“They’re going to love you.”
“You don’t know that, and that’s not the point!” I explode.
His eyes widen, and his head jerks backward at my outburst.
I rub my temples. “I’m so sorry.”
His hand lands on my knee and squeezes. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
“I’m— Nothing! I’m just really stressed right now.”
“You are? Since when?”
“All the time,” I say miserably, then backtrack when he seems more confused than ever. “Well, not when I’m with you. Which I guess is a lot of the time. But at work, I’m dying. Things are starting to pile up at home, too. With Greg and Deirdre’s wedding happening in two months, that stuff is ratcheting up.”
“How can I help?”
“You were supposed to help by going away for a couple of weeks.”
As soon as the words are out, I regret them.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly say again, placing a hand against the side of his face and kissing his lips. He could be a statue, except his eyes shoot to the side and down at the floor. Then his Adam’s apple bobs.
“You can’t do anything to help me, especially with the work stuff. I have to do it all by myself, like a big girl. But I’ve learned that event planning isn’t my strength, and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing, so I’m paralyzed by my ineptitude, and I’m mostly doing nothing about it, rather than facing it.”
I’m relieved my explanation seems to have gone a long way toward fixing my outburst, and he’s willing to resume eye contact with me, but I add, “Really. I’m so sorry I said that about you going away.”
“Well, you obviously feel that way, and if you do, I can go back to my original plans.” He twists the drawstring of his hoodie around his fingers and frowns.
Oh, shit. Not the pout. It’s the one thing Jet does that never fails to grate on my nerves. The puppy-dog eyes, the down-turned mouth, the small voice. It makes me want to scream. Grown-ass adults don’t pout. If he’d rail at me when he’s hurt or mad or doesn’t get his way, I could give it right back to him, but I have no recourse with the pout. If I give in to my irritation, I look and feel like a huge bitch. But it seriously pisses me off that the only acceptable reaction is a sympathetic one that encourages his childish behavior.
Today’s no different, and I hasten to appease him. “No! No. I do want to meet your family. But I’m overwhelmed. By everything.”
He smiles tenderly at me, and the pout is forgiven. I’d probably forgive him anything with him looking at me that way. “Aw, Maura. It’s going to be okay. All of it. I promise.”
For a second, I believe him. I press my forehead to his and nod. “Okay.”
“I was mega-nervous about meeting your mom and dad, too, but it turned out fine.”
And… we’re back to freaking out.
“You’re Jet Knox. They already knew you and loved you before you ever sat at my mom’s table and complimented her cooking and ate that huge slice of banana cake when you were so full, you wanted to puke.”
“Well, when a woman’s chanting your name and ‘Eat! Eat! Eat!’ it’s hard to refuse.”
I laugh and grimace. “Oh, my gosh.”
“The Knox jerseys were a nice touch, too. I thought your mom was going to fall down when she struck that Heisman pose for me. I felt bad having to admit I never won one.”
“And speaking of Heisman finalists, is my dad still harassing you about Michael Wilcox and the possibility of you guys drafting him?” I ask, referring to the University of Nebraska alum who’s been slated as one of the incoming class of quarterbacks to watch.
Jet’s sheepish smile is answer enough.
“That’s it. You have to tell him to stop.”
“It’s not a big deal. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“He’s so clueless! I wish he’d pick up on a social cue once in a while and not have to be told to cool it. I’ll find a way to get him to stop bothering you about it.”
“Be nice, though. I don’t want him to think I was complaining about it. He’s passionate about Chiefs football. I’m never going to complain about that.” Jet tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “I love Linda and Bruce. You’re going to love my family, too. And they’re going to love you. It’ll be perfect.”
“They’ll be here next weekend? All of them?”
“Weekend after. Had to give everyone a chance to change their flights. They’ll only be staying a week, instead of two.”
Thank God for small miracles.
“Plus, Cyndi, Justin, and Mikey won’t be able to join us from Germany. But they weren’t going to come out to California, either.”
“Oh. So that makes”—I count the people in my head—“a total of fourteen guests?”
“Not guests. Family. You’ll see. It’s a blast.”
In an effort to hide my concerns and end the conversation that’s doing nothing to allay my fears, I turn back to the movie, where Edward Norton is getting his ass kicked. Something tells me I’m going to feel like that in a couple of weeks.
Twenty-One
Procrastinating Panic
A week and a half later, nothing has changed. Except my anxiety level. Yeah, that’s increased about five hundred percent. Because not only am I still grappling with issues at work—and now dealing with a boss who wants to see a plan (a real one) for the fall job fair before the end of next week—but I’m three days away from the Knox family invasion—and on my period.
In addition, today I received my invitations to Deirdre’s bachelorette tea and bachelorette party, two events I have to somehow cram into my bursting May calendar. I’ve just hung up with Deirdre after RSVP’ing to both things.
The true purpose of my call was to get an explanation for this deviation from tradition, and to possibly get out of one of the events. It sounded hopeful, at first, when Deirdre said, “I
