Val comes over the moment her shift is over, and our tiny kitchen is full between Dad, Blake, her and myself. I've prepared garlic chicken and stir-fried broccoli and onion. It's not elaborate, but it's something I can eat, and everyone digs in with gusto. As we all sit together, Blake gets on well with Dad and Val, who all joke and ask questions between congratulating me on my full manuscript request.

At first, Val did the same thing as Dad, promising to castrate Blake if he hurts me. And that was just a warm-up. She asks dozens of questions -- where is he from, does he have a prison record, and did he whoop his friend's ass for insulting me at the bar? I kick her under the table and shoot a pointed glare in her direction after the jail question. She offers an indifferent shrug, but lays off and changes the subject.

Stabbing her fork into a piece of broccoli, she says, "So, Kelly told me you both had Covid. Are you feeling better?"

Blake nods. He didn't crack under her scrutinization, taking all of her barbs in stride, as he'd done with Dad. His smile is relaxed, and his hand rests on my thigh as he answers. "Mostly. The tests came back negative, and we quarantined for another two weeks afterward, but my stamina is completely gone. I ran a quarter of a mile the other day, and it winded me as if I haven't exercised in years."

I know he's understating the severity of the illness. He was in bed for days, and even after the fever broke, his chest rattled enough to rival a chain-smoker. He told me that there is still so much the doctors don't know about the lingering effects of the virus, and it could be months or possibly years before we see the full extent of the repercussions. The CDC is studying it and putting out notifications as they receive more information, and what scares me is what it seems to do to a person's mental health. Even though I was asymptomatic, I worry about how it could me when I already struggle with depression and anxiety.

Val chews her food and swallows before saying, "I'm sorry to hear that. I suppose the bright side is that you didn't need to be treated at the hospital. I'm losing count of the patients at work who have died from it. You should consider yourself lucky."

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. It's in Val's nature to be happy and optimistic, and she rarely complains. I know her though. She cries over animal shelter commercials and slams on the breaks to avoid hitting wild hares and birds. She works around death and sickness, yet throws all of her energy into healing and making others more comfortable. I can't imagine what it's like to watch these people fight for their lives. Even though she displays a calm demeanor on the outside, I see the pain in her eyes. "I don't know how you do it. I hope people appreciate your effort."

She lifts a shoulder and sighs. "Most do, but the families act like assholes a lot of the time. We won't let them in, we don't tell them anything that would violate HIPAA laws, or we're just incompetent. You name it, and they're complaining. I've seen people come in and spit on the staff. It's awful."

"They do that at the Urgent Care too," Blake agrees, shaking his head. "We do our best to treat people, but everyone is just angry. They need someone to blame, and usually it's medical workers. Everything seems to be our fault."

Ugh. Their stories remind me of why I hate people so much. Damned if you do, dammed if you don't, but I'm a firm believer the customer is not always right. It's a pathetic exscuse to treat others like shit, and businesses bow down to them, lest they offend someone. This is exactly why I can't work. The social anxiety would give me an early heart attack before I'm thirty.

I link hands with Blake under the table. "I'm sorry."

His lips curve into a smirk. "Why are you sorry? You didn't do anything to us."

Technically, I called him an asshole after he mistakenly mispronounced my last name as Wanker. My mouth twitches as I try to stifle a giggle. "I mean, there was that visit to the Urgent Care back in June. I could have been a bit nicer."

He snorts into his glass, spewing water from his nose. I really do laugh this time as he reaches for a napkin. "I think we're even on that front." His voice is muffled from wiping his face, and his ears and cheeks are bright red. I wonder if he's recalling the same memory.

Val presses her fingertips to her mouth as she looks away, but not before I see her grin. I'm pretty sure she's thinking about it too since I told her everything that happened when I left the hospital.

Dad looks back and forth between the three of us with a bemused expression. "Am I missing an inside joke here?"

"No," we all answer, a little too quickly.

Dad shakes his head and stabs a fork into his food. We follow suit, falling into comfortable silence, broken with the occasional hum of appreciation or silverware clinking on plates.

When dinner is finished and the dishes are washed, Blake and I walk outside, hand in hand. It's been a long day, and though Blake is better, I can tell he's still tired. Not in a way that would have him on bedrest, but fatigue in a way someone appears after running a marathon.

As we approach his car, I wrap my arm around his waist, and he does the same to me. It's oddly quiet tonight, what with the quarantine forcing everyone inside and all. Kids who would normally be on skateboards and bicycles are sequestered in their homes, and there isn't a person in sight. No dog walkers, no one sitting on their porch with friends or having a beer; it's as if the world stopped one day, and we're still waiting for it to turn again.

"I enjoyed having you over," I say after a minute, unwilling to say goodbye yet. If I let him go, somehow that will make it final that our time in quarantine together is over. I've been in a blissful bubble this past month, and here, in my house with my dad, I'll have to go back to reality. Before I met Blake, my life was pretty boring, if I discount the creative ways I devise to injure myself. I have no job, no social life, or anything worth noting. I stay at home all day on my computer and live in a fantasy of adventure and characters that I control. If I'm being honeset with myself, I'm a little afraid to go back to my mundane routine.

"Your dad seems nice," he replies absently, seemingly oblivious to my inner musings. "Val, too."

"So their interrogation didn't scare you?"

He gives me a chaste kiss and rubs his thumb over my knuckles. "It'll take a lot more than that if they want to chase me away. Besides, you eventually have to meet my family, and I'm not sure if I'm dreading it or looking forward to telling everyone I'm with you."

Now that has me intrigued. Everyone has a weird family in one way or another, and what might seem small to me could be a source of anxiety for someone else. For all I know, his parents are nice people who hover a bit more than what is necessary. I could live with that. If they turn out to be judgmental though, I might be in trouble. I don't handle negative opinions well.

"So that's definitely happening, huh?"

"Why wouldn't it?"

Well, it was probably a bit soon, but promising if he was comfortable enough to introduce me to the important people in his life. Plus, it was only fair since he'd just spent the day with my dad and Val. In response, I shrug as I shift from one foot to the other. "I don't seem to make it to family introductions often. Do you think they'll like me?"

A gleam appears in his eyes as his lips quirk into a self-assured grin. "What's not to like? You're down-to-earth and real, you're creative, and you're the girl next door."

Though these are all nice attributes, there's a possibility that I won't be enough as myself. It's obvious that Blake comes from a lot of money, and it doesn't take people long to accuse significant others of being gold diggers. It doesn't matter that a lot of us in the ghetto can't help being poor. I know parents in this neighborhood that work two jobs to support their kids, and I've seen firsthand how nasty outsiders can be. They don't care that these families are hard-working and close knit. If they can't afford new things, they may as well be trash because that's the way of the world.

I don't voice my concerns because I've learned that half the time, they're a product of my insecurities and anxiety. I have to learn to start trusting Blake. He's been nothing but honest and patient, even when I give him every reason to rip out his hair in frustration.

So I offer him a smile, despite the apprehension in my gut. "Okay. Whenever you feel ready, I'll go."

"My birthday is next month, so my parents will likely host a small barbeque with my cousin and a couple of friends. They mentioned it a few months ago, but I don't know what will happen when the pandemic keeps spiking. I'd like to bring you, provided everyone self-quarantines and no one is sick."

I don't point out that he works in an urgent care full of sick people. How is he supposed to avoid contact when he's already missed a month of work? I'm sure he'll let me know what's happening and when, and with a lot of luck, the pandemic might actually end within the next year. At this point, I'm not holding my breath.

The next month rolls around faster than I know it, and perhaps I should have held my breath after all. His parents' house is no less impressive, and I'm in awe at the stamped concrete driveway and large, rounded windows in front. Plants are artistically arranged along the border, and if I look close enough, I can see the drip system hiding within the rock lawn.

Their house is in one of the newer Gilbert areas, built within the last fifteen years or so, and based on the exterior and sprawling ranch style architure, I'm afraid to know what the price tag was. All I know is that even if I had a job and saved my money, I could never afford to live here. I can barely afford clothes, and I tend to buy from thrift stores. I'd buy cheap food too if I didn't have so many allergies, but I'm stuck paying out the wazoo for "trendy" alternatives. Everything from the stone pathway leading to the back yard to the opulant designs scream "wealthy," while my homely style makes me look like a panhandler on the highway.

To say I'm nervous to meet his family is an understatement.

I step out of Blake's car, holding a container of marinated chicken and a carefully balanced tray of vegan cookies I baked this morning. He comes up beside me and takes the cookies, motioning toward the front door with his head. "After you."

We walk the short route to the front door, where a large sphere trickles water through a spout at the top. I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes. "Why is this fountain shaped like a boob?"

Blake bursts into loud laughter. "What can I say? Dad likes boobs, and Mom didn't question it. It's an interesting ice breaker though, don't you think?"

More like a bit sexist, but whatever floats this dude's boat. If his wife is okay with it, then who am I to judge?

He knocks once before opening the door and stepping through the threshold. I watch him with a gaping mouth. "You just walk in?"

He shrugs. "My family always keeps the door open for me and my cousin. We knock mostly as a courtesy, but they expect us to come inside."

Okay, that's weird. If I had my own place, I'd still expect Dad or Val to wait for me to invite them inside. What if I'm naked? Shoot, what if I'm having sex? I don't want anyone to walk in on that, and I have to bite my lip to contain my snicker at the thought. "To each their own, I guess," I reply, once I'm sure I won't dissolve into inappropriate giggles.

Blake leads me through the front room, which is friggin' huge. The floors are all large tile, and the walls are sponge painted in cool orange tones. Potted plants decorate the corners, and furniture in teal and yellow compliment the aggressive paint. The curtains are drawn, allowing light to spill into the open room, and everything seems to glow. There are paintings in gold gilded frames everywhere, and I can't help but think I've stepped on to the set of a celebrity reality TV showroom. The whole setup makes me dizzy with insignificance.

"Wow," I whisper.

"If you think this is cool, you should see the kitchen," he says proudly, navigating us through what should be classified as a mini mansion. He's completely oblivious to my discomfort, but I try not to let it show as I follow him.

And if the living room wasn't ostentatious enough, the kitchen blows my mind. Granite covers all the countertops, and the appliances are state of the art, rivaling that of a five-star restaurant. The stove has gas burners beneath iron grills, and each surface is stainless steel and so shiny, I can see my reflection. Pots and pans hang overhead, and a wooden knife block is displayed in a corner. There's even a fancy tea machine, situated next to a rack of mugs. And beside that is a tea display, holding several different flavors. Who are these people?

I'm seriously considering calling an Uber or a Lyft to take me home, where my surroundings are familiar and comfortable. Sure, my house is a bit small, even for a tri-level, but it's cosy and cheerful. This place, though decorated, is sterile. There are no family photos on any of the walls themselves, and everything is artistically arranged as if a design catalog came to life and ran wild.

Just as I'm about to run for the exit, a woman with dark hair and striking features enters the room. She has Blake's eyes and nose, as well as his lean frame, though she's a good two or three inches shorter than him. She smiles as she strides into the rooms, but I swear I can see her lips tighten and her eyes narrow a fraction when her gaze lands on me. She gives Blake a kiss on the cheek and takes the cookies before bringing him into a hug. "Hi, sweetie. I'm glad you're feeling better." She places the tray on a gleaming island before redirecting her attention to me and taking my container as well. "So, you're the girl Blake won't stop talking about. I'm Elizabeth, but you can call me Lizzie."

Her tone is just a bit too bright to be genuine, and I don't feel comfortable enough to use nicknames with a complete stranger. However, she's making an effort to be polite, so I do the same, even though I can tell her smile is forced. "I'm Kelly."

I feel like I should add more, but my mind is woefully blank as she gives me a perfunctory hug with a pat on the back. That, and my speech is taken from me when more people enter the room, revealing Blake's cousin I mistook as his wife, an older man with Blake's dark hair and a rounding belly, Ajay from the bar, and finally, a woman with the perfections of a Greek Goddess, statuesque in her wedge sandals and tight pink haltertop. Her nails are manicured, and her highlighted hair is styled in loose waves down her back. I stand there, gaping, as Blake scowls and does nothing to hide his disdain. I have to admit that when Blake told me I'd be meeting his folks, it didn't involve his ex-girlfriend.

As if he's reading my mind, Blake works his jaw before asking in a hard tone, "What is she doing here?"

I could ask the same thing myself.