Chapter 45: Chapter Forty-Five

RAE

I grew up in the Salt Lake City suburbs. My parents’ house and my downtown apartment might only be ten miles apart, but they occupy two entirely different worlds.

Sometimes I think everything outside SLC city limits is stuck in the 1950s.

I have a lot of conflicting feelings on Utah’s culture. On one hand, that lifestyle makes some people really happy. My parents were all about the one-parent-works-one-watches-the-kids-all-day life.

As a kid, I loved having my mom pick me up from school and make me snacks and all that jazz kids get excited about.

On the other hand, when most women are stay-at-home moms, society raises its expectations to the roof. The pressure to be perfect dominates suburban Utah.

Neighbors judge you if you leave bikes in the driveway. Made brownies for the last bake sale but not for this one? Slacker. Messy room visible through the window? Congratulations, you’re now the subject of neighborhood gossip, and Karen just called Child Protective Services.

It’s crazy.

It’s everything I don’t want in my life, and it’s everything my family thrives on.

I’m not kidding. Last Christmas, Aunt Kendra and Mom roped Jake and me into an hour-long conversation about how Aunt Kendra’s teenage neighbor dyed his hair blue.

I mean, we didn’t spend sixty minutes discussing this guy’s Smurf-y locks.

The conversation morphed into a broader one about the merits of hair dye, proper punishments for misbehavior (Aunt Kendra is in favor of grounding), and how we feel ~so bad~ for the kid’s mother, but you get the point.

In Utah, everything has to be wholesome and cookie-cutter and domestic or else.

Out of the ten over-eighteen Olson and Connelly cousins, Kelsey and I are the only ones who have yet to be married. Kelsey’s nineteen, and she got engaged a couple of weeks ago.

Don’t get me wrong. I want my own family someday. I’d even be okay buying a house, so long as it’s in Salt Lake City or maybe somewhere out of state.

Denver’s pretty sweet, but I digress. I don’t want to stay at home with the kids all day. I want to work. I want to stress about promotions, not PTA politics.

I ~really~ don’t want to contribute to bake sales. I’ll buy brownies to support my kid’s school, but cooking them is where I draw the line.

Someday, that line will be a scandal to the Olsons and Connellys.

So you can see why I’m not thrilled about bringing Logan here. He loves me, and home is, well, very much not ~me~.

The scent I associate with the colonial my family has called home since the ’90s is banana bread. Today, my (former) house smells like sugar, bananas, and pine.

The pine aroma emanates from the massive Christmas tree decked out with white lights and matching ornaments. There’s something sterile about the décor that unsettles me.

When I have my own Christmas tree, the ornaments are going to be sentimental, souvenirs from family vacations and gifts from friends. None of that matchy-aesthetic stuff Mom prefers.

“Rae!” Little arms wrap around my legs, and I nearly lose my grip on the brownies—see why they’re on my mind?—that Zoe baked yesterday.

Sabrina is my cousin’s daughter. No clue what relation that is to me, but she’s one of my favorite relatives to hang out with at family parties.

She’s six and loves to talk my ear off about gymnastics and Disney princesses. I’d choose mindless chatter with a first grader over adult conversation with aunts and uncles any day of the week.

“Hi, Sabrina! Merry—”

“Sabrina, let go before Rae drops the dessert!” Mom hollers from across the room. She’s positively glowing, staring into Logan’s teal eyes (can’t say I blame her).

I’m almost entirely certain she believes that I’ll be engaged or married at this party next year.

Sabrina pouts and releases my legs. Her eyes find the brownies, then Logan. Clearly, she has her priorities in order. “Who are you?”

He kneels. “My name is Logan. I’m Rae’s friend. What’s your name?”

My heart melts as Sabrina babbles into Logan’s ear. It promptly ceases beating when I notice the entire party staring at the two of them.

The scene is straight out of a sitcom. Every pair of male eyebrows is raised, straining toward bald spots and messy bangs and buzzcuts.

Some of the men look impressed. Most look confused. Why wouldn’t they be? Rae brought a boy home, and he’s not the one from last year.

The female eyebrows are scrunched in expressions that scream “aw” and “he’ll be a good father, and I absolutely need to tell Rae that at some point tonight.” It’s unnerving.

Miles breaks the silence. “Rae, why don’t you introduce your friend?”

My voice is shaky and quiet and awful. “Hello. This is Logan. Logan, this is, uh, everyone.”

“I like Logan,” Sabrina announces over the chorus of “hi” and “welcome” and “nice to meet you, Logan.”

“Well, you’re family now, then,” Sabrina’s dad Henry laughs.

“Thanks for having me.” Logan’s voice is clear and the perfect volume and just…normal.

I guarantee every person at this party is wondering what this handsome, socially adept man is doing with awkward little Rae.

“C’mon.” Miles tugs the plate of brownies out of my hands. “Dad wants to meet the boyfriend.”

I sigh, and for the first time since we walked into the house, I peek at Logan’s face.

He’s a bit flushed, probably because he’s still in his jacket, but he’s smiling and somehow looking happy to be here.

“Here, I’ll take your coat,” I mumble.

I awkwardly hug my aunts chatting by the closet, sort of introduce Logan (okay, he introduces himself), and hastily shove our jackets onto hangers when they get the hint and move over.

Miles clears his throat, and with a sigh, I take Logan’s hand and lead him into the kitchen where Dad, Grandpa, and Uncle Simon are sipping Sprite and staring.

~Deep breath in, deep breath out~.

The introductions aren’t so bad.

Logan shakes their hands satisfactorily—I can tell he passed their manly handshake test because they speak to him like he’s a real human, which is not what happened with Jake—and thank them for the invitation.

He bends the truth a bit, saying we met via mutual friends.

I dole out hugs and smile politely. My expression is fake, but I manage to keep it up until Dad gets the determined look in his eye that means he’s up to something.

I know exactly what he’s scheming. He doesn’t even have to tell me to go say hi to Mom so he and Miles can have a chat with Logan. He ~does~, but he didn’t have to.

“Don’t worry. We’ll bring him back in one piece,” Miles laughs.

That’s not what I’m worried about. Logan could easily take them both in a fight. It’s the verbal assault they’re about to unleash that I’m very, very much afraid of.