”
“I see how it is.”
His smile slips away and his expression becomes serious. “Really though, I want you to move in with me. I love you. I want to have a life with you. I wouldn’t have given up my job if I wasn’t serious about making this relationship work. I’ve never felt like this about anyone in my life.”
The air grows heavy in my lungs. I love him too, more than anything. My parents will freak when they find out I’ve left the dorms and moved in with an older man—my former teacher, nonetheless—but I don’t care. I want to be with him.
“Yes, I will move in with you.”
He kisses my forehead, the tip of my nose, and then my lips, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
Epilogue
Loche Johnson
One Year Later
Georgia comes into the bathroom, where I’m brushing my teeth and grabbing the things I forgot to pack and putting them in our overnight bag.
“Are you sure you feel up to meeting my parents?” she asks. “I can tell them you have the flu.”
I spit out toothpaste and rinse my mouth. “It’s been a year since you moved in with me, I think it’s finally time I met them.”
She fixes my collar and kisses me. I take her hand. “You ready?” I ask her.
“I think so,” she says with a deep breath and a smile.
We double-check our packing list and head for the airport.
After a long flight and a four-hour layover, our plane finally lands. This will be my first time meeting Georgia’s parents, but I’ve actually talked to her mom several times on the phone, just friendly chatter to get to know one another more. When she sidelined me, asking me to come to their Thanksgiving dinner, I wasn’t sure what to say, and so I just said yes.
“Why would you do such a thing?” Georgia had asked, panicked out of her mind. She’s concerned about what they’ll think about me being ten years older than she is and a former teacher at the university she attends. Not that she never planned to tell them; she just wanted to ease her way into the conversation.
After a year of us being together, the subject could’ve found its way into a conversation sooner, but I never said that—they’re her parents and she can deal with them how she wants. Of course we won’t tell them that I was her teacher and our relationship is the reason I’m no longer employed there. If they don’t ask, I won’t bring it up. If they do, I’ll just explain that I found opportunities elsewhere—which is true. I’m now working in a lab, creating chemical formulas for cosmetic and skincare companies. Sort of a dream job, utilizing my skills as a chemist instead of teaching others how to hone theirs. Had I not met Georgia, it might not have ever happened.
I pull the rented car up to a small, quaint house with the all-American white picket fence out front, and a giant oak tree with a tire swing hanging from its limb that has been there so long the tree has started to grow around the rope itself. Must’ve been left over from Georgia’s childhood. I can imagine a younger version of her, with knobby knees and sun-kissed, long, awkward legs, as she kicked at the ground to push herself higher. Early Christmas lights are hung, gearing up for the holidays, and pumpkins and Indian corn decorate the porch. There are several cars in the driveway.
“My brothers are already here,” Georgia says.
I have to admit, I’m a little intimidated by the idea of meeting her entire family at the same time. There are three brothers in all, two of them fully grown, married, and with kids of their own, as well as a younger brother still in high school.
“Great,” I say. “Can’t wait to meet them.”
I’d hoped to ease into the situation by meeting her parents first and getting them to like me, before meeting the older, protective brothers. I figured if I had the parents’ approval, the brothers would follow suit. Now I have to impress everyone at the same time. I just hope I have it in me.
I’m carrying two bottles of champagne in my arms, the same Dom Perignon that I’d bought for my first evening with Georgia.
The Christmas lights flicker on and the front door opens before we’ve made it to the porch. Her parents crowd in the doorway, their smiles beaming at their daughter.
“George,” her dad says. The nickname is funny and suits her, in a way.
Her dad is older than I was expecting, probably in his late sixties, with silver hair and a kind face. Her mom, on the other hand, can’t be older than early fifties, with long dark hair and streaks of blond that twist up in a bun. Maybe the age difference between me and Georgia won’t be an issue, since it’s clearly the same situation as her parents.
“And you must be Loche,” her mom says with outstretched hands. I take her awaiting hands and she gives mine a squeeze.
“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Brightly,” I say.
“Please, call me Angela.”
“Come on you two, let’s go in before the food gets cold,” her dad says.
It’s probably already cold. We were supposed to be here and hour ago, but with our delayed flight, there was nothing I could do.
Inside, the house is exactly how I pictured it would be: cozy, lived in, pictures of their family covering all available surfaces. We go into the dining room, where the table has been set. The rest of her family has already taken their seats and are waiting on us.
It’s a large table with an elegant lace tablecloth and gold runner down the middle. Large clear vases filled with cranberries and dried flowers in fall colors make up the centerpieces, and the entire room is lit with candles. It’s comfortable and homey, filled with tvoices, laughter, children, and memories being made.
“This is my oldest brother, Cameron, his wife, Jenny, and their two kids, Marley and Trixie,” Georgia says, introducing me. Cameron is well groomed, a kind of nerdy looking guy, his wife a bit overweight but pretty. Their two small children, neither of them over five, keep reaching for the candles, their mother patting at their hands.
The middle brother’s name is Blake. He eyes me skeptically, but it’s a bit over-rehearsed, like he’s been practicing at being intimidating. If he wasn’t nearly a foot shorter than me and about seventy pounds shy, it might’ve had the desired effect. His wife has a terrible case of resting bitch face and looks as though she’d rather be anywhere but here at the moment with her young children arguing over silverware at the table.
The youngest, London, sixteen, has sort of a goth thing going on, wearing eyeliner and black clothes. He wears headphones and plays a handheld video game. I feel like I already know these people from everything Georgia has said about them.
“Hi, everyone. It’s good to finally meet you,” I say.
I go around the table, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries until I get to London, who ignores me. We sit down to eat. Mrs. Brightly brings out a large turkey, and there’s every side dish I can imagine. They go about the table and say what they’re grateful for. The two older brothers say their jobs and family. Georgia’s parents say the same. London says “tits” and his dad threatens to send him to his room, and the younger kids who know what tits are laugh.
This causes enough of a distraction so that the family forgets that Georgia and I haven’t said what we are thankful for, but I lean over to her and whisper, “I’m grateful for you.”
“Funny, I was gonna say the same thing about you,” she says, nudging my arm with an elbow.
We start eating. I’m in and out of different conversations with the older brothers when Georgia’s mom asks, “Will the two of you be staying in Georgia’s old room tonight?”
Her dad’s eyebrows rise as if it just now occurred to him that Georgia and I might be sleeping together.
London looks up for the first time, his black eyeliner gooped up in the inner corners of his eyes.
“I better not hear you going at it tonight,” he says.
“London!” cries Mrs. Brightly.
Cameron slaps him on the back of the head and tells him not to talk
like that in front of the children.
Georgia’s dad just shakes his head like he’s used to this kind of behavior.
It’s quiet for several uncomfortable seconds.
I’m not sure what to say. Not about London, and not about our sleeping arrangements. We hadn’t made prior plans. I wanted to get a feel for the place and Georgia’s family, gage my comfort levels before deciding what to do and what options were available to us. I just assumed I’d be sleeping on a couch somewhere, which is fine since we’re only here for a couple of days.
“Actually,” Georgia says, “I figured Loche and I would find a motel in town. That way the little ones will have a place to sleep.”