I watch Mila spill lie after lie to my sweet, wonderful, knuckle-headed brothers and sisters, their spouses, and to my mom and dad. And I feel bad, not for them, but for putting Mila in this position.
But even as she delivers all these untruths like a professional, she relaxes against me, her body fitting snugly into my side. I let my fingers through the strands of hair falling down her back. I could be mistaken, but I might have caught her glancing my way with a small smile, and I might have felt her hip bump my leg.
Apart from my family’s twisted competitiveness, one of the points of this trip was to spend more time with Mila, too. Weirdly, I feel like we’re bonding.
But how can we build a real relationship if I’m causing her to lie to my family?
I’ll have to tell them the truth at some point. Before we end up planning a fake wedding.
But not tonight.
As profoundly as I feel the twinge of guilt in my gut for using Mila, I’m also enticed into a deeper sense of belonging. With her, with my family, with myself.
I’ve always disliked the phrase “I found my other half,” but I feel it on a molecular level. If I were to ever bring a real girlfriend, a real fiancée, home to meet my family, this is precisely how I’d wish for it to go.
Against my better judgment, I’m swimming in these good feelings, and I have to figure out how to make it real for both of us.
* * *
After everyone fillsup on appetizers and we’ve answered as many questions as Mom will allow—“nosy nellies,” she calls my siblings—it’s time to play cards.
“Mila, what’s your favorite game? You pick,” says Beau.
“Well, my favorite game is 21,” she answers immediately.
“Blackjack? Sure, let’s do it,” Dad says. “We can only have seven players, though. Who’s in?”
Minutes later, we’re all paired off around the table, and Mom deals.
I pull Mila into my lap and kiss the freckled skin that shows through the peek-a-boo shoulder of her top. “Will you be my teammate?”
Expecting to get another angry look from her, Mila wraps her arm around my shoulders and kisses me on the forehead. “Always, babe.”
Sawyer swoons. “Aww, you guys are so cute! Let me get a picture.”
Mila’s body tenses in my arms again, and I squeeze her closer to my chest while my sister snaps a few photos. But she smiles brightly.
“Sawyer,” I say to my sister. “If you could not post those on Facebook, I’d consider it a favor.”
My sweet, easy-going sister nods. “No problem.”
Bryan shoots me a questioning look, and Mila catches it. She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear and explains, “Uh…I’ve been getting harassed online, and…I wouldn’t want anyone to harass you guys because of me.”
Tabitha sits straight on the love seat she shares with Eden across the coffee table from us in the den. “What? Who? That’s awful. I want names.” Eden pats her wife’s back in a gesture meant to bring her blood pressure back down.
“Can we get on with the game now?” Bryan asks.
“Wait, what are we using for currency?” asks Betsy.
Mom pops up from the sofa, disappears upstairs, and returns a minute later with a huge velvet drawstring bag.
“Oh my god,” I groan.
Sawyer gasps. “Ozzie’s polished rocks!”
“Mom, I can’t believe you still have those,” I mutter, burying my face in Mila’s shirt.
Mila’s confused. “What’s so embarrassing about polished rocks?”