Nervously, I extend my hand and he takes it. “Sir, it’s good to meet you.”
Mrs. Lockhart—Wendy—preens at Caleb. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?”
“Mom,” Caleb warns with a grimace.
“Sorry, sweetie.” She’s not sorry at all, because she looks at us both and sighs contently. “I’ll grab my coat and we can go.”
Caleb’s dad walks to the bottom of the stairwell, grabs the newel post, and shouts upstairs, “Guys! We’re leaving!”
Caleb groans again, and I look up at him. “What?”
“They invited everyone.”
I gulp. “Everyone?”
He nods. “Affirmative. Everyone.”
Oh boy.
Caleb
One by one, our friends and teammates walk through the heavy wooden doors of The Brewery, a local microbrewery and restaurant on the river, gathering in the hostess area. Collectively, there only ends up being eleven of us total, but given the size of half the people present, it might as well have been thirty.
Abby excuses herself to use the bathroom when we walk into the coat check area, and my parents use the opportunity to discreetly grill me as Blaze and Stephan excuse themselves to secure us a table. I shudder at the thought of having anyone else present when Mom pounces on me.
She is delirious with enthusiasm. “Caleb, she seems so sweet.”
Has it escaped anyone else’s notice that Mom has used the word ‘sweet’ at least three times in the last half hour? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Annoyed, I roll my eyes. “That’s because she is.”
“It didn’t take her long to get ready from the time you texted her to the time you picked her up. Punctual. I like that,” my dad says, taking a toothpick from the container on the hostess stand, unwrapping it, and sticking it between his bottom teeth.
He wiggles it around with his tongue, and it flops up and down as he watches me.
“That’s because she was at church and her hair was already done,” I point out.
My mom covers her heart with her right hand and whispers, “She goes to church?”
I cross my arms, and even though it’s disrespectful, I glare at my mother. “I swear to God, Mom, if you start tearing up, we’re leaving.”
My dad clamps a hand on my shoulder and leans in close. “Give your mom a break, bud.” He’s called me bud since I was little-ish. “We’ve never seen you with anyone. We know you’re not gay, but quite personally, I was really beginning to wonder. Not that it would matter.”
“I want grandbabies,” my mom announces.
Oh yeah.
Every college guy’s worst nightmare, and she went there.
“Mom!” I shush her, horrified. “Stop. Jesus, she could come back any minute and hear you.”
“Fine, I’ll behave.” My mom has the decency to look shamefaced. Sort of. Okay, not really. “I’m just so happy! My little boy finally likes a girl!”
Abby
After a lot of shuffling around, I end up sitting sandwiched between Jenna and Caleb, his mom and dad on one end of the table, Molly and Weston at the other, while Cubby, Stephan, Blaze and Shelby sit across from us.
It’s not long before the table is covered with appetizers—eight plates in all—and everyone is digging in, the waitress making her rounds and taking everyone’s dinner order.
So far, so good.
That is, until…
Yup. Someone is definitely rubbing their foot clumsily up and down my leg, the rubber sole of a running shoe digging into my calf. As the foot grazes my shin, I look up, immediately fixating my gaze on Caleb, who has his head bent, eyes moving across the menu, elbows resting on the table in front of him.
Nope, not him.
My brow furrows, and I arch my back to get a quick look under the table. “Cubby, are you playing footsie with me?” I ask as quietly as I can across the table and bite my lip nervously. He doesn’t hear me, so I ask again. “Psst. Cubby.” I glance over at Caleb anxiously. “Are you playing footsie with me?” I half-mouth and half-pantomime this last part.
“No! I’m playing footsie with her,” he replies at the top of his lungs, pointing at Jenna with his meaty middle finger.
My roommate laughs. “No, doofus, you have the wrong foot.”
Cubby looks under the table. “Whoops. Sorry.”
He certainly doesn’t look sorry.
“I want to play footsie!” Blaze teases, putting his arm around Shelby and planting a kiss on her blonde temple.
Molly chimes in, “I remember once, when Cecelia came to dinner at my parent’s house, Matthew tried playing footsie under the table with her but ended up rubbing my leg instead.” She takes a sip of water. “He was so embarrassed. To this day he still won’t admit it was him.”
“If he wouldn’t admit it was him, who does he say that it was?” Shelby wants to know.
Molly shrugs. “He just pretends it never happened. But I’m telling you, his foot was up my pant leg. I thought I was going to gag when I realized he had his shoe off. Cecelia was horrified. Of course, that was when they hated each other.”