“Thank you,” I say when she lets me go.
“Actually, Mom. He’s not my boyfriend—we’re engaged.” Mari winces, half-covering her pretty lips with a nervous hand.
“You’re what?” Her mom’s careful stare navigates between us.
“We’re getting married.” Mari flashes her eight carat engagement ring, her mouth inching up at the sides.
Margo grabs her hand, bringing the ring close to inspect it. “Is this real?”
Mari nods.
“Good, God.” Margo lets her daughter’s hand fall and steps back. “That’s, um, beautiful. Wow. I’m … speechless.”
Mari turns to me. “For the record, my mom is almost never speechless, so …”
“Shall we head to the car?” I ask. “If the airport security here is anything like New York, he’s probably seconds from getting a ticket.”
Margo laughs. “Oh, sweetheart. Nothing out here is anything like New York.”
I’m seated behind Abel in the backseat of a quad cab Ford pick up. Every chance he gets, he checks his rearview, though I suspect he’s looking at me. So far he seems nice. A bit quiet, but nice. Certainly not the shotgun wielding, threat-spewing small town father I’d conjured up in my head.
“So Hudson, where are you from originally?” Margo calls from the front seat. Abel’s window is down and the truck’s noise nearly prevents me from hearing my own thoughts.
“I was born in Manhattan, attended school mostly in Connecticut. At least until college,” I answer.
“Where did you attend college?” she asks.
“NYU,” I answer.
“Dad, it’s super loud back here. Can you roll your window up?” Mari holds her hair back, keeping it from whipping around in her face.
A moment later it’s quieter, but it’s an awkward sort of quiet. I almost preferred the chaotic road noise.
“We should be home in about twenty minutes,” Margo announces, not that anyone asked.
Abel reaches for the radio, tuning to a country station and cranking up the most depressing song I’ve ever heard. Pulling in a deep breath, I glance out the window and take in the sights of the flattest terrain I’ve ever seen. Couldn’t they have at least had the decency to plant a few extra trees out here? There’s nothing to look at. Nothing.
Except Mari.
Subtly turning my attention to my affianced, I let my eyes follow the curves of her body, head to toe. Her soft blonde hair. Her full, rose-colored lips. Her crossed legs and the way her hand is slipped between them as she leans her head against the glass.
She must feel me watching her because out of nowhere she straightens her posture, whips toward me, and mouths, “What?”
“Nothing,” I mouth back.
“Stop staring,” she mouths.
“I’m not.”
Fighting a smirk, she rolls her eyes, but not before letting them linger for a few seconds more.
“Hudson, I just have to apologize.” Margo clutches her hands over her heart as we stand in the foyer of a 1970s-era split level. The exterior is painted cream with baby blue shutters and a soaring oak tree that’s likely been there for decades. A basketball hoop is affixed over the two-car garage and a parked, tarp-covered car takes up one of the spots. “We had no idea you were coming, so the bed situation is a little … well, Abel’s been sleeping on the sofa because he threw his back out last week. And we turned the guest room into a man cave just after Christmas. You’ll have to stay with Mari in her room.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “No need to apologize.”
“It’s a double bed.” Margo winces. “It’ll be tight.”
“It’s just two nights. We’ll be fine,” Mari says. “Hudson loves to cuddle anyway. Don’t you?”
She winks in my direction.
“You know me well,” I say.
Abel glances at me through the corner of his eye. I’m sure the idea of some strange man sleeping in his daughter’s bed with her doesn’t exactly appeal to him, but it is what it is. I’d offer to stay at a hotel, but I don’t want to insult them.
Hoisting our luggage up half a staircase, we turn to the left and head down a bedroom hall.
“Mari’s room is the last one on the left.” Margo points. “Bathroom is over here on the right. We all share one and the lock is broken, so just knock before you go in. I’m going to get supper started, so feel free to make yourself at home while you wait.”
Her mother leaves, and we head into a small bedroom painted in a sunny shade of yellow with a small double bed anchoring a wall covered in posters and photographs. In the corner rests a mountain of stuffed animals, many of which have clearly seen better days, and a rainbow lamp is nestled on a scratched white nightstand.
“I can’t believe you’re in my childhood bedroom.” Mari plops down on the edge of the bed, her hands sliding across the floral comforter.
“This room looks like the early two-thousands had a baby and that baby threw up all over.” I move closer to inspect the collage wall. “Backstreet Boys, Mari? Seriously? Ninety-Eight Degrees?”
“I had a boy band phase. So what?”
I take a seat beside her. “It smells like … fruit … in here.”
“That’d be Mr. Strawberry.” She points to the corner. “My stuffed bear. Still smells like a dream after all these years.”
“Mr. Strawberry? What an original name.”
“Eight-year-old me takes offense to that.”
“Eight-year-old you should be offended. That’s an atrocious name for a bear.”
“He smells like strawberries and came with a strawberry on his t-shirt. It made sense,” she says, shrugging.
“If we ever have fake babies to go with this fake marriage, remind me not to let you name them,” I tease.
“Fake babies weren’t part of the contract,” she says, tutting her finger. “If you want the privilege of breeding with me, it’ll cost you.”
“Breeding with you? What are you, a dog?”
“I have good genes, Hudson. You saw my parents. Mom’s in her late forties and sometimes she gets carded when she tries to buy margaritas at Los Charros.” Mari shrugs again.
“Anyway. All this talk about genes and babies is making me lose my appetite. Where should I hang my clothes for the weekend?” I rise from the bed, scanning the small room and heading toward her closet. “Is there room in here?”
Mari flinches. “Probably not.”
Yanking the doors open, I’m met with a wall of clothes upon clothes, all crammed in so tight I doubt a man could fit a piece of paper between them.
“What is this? Every article of clothing you’ve ever owned?” I shake my head.
She rises, closing the doors. “I was an only child. And my parents liked to spoil me. I couldn’t throw them out. They worked hard to be able to buy those for me.”
“So you’re just going to keep them forever?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about when I’m going to throw them out. Honestly, I was waiting for one of them to suggest it, but no one’s said anything, so they’re just hanging out in the closet for now.” Mari points to the dresser. “You can use the bottom two drawers. They should be empty.”