Cuffing and Turkey Stuffing

Chapter 2

Saturday, two weeks before Christmas…

My hair isn’t sitting the way I want it to, obviously, because that’s the way of the world—when you want to look your absolute best, you don’t. When you look like two-day old roadkill, everyone you know and their mother sees you out in public, even if it’s to duck into the grocery store to buy four jars of peanut butter.

I’ve copied to the best of my ability what Max told me to do for my new-to-me makeup, although it’s not quite as relaxing as when she did it to me. I used foundation and concealer sparingly (as instructed) to cover up my under-eye luggage and some redness around my nose and mouth.

My eyeshadow is appropriate for brunch, and while Max said I could use false eyelashes if I wanted to, they felt weird on yesterday, to the point where I could see them in my field of vision and it wigged me out, so I forego them today.

I’m wearing my nicest jeans, a new pair since I’ve gained some weight and some muscle, needing to go up a size, in black (because it’s me) and a cozy sweater in dark gray, colors that I feel comfortable in. I’m putting on my Doc Martens when a knock comes at the door, and I struggle to unlock and turn the knob as I stay crouched, tying up the laces that have come undone.

It’s Michael, obviously.

He likes to knock instead of text, which feels kind of old-world to me, but I like it just the same.

Shit, I’m just so happy to see him, even as I’ve twisted my neck to get a glimpse of him.

“Almost done, just give me a sec!” I tie one boot then the other, leaning down to grab the bag of treats I’m going to bring over—something I can’t really pronounce from this Greek bakery nearby that had me pressing myself up against the glass to peer inside at all the deliciousness sitting there under the glass casing.

I get vertical, fighting the momentary wave of dizziness, and hold out the bag. I look up at Michael who looks like he’s been struck dumb, or someone’s doing a brain transplant right here and now and nobody told him, nobody.

“Hey,” I say, leaning up on my tiptoes, putting a palm to his giant chest, pressing a kiss to his cheek. I make a pained noise when I notice I’ve left lip gloss there. I forgot I was wearing lip gloss, forgot there was anything on my face. s**t.

“Ah, sorry, sorry. You look handsome,” I say. “I’m going to have to fight men and women off of you with my bare hands unless you find me a weapon.”

Michael lets out a surprised laugh. “Am I allowed to kiss you?” he asks, pointing towards his mouth.

Oh God, I didn’t think this through…how am I supposed to kiss Michael without getting him all goopy and sticky with gloss?

Who created lip gloss anyway? What’s the freaking point of looking like you’ve just been kissed when I can get the real thing right now?

“Hold on, let me take it off,” I say, pushing the bag towards him and running into my bathroom to get a wad of toilet paper, carefully taking off the gloss, which means I’m going to have to take it with me. I grab at the one I used from my bathroom vanity, shoving it into my coat pocket, double-checking that I have my phone, my wallet and my keys.

“Okay, hi,” I say, puckering up, making Michael laugh before he decides to kiss me.

“Strawberries,” he murmurs against my mouth, kissing me again. “You taste like strawberries.” He hums as he pulls back, and I have to bring my thumb up to wipe off some of the remnant gloss I got on the side of his mouth in my haste to come back and receive my allotted kisses for the day. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that,” I say, tugging on his hand and getting us into the hallway so I can lock up my door behind me, tugging him along until we reach the elevators, the doors opening right away.

I guess the universe is okay with the idea of me meeting Michael’s parents for the first time.

Oh, boy.

“No sweet-talking while we’re there. Just call me Vick.”

“But what if I want to sweet-talk you? I like calling you sweetheart, and you seem to like it, too.” He looks pretty choked up about my ground rules.

I sigh, watching the numbers go down, down, down, until we hit SS, and the doors open to the garage.

Michael takes the lead now, tugging me towards his car, unlocking the doors with a beep once I take the bag of treats back. He even opens the door for me, being all adorable, that I kind of want to push him up against his own car and kiss him until he’s breathless and all flushed and even more adorable.

I’m able to rein myself in—just barely—from accosting him like that, and settle into the passenger seat of his car, waving when he closes the door for me.

What’s even cuter? He waves right back, before he rounds the car and getting into the driver’s seat, and pulls out of his spot towards the opening garage door.

“It doesn’t matter that I like it when you call me that, please don’t do it.”

“All right, I won’t,” he says, nodding towards the red light, pulling up towards it. He looks over to me. “Sweetheart.” He grins as I pretend to swat at him while the seatbelt across my chest holds me hostage. “You look beautiful by the way, as always.”

“Yeah, I’ve got all this gunk on my face,” I say, pulling down the visor and checking myself out in the mirror. I did a good job, but wow does natural light make all the difference. “Wow, my eyeballs look really blue, like they could match my hair. Wow.” I feel pretty in a way I haven’t felt for a long time.

“They do. Are you feeling okay about this?”

“I mean, what are you going to do?” I point towards the green light since Michael is distracted by my beautiful face. “Take us on a joyride and say we got a flat tire? I’m not a coward. I can do this, I can do this. Watch me, I can do it.” It feels a lot like getting ready for a game, my heart thumping wildly in my chest, sitting at the base of my throat.

Michael laughs, reaching over, his palm up waiting for my hand to meet his. I pulverize his giant hand with my two-handed grip, placing it down on my thigh as I start to sweat in the cool car, the heat having yet to kick at a hundred percent.

“You’re going to be great. It’s not like they’re going to kick you out for having blue hair. They’ve seen pictures.”

I squirm in my seat, my grip spasming along his hand, like a pulsing heart. “I just want them to like me, obviously. Makes me feel like I’m back in high school, begging someone to be friends with me.”

“Yeah? I gave up on trying to make friends until the ninth grade.”

“What happened in the ninth grade?”

“I hit my growth spurt. All gangly limbs, knocking into s**t all the time. My knees were killing me always, my joints, my back. It hurt.”

“Wait, what kind of growth spurt are we talking about?” I look at his long legs, wondering if there was a time he was ever small.

“Something close to seven inches in a year. Then another four after that until I was sixteen or so. It hurt like a bitch.”

“Is it weird that I’m the one feeling pain in my knees right now? I’m not kidding, they’re aching!” I rub at my knee with one hand, frowning down at my leg when it starts to tingle.

Michael laughs, bringing up my hand from my death grip and kissing my knuckles, which somehow makes all of this a little bit better.

Not by much, but that little bit makes all the difference.

The house looks like a normal house, not like something out of a gothic novel where suddenly rain and thunder start pouring down (the rain, not the thunder) and the trees look freaky because they end up looking like sharp claws when they’re soaking wet and creaking and moving all over the damn place.

There’s a bunch of them right in front of the house so you have to squint to find the door, but I guess maybe in the heart of summer it feels like you’re entering a secret garden.

Michael holds my hand while we make our way up the path from parking at the curb, up, up, up to the door, my hand going cold and clammy in his grip instead of the toasty warm it was in the car. It’s not that cold to be this cold, so I know I’m more nervous than I think I am, which only serves to make me more nervous.

I pull in a deep, deep breath when Michael gives my hand a reassuring squeeze and looks down at me with a reassuring smile before leaning forward to ring the doorbell, my heart drumming hard in my chest, clutching tightly to the bag of treats and hoping it’s going to get them to like me.

I don’t know Michael’s purpose of me meeting his parents for the first time, so close to Christmas in the first place, but I think it means that he’s pretty serious about me, that he might see a future with me.

Which means that maybe by this time next year, maybe we’ll be engaged.

Can I see myself getting engaged to Michael?

Can I see myself spending the rest of my life with him?

It’s been a hundred years since I’ve been sure of anyone like I am of him.

So what’s your answer, Vick? Yes or no?

The door swings open and a petite blonde woman with dark brown eyes and pale skin greets us, smiling wide enough that it looks like it might start to hurt after a little while.

I have the awful urge to drop my hand from Michael’s grip, even let my hand go loosey-goosey in his so he has to let go, but he doesn’t, he just holds on even tighter.

“Hello,” Michael’s mom says, her voice accented. “I’m Dominique. Welcome to our home. Please, come in, come in.”

Michael finally lets go of my hand and pushes me forward (no, really, I need the push or else I’m going to go running for the hills). I keep my smile pinned to my face, stepping across the threshold and moving inside enough so that Michael is practically pressed up right behind me as we both work on our boots after I’ve handed Mrs. Nash the bag of goodies.

“Thank you for welcoming me into your home,” I say, stumbling over the words a little bit, as if I haven’t spoken to another human before and my human speech skills are more than a little rusty.

Oh my God, don’t do this to me now, don’t do this to me now!

I place another smile on my face as I toe off my boots, crouching down to place them on the plastic tray away from the entryway so nobody kills themselves if they need to come in—or get out.

Michael takes my coat, and I stand there, like an i***t, looking at his mom and wondering what I’m supposed to say.

“I’m Victoria,” I say, holding out my hand for a shake, but I end up getting a hug instead and it feels odd, getting one so easily from a stranger, but I let her hug me, let her have that familiarity she wants with me even if it makes me just a little uncomfortable.

I don’t know—hugging’s usually been for close friends and family, and Michael, and adding another person to the Venn diagram has me stepping out of my comfort zone.

“Please, please,” Dominique says, grabbing onto Michael’s hand, who grabs onto my hand and we walk into the house like that, in a human train form that has me nervous and afraid and a little endeared despite myself.

We walk down the hall into a kitchen, the biggest open space I’ve seen so far, the whole back wall nothing but windows overlooking a giant backyard—with a giant black dog in the middle of it.

“Dog.” I point, like a stupid i***t, and mash my lips together hard while dropping my hand, as if I can erase the last few seconds by pretending that I haven’t actually spoken. I cough into my elbow, scratch at the back of my neck, shove my hair behind my ear with one hand since Michael’s still got a hold of the other one.

Michael’s smiling at me, that fondness shining through and for the entire world to see, mainly his mother. Dominique looks over at me, her head tilted to the side, in the exact same way and precise angle that Michael’s always done it.

“You didn’t tell me you had a dog,” I say, turning back towards the glass wall and looking through.

The dog looks menacing, no doubt about it, all black and sort of mixing in with the shadows coming off the trees from high noon (or so), the kind of dog that reminds me of the covers of horror novels that I would steadily pass right by at the bookstore. There’s no way I’m paying someone to make me have nightmares.

That happened after I finished that stupid-long book It—never again.

Never again.

“He’s my parents’ dog. That’s Odysseus.”

I choke on air at the name, and Michael takes me over to the patio door, sliding it open as he whistles for the dog.

“He’s blind, poor boy, but that doesn’t ruin his day, now does it?” Michael practically coos to the dog, Odysseus moving around his legs, bumping his head and his body against his shins and knees. The dog keeps pressing Michael back in a way so that he has to drop my hand to keep his balance with his arms spread out.

His laugh is glorious, and Odysseus whines with happiness as he licks at hands and anything he can reach.

All three of us get inside the house properly now, Michael closing the patio door behind him, flicking the lock while Odysseus comes to investigate who I am, his tail rigid, and I feel like that’s a bad sign.

Michael holds onto my hand, leaning down so our clasped hands are in front of his dog, even as my heart leaps up my throat, and worry curdles in my stomach. The dog just sniffs, and finally licks the back of my hand, giving me his seal of approval.

Whew. I’m glad that went well.

“Hey, pup,” I murmur, moving slowly until Odysseus kind of bumps into my hand, startles for a quick second and then allows me to pet him, his long black fur a little damp from the snow he’d clearly been rolling around in.

“What a good boy, listening to Michael, huh? Good boy, best boy, cute boy,” I say, crouching down, letting go of Michael’s hand. The pup gets his snout somehow underneath my hair and his cold, wet nose makes contact with my throat. I squeal at the contact, and then get licked over my face for my trouble.

“Okay, okay, Odie,” Michael says above me, wrangling the dog to the side, being gentle and careful but playful all at the same time.

Odysseus is a big dog, I think maybe around eighty pounds or so if I can guesstimate right, and in Michael’s hands, he looks like nothing but a cute puppy as Michael hefts him up, snuggles him close and holds him like he would a baby (an eighty-pound baby), and the dog just lets him.

Wow.

Look at my man, being a dog-whisperer. Wow. Is there nothing he can’t do?

Get you to fess up about what you do for a living…how you feel about him, maybe. How’s that for what he can’t do?

“Michael, is that you?” A man’s voice comes floating above me where Michael has carefully set down his dog, and I can’t see really all that well being this close to the kitchen island, so I pop up like a jack-in-the-box and smile at the newcomer.

Michael’s dad looks exactly like him, or really, it’s the other way around since Michael came second, except for the cleft lip, but it’s a sneak peek of what Michael’s going to look like, thirty years from now.

Shit, he has good genetics.

Good. Genetics.

“Hello,” Mr. Nash says, his voice accented, too, the sing-song Welsh of it coming through, but Lord knows if I can figure out from which region. I hold out my hand for a shake, and Mr. Nash gives me a business-like one-two pump and then drops my hand, smiling at me genuinely.

Okay, so this might not be so bad.

“Victoria,” I introduce myself, dropping my hand back once the shake is done, stuffing it in the back pockets of my jeans. “Very nice to meet you,” I say, sounding awkward as hell, even to my own ears. “Mrs. Nash, is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, moving a step closer to the kitchen island.

I’m waved off (thank God because I really might have ruined brunch), and I follow Michael around like a lost puppy, helping him pour the coffees and carting the mugs carefully to the table, narrowly avoiding Odysseus and scalding him with hot coffee.

After another ten minutes, the French toast casserole is taken out of the oven, and Mrs. Nash provides servings for each plate, putting a heaping one onto Michael’s plate, because fair, he’s the biggest one here.

We take our seats, Michael and I on one side, and his parents on the other, staring at the pair of us in a way that’s starting to make me sweat.

The food is past around, coffee is doctored and made at the table, and there’s a cheers and a welcome and I spit out five thank yous in a row just to make sure I got all the bases covered.

And of course, of course, the questions turn towards me, because I’m the stranger here, and I get it, they’re curious.

Jesus, I wonder what Michael has told them.

“So how long have you been training with Michael now, Victoria?” Mrs. Nash asks, delicately forking some of the French toast into her mouth, chewing like an elegant lady. I’m nervous and I kind of want to wolf my serving down and some of Michael’s plate, but I have to have manners, and I need to relax.

I take a hasty drink of my coffee—I love coffee. I clear my throat, wet my lips and start getting into conversation.

I learn that Michael’s cousin, Lana, is at the library, studying for her last final, the exam scheduled three days before Christmas. The poor kid sounds like she’s losing her mind with all the information she has to cram into her noggin.

Every single person I’ve talked to about university has made it sound like a special circle of hell, and I don’t know if I would ever want to subject myself to that. But maybe you stop caring so much and just enjoy the experience when it’s not tied to a grade, to paying for another semester’s tuition?

I don’t know.

I learn about Michael’s past, how he loved school but had a hard time making friends, how he only got his first girlfriend in the first year of university (and his dad makes it sound like it was some sort of miracle). I know some of this already, but it still feels weird that they’re airing his past out like it’s okay to point fun at.

I’m getting it now, that they’re comparing me to the last girlfriend he had, the one that didn’t make Michael feel like he was an addition to their life, but a hindrance. I don’t like sitting here and taking it. There’s a pinch behind my chest, the secret of my online life sitting underneath my tongue, waiting for the opportune moment for my brain-mouth filter to glitch.

“What do you do for a living?” Mrs. Nash asks, the question like a stab to the heart.

“I’m…” It’s not that big of a deal. I trust Michael. He’s not going to go blab my identity to the internet. The guy doesn’t really believe in social media outside of building up clientele for his business.

“I’m an esports player, which means I’m a professional gamer. I play video games for a living.”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Nash asks, his golden-brown eyes looking too flinty, too bright.

“I play video games for a living, win tournaments to get prize money to make a living.” I enunciate, looking over at Michael, who’s clenching his jaw. Maybe we’re going too fast, maybe I’ve fallen into like with him too fast, and all of this is going to go to s**t now that he knows.

I mean, I’m not a stereotypical woman—I’m on the smaller side, yeah, but I’m not strong or strong-willed, just stubborn enough that I apparently endanger my health to get the number one spot.

Michael turns to look at me, and I know this isn’t going to go well. “What’s your handle for the game you play?”

“Michael, I don’t think your parents want to—”

“I want to know. Please.”

I take one last bite of French toast casserole, knowing it’s going to be the last bite I’m gonna take. “My handle’s NIKTORIOUS.”

“No, no it’s f*****g not.”

“It is, Michael. I’m sorry. I’m NIKTORIOUS. It’s me.”