When he hears the worry in my voice, Jamie opens his eyes fully, his mouth tipped in a frown of concern. “What is it?”

Squeezing his hand, I ask him, “How do you feel about meeting my parents?”

· THIRTY ·

Jamie

“You’re sure this is all right?” I stroke Bea’s palm with my thumb, our hands clasped as we stand on her parents’ front porch.

“Yep,” she says brightly. Too brightly. Like she’s nervous. Is she nervous for me to meet her parents?

But before I can say anything else—offer to swig a Gatorade, stuff a few saltines down my throat, and call it a night instead—she’s slid her key into the lock and is opening the door of her parents’ home.

A flood of memories washes over me. The last time I was here, that’s when all this began. I see it perfectly—the milling crowd of people as I walked in and covered my face in that damn itchy lion mask, blending into the jungle mayhem as the cold prickle of anxiety slithered down my spine. I hear the noise of the room once again—laughter, small talk, clinking glasses, clattering appetizer plates—and then I remember it, the moment I heard her soft voice, caught the faintest trace of enticing, earthy perfume, when I saw—

“Bea!” It’s unmistakably her mother, not just because it’s her home but because she and her daughter have the same sparkling sea-storm eyes and wide smile. She crosses the foyer and opens her arms. “Come in! Come in! Ohh, it’s good to finally meet you, Jamie.”

I’m wrapped in a lavender-perfumed hug before Bea gets in a word of introduction. Our gazes connect over her mother’s shoulder and Bea smiles, mouthing, Sorry.

I shake my head. There’s nothing for her to be sorry for. Especially not the lump in my throat that makes it hard to swallow as Mrs. Wilmot releases me from her motherly hug and smiles between us. “Well?” she prompts Bea. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Hold on! Wait for me,” Bea’s father calls, tugging a sweater over his head as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He’s tall and straight-backed, and he gave Bea his dark hair. His is now silvered at the temples, his smile kind, as he hugs Bea with a kiss to her hair, then offers me a firm handshake. “Welcome.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh my.” Mrs. Wilmot sets a hand on her cheek. “So delightfully proper.”

Bea sidles up to me and threads her arm through mine. “Mom, Dad, this is Jamie Westenberg, my boyfriend.” She blushes beautifully and squeezes my arm, meeting my eyes as she gives me a don’t you dare laugh look. “Jame, these are my parents, Maureen and Bill.”