ELEVEN
Mila
This house looks like something out of a movie. The sprawling, two-story home is set back from a long driveway lined with ancient oaks and firs, minutes away from the city. The stonework exterior blends with the natural setting; the foundation looks like it was built out of river rocks more than a hundred years ago. While it’s not as big as the house I grew up in, it has ten times the character.
A stone pathway leads up to an orange door decorated with fall wreaths and pumpkins of all colors. It makes me smile and tugs at a long-forgotten memory. I think, at some point, my mother carved pumpkins with me, but it was so long ago.
The oversized vases on either side of the front door are overgrown with moss and a chaotic collection of gourds and flowers. The rainbow-shaped welcome mat reads, “Keep Asheville Weird.”
I’m instantly overwhelmed by a sense of home when we step inside. So overwhelmed, I have to fight the urge to run. The look of the place is antique—bureaus, a writing desk with a feathered fountain pen, an old-fashioned coat rack—mixed with modern art on the walls. The paintings are interrupted by black and white candids of what I’m guessing are his family.
A heavenly scent wafts in from the hall. Apple pie and something savory.
Everything about this place feels like a hug, and I’m on the verge of running away. This has to be a show; someone went to some effort because they heard a guest was coming.
I’m about to turn to Ozzie and ask him if it’s too late to change my mind when a woman about my height with wavy gray hair marches into the foyer like she’s on a mission, wiping her hands on an apron that reads, “Have you kissed the cook today?”
“Well, if it isn’t the top-secret secret!” the woman exclaims.
If only she knew.
The woman nearly tackles Ozzie in a tight hug, and the sweetness of it is too much. “Your hair is so long,” she sighs. “Want me to cut it while you’re home?”
“Mom, I’ve been gone two months; it hasn’t grown at all.”
Ozzie winces at having his cheek pinched, and then his mom turns to me.
I stretch out my hand. “I’m Mila.”
She clutches her chest like she’s looking at an adorable puppy and not, well,me. “I’m sorry, Mila, but I’m a hugger. I hope you don’t mind.”
Before I can answer, Ozzie’s mom has me wrapped in the tightest hug I’ve ever been given in my life. “I’m Margaret. You can call me Emmeline. Or Mom, or hey you, I answer to all of it.”
I can hear Ozzie chuckling, slightly embarrassed, behind me.
“It’s fine,” Ozzie reassures me in my moment of confusion at the mom suggestion. “All of our friends call her Mom.”
So, she doesn’t know yet that we’re supposed to be engaged.
“I…haven’t called anyone mom since I was very young, so if it’s okay with you, Emmeline is better. For now.”
I half expect this woman to pry because I’ve said too much and made a mistake. I’ve hinted that there’s a story there. But she only smiles and hugs me again, tighter.
I like her. Even if I’m not a hugger.
The next person I meet is Ozzie’s dad, Carl, who wanders in looking like he’s been awakened from a nap. The man is big like Ozzie and has the same mischievous glint in his eye in the presence of his pretty wife.
It’s almost too down-to-earth to be authentic. Nothing about this couple screams wealthy. Affluent, yes, but there’s zero flash. Carl wears a pale blue sweater, plaid flannel shirt, corduroy pants, and loafers. He has a firm handshake with no rings on his fingers but a wedding ring.
I immediately hate myself for lying to them. They’re so…good. I can’t figure these two out. In my world, parents like this are characters on TV.
“So glad you could make it this weekend, Mila. I’ve heard…absolutely nothing about you,” Carl says, winking at his son.
Emmeline playfully jabs her husband in the side. “None of us have heard anything, but there’s plenty of time for that. Let the girl get settled before you start the interrogation.”
Ozzie clears his throat. “Mom, Dad. This is my fiancée.”
Okay, so I guess we’re gonna get that out of the way first.