I glance around the street, frowning. “This is southern California, honey. They’re all stucco.”
“On the left. With the all green Christmas lights.”
I pull up to the curb of a boxy house with a beautiful maple growing in the front yard and kill the engine. Then I wait. I wait for her to be ready because despite what she told me in Minnesota, I will not rush her.
“Are they there?” she asks, her voice full volume and full of disdain.
I glance in the rearview. There’s a familiar motorcycle pulled up to the curb behind me. He hasn’t gotten off the bike yet because he’s learning. We’ve done this dance before. We don’t always get out where we stop. Sometimes I’ll pull up somewhere only to wait for traffic to fill in so I can slip into it and ditch his ass far behind us. I can’t do that here, though. This is a quiet residential with nothing on the road but shadows dancing in the wind from the swaying trees overhead. It’s quiet. Peaceful.
“He’s there,” I tell her. “But only him.”
Lilly’s leg stops twitching. “Are you ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
She nods once, her lips a line of determination. “I’m ready.”
The second I open my door the guy behind us jumps off his bike. He leaves his helmet on as he swings his camera around to start taking pictures. He gets me opening Lilly’s door for her. He gets her taking my hand to step out onto the street. He gets a shot of my hand on her lower back as I follow her up the driveway. He’s smart, though. He stays on the curb. He never gets too close.
That’s something Lilly is learning about the paparazzi. Yeah, they can get up in your shit when you’re out at the clubs and they want the story about what’s going on, who you’re with, where you’re going. They found you and they want you to lead them to something sexy. Something salacious they can capture and sell the next day. Having lunch with her parents on a Monday after we’ve been an openly declared couple for two weeks? That’s old news. Boring, like I told her. It will end up in a ‘The Stars Are Just Like Us!’ section next to Selena Gomez pumping gas while eating a Slim Jim. No one really cares.
Lilly knocks on the door, something that seems weirdly formal at her own parents’ house. In Galena I just walk right in and make myself at home. My mom would yell at me for knocking. But then I remind myself why Lilly does it. Her dad. She can’t just walk in because if this is a bad day just the sight of her could send the whole family into a tailspin.
I put my hand on her shoulder, massaging it gently.
She casts me a warm, grateful smile over her shoulder.
The door swings open and I look across the threshold, across thirty years, right into the future. The woman waiting on the other side is Lilly. Same height, same eyes, same hair. Their faces are identical in shape, their features almost a mirror of each other. Lilly’s lips are different, though. They’re fuller. Rosier by nature. Her cheeks are a little higher as well, more defined. She must get that from her dad. But as I look at her mom smiling at me from inside the door, I can forgive the guy for his confusion. They look alarmingly alike.
“Mom, this is Colt,” Lilly introduces us. “Colt, this is my mom.”
“Mrs. Hendricks,” I greet her, offering her my hand.
She shakes it with one of hers while batting down the formal address with the other. “Call me Linda.”
“I will.”
Linda looks at me for a second longer before shaking her head, chuckling at herself. “I’m sorry, it’s just so strange seeing you in person. We see you on the TV and now here you are on our porch—oh no, you’re still on the porch! I’m so sorry. Come in. Come in.”
I laugh as I follow Lilly and Linda inside. I slip off my shoes next to Lilly’s, noting the other men’s shoes already parked by the door. Both are larger than mine.
I’ve seen pictures of Lilly’s brother on her online profile before. I know he’s a tall guy, taller than me, but I didn’t realize her dad was too. Lilly hasn’t shown me any pictures of him or her mom.
As they take me down a short hallway to the dining room I glance at the pictures on the walls, looking for a glimpse of him. Maybe an embarrassing shot of Lilly as a little girl with braids and braces. There’s nothing personal, though. They’re all art prints you can easily order online. It reminds me a little of the hotels I stay in; not the style, but the feel of it. Neutral. Impersonal.
“Blake! Michael!” Linda calls through the house. “They’re here!”
I hear the jostle of metal on concrete, patio furniture being scraped back from a table. A moment later the screen door to the backyard slides open and Michael steps into the dining room, a brown longneck in his hand. His dad follows close behind him. They’re the same height, the same build, but Michael looks almost as similar to his mom as Lilly does.
I nod to him, offering my hand as he crosses the room toward me. “Hey, man. Colt. Nice to meet you.”