“So this question is for Jackie, then, not you?” Smith smiles conspiratorially. “We’re allowed to phone in questions?”
“The opportunity for phone-in questions has passed.”
“Fine.” The tiniest hint of heat splashes across his cheeks and neck. “You can tell Jackie that I’m in a relationship.”
A pit forms in my stomach, and all of a sudden, I’m pissed. Not at Smith for being in a relationship. He’s only been part of my life for the last two hours. He could have an entire harem of women, and I’d be fine with it. No, I’m pissed at myself for having a reaction. It’s like my body and feelings are recruits revolting against my brain, which is very clearly trying to communicate to the rest of me that we don’t care if Smith is in a relationship.
“Is it serious?” I blurt out. “Not that it matters to me.”
“Right.” He chuckles. “It’s Jackie who’s invested in this line of questioning.”
“Obviously.”
“It is serious. Quite serious if I’m being honest. She’s actually flying here tomorrow. It’ll be the first time she meets Mo.”
My stomach twists and pulls in a way that is usually customary only after I’ve gone in too hard on a late-night Del Taco binge. My armpits have also joined the body revolution by turning into a swamp. This game is so fun.
“Have you two been together long?”
It’s almost as if I literally can’t stop myself from asking questions.
“Three months.”
It’s been three months and he’s already carrying around a ring box. Three months? That’s ninety days. Target gives you an entire year to return an air fryer and all that does is heat up chicken nuggets. I know this because it was the only way I was willing to commit to a kitchen appliance. How can he possibly be ready to marry someone he’s only been dating for three months? We dated years before he proposed to me. Years!
We’d also been living together before he proposed to me, which is a crucial step on the path to marriage, in my opinion. Is he already living with this woman? Who moves in with someone that fast? Furthermore, how is it possible that out of the three people in this van, the romance writer is the only single person?
“Wow,” I finally manage to say. “That’s fast.”
“When you know, you know. Right? You used to write romance. You get it. Oh, that’s my first question.” He smiles from ear to ear like he’s enjoying this cruel, torturous game. “Are you an author?”
My phone buzzes before I can answer, and I practically dive into my purse to retrieve it. If there was ever a time that I needed the Smut Coven, it’s now. Actually, it was five minutes ago, before I turned into a sweaty ball of anxiety with a stomachache.
“Ugh,” I groan. “It’s a text from my mother.”
“Good to see the two of you getting along better,” Smith says.
“Yep, we’re basically besties.”
My mother isn’t much of a texter. She’s not the sort of woman who communicates in brief and succinct messages, and with her Southern drawl, talk to text is completely out of the question. I cautiously open the message, and to my surprise, it’s a photo. A photo of a very good-looking man to be exact.
Mom: This is Martin. He wanted to say hi.
I highly doubt this poor man wanted to say hello to me. Martin probably feels like he’s in a hostage situation at this point, and he’s not exactly wrong. My mother would set her own hair on fire before she’d let an eligible bachelor leave her home without meeting her spinster daughter.
I take a better look at the photo. Martin’s leaning against our stone fireplace, head tilted back slightly, with a kind grin spread across his face. I’m not sure if it’s the lighting or the questionable edibles, but he really does look like a Hemsworth.
Penny: Tell Martin I say hello too.
Mom: I’m going to tell him that you can’t wait to get to know him better.
I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to have a more awkward Thanksgiving experience than me, but my mother has just confirmed that with minimal effort, things can always get more cringey. I open the picture once more, just to double-check that it’s real.
“What does Silvia have to say?” Smith leans across the armrest before I have a chance to close out the photo. “Hey now. Your mom looks a hell of a lot different than I remember her.”
“Well, she finally started shaving.” I exit out of my phone and slide it back in my purse. “To answer your question, yes, I’m an author. Next question.”