Violet's frowning, miserable face greeted me as I closed the door of my room behind me. Stood at the door of her own room with half-lidded eyes and hair resembling a thrown-up hairball, it was obvious she was desperate to hear that I'd handle the doorbell situation and that she could go back to sleep.

"It's my parents, baby, you can go back to bed," I spoke in a low tone, granting her wish; the look of relief on her face couldn't quite beat the grumpiness of being rudely woken up. After grumbling something—sounded like a 'thank you'—she was closing the door and I'd found myself alone in the hallway again.

There was a knock on the door this time and my palms started to sweat.

No Violet. No Harry, as per his (panicked, stuttering) decision. Just me, nauseated by the thought that I'd be fighting against the wrath of my father on several separate occasions in the next twenty-four hours, with my mother doing her best to be the mediator. I straightened out my shirt on my way to the door, my therapist's affirmations playing through my head while I turned the doorknob.

"Hi!" Mom squeaked at the first sight of me, standing closer to the door as she would every time; I didn't have a chance to reply before he pulled me in a bear hug, the fluff of her coat and her graying hair tickling my nose.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hi, baby!"

"Hi."

"Hi!" The words were coming out of her extra high-pitched, making me laugh against her shoulder. As much as her embrace would make all of the problems in the world disappear, the feeling only lasted a moment; when she moved to the side, my dad gave me a tight-lipped smile and a half-hug that felt like someone had adjusted a mannequin's arm around my back. I believe mine felt the same way to him—lifeless, forced, okay-Mom-saw-us-behave-now-let's-not-do-this-again-for-another-six-months.

Even before I closed the door after them, Mom was shooting every thought her brain formed at me, telling me how warmer it was in our apartment, telling me I looked tired, then telling me I looked so pretty, while Dad just looked around the hallway, one brow raised, his face set into his standard look of disapproval that just got more and more grim with age.

"When's the last time you repainted the walls?" I was in the midst of telling Mom about how I was waiting to have my second cup of coffee with them—hence my just-rolled-out-of-bed appearance, of course—when Dad spoke up, his first question met with no surprise from me. "I know your roommate's a smoker. You should do it every couple of years."

The fact that they were each other's polar opposites also contributed to my drastically different relationships with each of them—while my mom was a ray of sunshine I could always talk to and come to for anything in life, the negativity my dad could send my way with just a regular observation about my apartment was enough to undo three months of therapy.

"Okay," I sighed in response, embracing this to be the next thirty minutes of my life. "You guys can come in, I'll get the kettle going."

While they took their shoes off and hung their coats in the hallway, I went to the kitchen to start making everyone a cup of coffee and focus on pushing the dreadful feeling out of my chest and into a box labeled Tough it out.

I knew he didn't do it on purpose. Serving in the army before his life in corporate law, the soldier in him would often come out more than the attorney. He liked to say he held his loved ones to a higher standard, and it was no secret that I blew up all standards into smithereens three years ago and brought Jerome Stanton's fury upon myself. The strain in our relationship was in part due to my being irrevocably stupid, I could admit, but I'd fully taken responsibility and accepted the consequences of my actions. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

But when times were tough and I was just a teenager who needed her father, I received an asshole instead of understanding. His part in us going from father and daughter to mere acquaintances was also no secret.

"Oh, it's so cozy in here," Mom said as she entered the kitchen and walked past me to the dining table, effectively interrupting my trainwreck of thoughts. "The apartment is more gorgeous every time we visit- I love these French doors!"

Mom's comment about the French doors was on my Parental Visit bingo card, as it was every time, and I smiled at the genuine excitement in her voice. Dad just sat at the dining table, focused on his phone, the way I liked him best. "I know. That's what won me over," I said.

"Well, me too," Mom commented, "You know I barely let you live here."

I nodded, smile widening at the memory of how, for Tara Gray, nothing was ever good enough for her daughter. Not any apartment we'd seen, not any potential roommate we'd met. Her ideal scenario was for them to buy me my own place, but there wasn't a point in the space-time continuum where I'd let that happen.

"But, your judgment was good, I'll give you that," Mom continued with a proud tone, still caressing the white wood of the French doors. "The place is lovely. Violet is lovely. Where is she, by the way?"

"Asleep. She worked the night shift."

"Ah, poor thing," Mom sighed as she sat down at the table, right as the kettle switched off and I took it to pour the water over our instant coffee. "What about you, honey? How was your morning?"

I puckered my lips slightly, trying not to make any kind of obvious face that would give my morning away. Oh, well, my husband's going through a hard time so I had him sleep over. He's actually still in my room as we speak. What's that? Oh, no, we're not married like that. We've only kissed two and a half times! "Good, good. The usual. I just sat around and waited for you guys."

"Should've studied for that midterm."

Apparently, I'd spent too much time packing away the dread that I'd completely forgotten about the rage. I averted my gaze from the kettle to the dining table, in time to catch Mom rolling her eyes at Dad, which was a reaction a million times softer than the one begging to come out of me. "Excuse me?"

"The D you got. You should get to fixing that."

My teeth clenched at the sight of his relaxed, indifferent face while he busied himself with his stupid emails on his stupid phone, not even bothering to look at me. "It was a C-, not a D."

"So?"

"Jerry, for the love of God," Mom mumbled while I calmly breathed to put out the fire of fury in my head—just the way I'd practiced with my therapist—and guilt joined the two other emotions that wanted to eat me inside out. While I'd come to terms that this was my relationship with my father, Mom hadn't, and the fact that she still tried to reconcile the two sides made me feel bad and frustrated in equal parts. "We talked about this on the plane."

"I didn't say anything."

"Then why do I feel like I'm sitting next to a big baby?"

I allowed myself to smile before assembling a neutral expression as I carried their coffees to the table. Another non-secret was that Mom took my side—or the side of the family she knew we could be, as she liked to call it—every time. "Here you go."

"Thanks, baby," Mom said, but stopped the hand holding the mug mid-air to eye Dad as he took a sip, eyes still glued to his phone. "Jerry."

"Thank you, Evelyn."

Jesus, I mouthed, clearing my throat to happily reply, "You're welcome, Dad. So, uh, Mom, how was your flight?"

Loud coughing interrupted Mom mid-inhale, and me as I was pulling out the chair next to hers. All three of us looked toward the kitchen door where the sound was the clearest, but I knew it was coming from my room. My hands went cold and my face drained of color at the distressing sound of Harry struggling for God knows what reason.

"Is that, uh, Violet? Is she okay?"

"Um-"

But the coughing continued, morphing into some sort of a pre-vomit sound. Well, that settles it. I can't ignore it.

I pushed the chair back in and rushed out of the kitchen. "It's not Violet."

"What?"

Mom's question went unanswered as I barged into my room, where Harry was sitting on the edge of my bed, holding his chest with one hand and his face with the other. As I hurried toward him, I realized he was shaking, struggling to keep his coughs in. "I'm so sorry," he wheezed, tears in his eyes as he looked up at me, "I took a fucking sip of water. I'm drowning."

"Jesus Christ, Harry," I said in a relieved breath, the alarms in my head switching off, almost being replaced with laughter when I lifted his head and the tears spilled down his cheekbones. "Just keep your head up while it goes away." I wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "God, you actually scared me."

Taking a breath to respond was synonymous with fighting for his life. "I'm so sorry, Ev."

"It's fine." I bit my lip, still fighting back a smile. "But you're an idiot."

"Really? 'Cause I was feeling pretty fucking intelligent before you said that."

My quiet laughter made him smile through the tears while he watched the ceiling, and for a blissful moment, I was back in our bubble, wrapped up in his arms, watching the hope grow in his eyes as I convinced him that everything would be okay.

Then something caught his attention—his eyes darted to the door and did a double-take, and I recognized the unease in his look immediately. I turned my head and met my father's eyes as he stood at the doorway, the fact that I'd known he'd follow me not alleviating my agitation at all.

"Could you..." Fuck off? Go to hell? "Go back to the kitchen? I'll be right there."

"What is this, Evelyn?" He asked, voice stern, but playing strict and looking at me with those half-lidded, frowning eyes filled with disappointment did nothing to me; not while my hands held something I found far more important.

"I'll explain in a minute, Dad."

I turned back to Harry, ready to fully ignore Dad, but a faint hiss of Jerry! sounding from the hallway and, finally, footsteps that indicated my empathetic mother was dragging him back to the kitchen saved the day. Apologetic eyes met Harry's wide, disturbed ones. "I'm sorry about that."

"No." Apart from his lungs still coughing out water, the rest of him seemed frozen. "I'm sorry."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Your dad sure looked like I did," Harry muttered, voice lowering into a whisper for the word dad, as if saying it any louder would've summoned the 64-year-old demon back into the room. "He looks terrifying."

I laughed again, now at how he'd whispered terrifying, and shook my head. "He likes to think he is, but he's... harmless," I said, choosing the most, well, harmless word to describe my father. I absently stroked Harry's cheek while we stared at each other, enjoying the moment I knew we didn't have time for. "You alright now?"

"Yep, all good," he said, lifting his hands to rub his eyes, and I let go of his face; right as I went to tell him I'd be going back and braced myself for a possible filicide, Harry took a deep breath. "Okay, well, give me a few minutes to get ready and I'll join you. No coffee for me, though."

My confusion made my breathing pause. "You- what?"

"Evie, your father saw me choking on water, crying, and needing you to hold my head so I don't kick the bucket," Harry explained in an obvious tone as he stood up to gather his clothes. "I can't let that be his only impression of me. Is the bathroom free?"

The bathroom was free, but my voice to express that was nowhere to be found. I gaped at him, overcome with emotions that no one language could explain. Their physical manifestation included feeling like I was having an out-of-body experience.

Harry, on the other hand, watched me with a perfectly relaxed expression, the corner of his mouth slightly twitching in amusement at my mystification. Harry, the guy who looked my father in the eyes and wanted to make an effort with him. For me. "Um..." I closed my mouth and swallowed. "Yeah. It's- it's free. I'll, uh, let you get dressed and everything."

When we left the room, Harry went to the bathroom, and I was overly aware of the footsteps that carried me to the other side of the apartment, like it was the first time I'd ever walked the Earth. It seemed that his casual suggestion of meeting my parents had reset my brain to factory settings.

"Is everything okay?" My mom's voice came from a distance, even though she was sitting just a few feet from me as I entered the kitchen. I blinked and nodded, taking a breath to verbally answer her question.

"Didn't know blond was your type now."

But of course, the brassy, rough voice of my father interrupted me, effectively crashing me back onto Earth. My jaw clenched and I tried busying myself by tidying up the clutter of notebooks and other knickknacks on the table to make room for Harry to sit. "He's a friend."

"Sure. Sure he is."

"Jerry," Mom attempted her warning tone, to no avail.

"You know, you're in college. You're grown. You're away from home, and you can do whatever the hell you want, but having some guy over the morning your parents are coming to visit you-"

"He's a friend and he has cancer." I took a deep breath to collect myself. "He was alone for the weekend and feeling sick so I offered him to sleep over."

I'd turned away to place the pile of things onto a nearby shelf, and when I met my parents' faces, they had comically different expressions—Dad was struck dumb with shock at the unexpected information, while Mom was... something else.

"Jesus," Dad said, now frowning. "How old is he?"

"Twenty."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Your friend has cancer?" Mom asked, wide-eyed and her voice cracking, the question I could read from her face actually being Is it who I think it is?

"Yes," I answered her spoken question, the prolonged eye contact answering the question we'd managed to keep secret from Dad since June. Not that he was too heartless to feel empathy toward someone with a serious illness, but any idea of mine that contained a guy would've been thrown out the window before I'd even partially expressed it, even if was to save someone's life. Thank God he and Mom had separate health insurance.

Our cahooting went by unnoticed again, as Dad was too taken aback about Harry's illness to even look at our fairly obvious faces. Mom cleared her throat and took a sip of her coffee and I did the same, while Dad stared at the floor in front of him, either gathering his thoughts or contemplating life. "That's too damn young," he mumbled after a silence, but I didn't stay to hear if he had anything to add as the creaking of the bathroom door pulled me to the hallway like a magnet.

Harry and I stood at the bathroom and kitchen doorways, respectively, and stared at each other for a brief moment.

"My sweater smells like hospital," he said quietly, his refreshed face sour with embarrassment and his palm pressed against my Judas Priest shirt he still had on. "Is it okay if I wear-?"

"Sure," I managed to say and not squeak, and nodded toward the kitchen. "Come on in. These are, uh..." Like the mere idea of it, watching Harry introduce and shake hands with my parents was an out-of-body experience in itself. "M-my parents. My mom, Tara, and my dad, Jerry."

Despite the tiredness evident in his pale face and dark circles around his eyes, Harry's presence lit up the room—he stood tall, spoke his name clearly, and wore the Priest shirt proudly, effectively coming to my aid more than I was to his in this very moment. Hi, I'm Harry. Nice to meet you, he said. Hi, honey, I'm Tara, said my mom, and Nice to meet you, son, said my dad. Get a grip on yourself, said the voice inside my head.

"You sure you don't want a coffee?"

"No, but- ah." Harry went to stand up right after sitting down across from my dad. "I left, uh, my water in your room."

"I'll get it for you." I squeezed his shoulder as he sank back onto the chair, and received big blue puppy-dog eyes as a thanks.

Truth be told, I needed a reason to get out of the room for a minute. Everything happening at once was overwhelming—my dad and his infuriating comments, my mom and her savior efforts, Harry and whatever the hell was happening to my chest and stomach at the mere idea that he was meeting my parents. Voluntarily. My emotions were overlapping and 11 AM already felt like it was time to call it a day and go to sleep. I was due a moment of quiet.

"What kind of cancer is it?"

Dad's question upon returning made me regret the moment of quiet.

"Dad!" I set the bottle down in front of Harry a bit too aggressively. "Are you..." Insane? Out of your mind? Who the fuck asks something like that? "Serious right now?"

"I was just asking," he objected.

"Ev, it's okay."

Harry's hand wrapped around my forearm before I could keep—or start—fighting my father, and he gave me a firm nod when I looked down at him. Despite my look that said Let me make him regret being born, his genuine It's okay expression ultimately made me sigh and take my seat to his right, next to my mom. It didn't feel right not to defend him, but escalating the matter would have been counterproductive.

"It's testicular cancer, sir," Harry replied in a light tone as his eyes moved to my dad, whose face shifted into a look of discomfort, his frown deepening.

"Mm. Buddy of mine in the army had that," he said after taking a moment to process Harry's words. "They just cut the sucker off and he was fine. Still kicking. Had kids and everything, no problem."

"Yeah, well, they caught it a bit too late to just cut... my sucker off. So I'm getting chemo as well."

"Is it going well? Your therapy?" Mom asked, in an especially gentle tone while regarding the boy whose name was very much next to mine on her health insurance.

Harry looked at her, with the same softness that came from the knowledge that she was the one who made everything possible, and nodded with a growing smile on his face. "Yeah. I mean, it's awful, as you can see." He pointed to his sunken face with a breathy laugh; he purposely paused, and his knee bumped into mine. "But I have a good prognosis. I should be okay."

The rush of blood to my ears made the rest of the conversation sound distant. That's good to hear, son, said Dad, and I could finally agree with him on something. They went on with the conversation while I smiled and looked down at my lap, trying to hide how giddy with excitement that comment made me feel. The fact that he'd let my words get through to him and was embracing them.

I bumped my knee back into his.

"So, Evie."

I tuned back in only after hearing my name, and I looked up at Dad. "Hm?"

"About tomorrow," he said, pausing to check his phone again, and the anxiety reappeared in my chest. "I thought we'd meet bright and early, around nine. Our hotel is close to the dealership I found online, so all three of us can have breakfast at the hotel afterward. If you agree."

"Why don't you and Mom have breakfast while I look at cars?" I asked, throwing one last attempt to dodge our dreaded hangout. "I'll just call you when I pick one out. It won't take long."

But Dad had started shaking his head before I'd even finished talking. "I'm not risking someone ripping you off."

"I'm looking at used Volkswagens, Dad, how much can they rip me off?"

"Unless you're a man, they try to rip you off. Next thing I know they'll try to sell you 'premium blinkers' or something." He shook his head again, taking a sip of his coffee while I died inside. "Not taking that chance."

"I think I can go with you."

Three pairs of Stanton eyes were pointed at Harry, while his met my dad's only.

"Evie offered me to tag along for the car thing so I'm not at home by myself. I thought I'd be too sick to go, but I've been feeling better," he said with such conviction, I found myself backtracking to find the invitation somewhere in my memory. Harry raised his brows at my dad and added, "Unless, I mean- I don't want to impose on your family time-"

"No, no."

My neck creaked as I turned my head to look at my father.

"You kids can go. That'll give us time for that library you wanted to see, right?" He looked at my mom, but I wasn't ready to drop the topic yet.

"Wait, really?" I asked, not doing my best to hide my shock. We can go? My dad was fine with me spending time with a boy? Alone?

Dad looked at me with boredom, then at Harry. "What do you know about cars, son?"

"I've worked in a garage, sir."

"Yeah, you look like it." Looking back at me, he pointed a hand at Harry. "There you go. Besides, I'm not worried about you, kid. Don't take this the wrong way, but you're receiving chemo. Not like you can get it up to do anything."

"Jerry!"

"Oh my God," I whispered, fingers raking into my hair, as if scraping the skin off of my head would erase the single worst sentence he'd uttered in his life from my head. "Mom? Did this just happen? Mommy, please tell me I'm hallucinating."

"Honey, I'm so sorry," came from Mom, and it could've been uttered to either Harry or me. Or both.

His knee bumped into mine again, but there was no saving me from the mortification. Mom was bickering with Dad, he was trying to defend himself, and no amount of It's okay knee bumps from Harry could make things better.

"You're not wrong, sir," he said, somehow making things worse, and received a kick in the shin from me.

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My heart sank as Dad got up from his chair to go to the bathroom, leaving Mom and me alone at our table. At least when he was there, I knew we wouldn't get too deep into my personal life; we didn't have that kind of relationship. But Mom knew everything about me, and the fact that I knew a Harry-related question was coming suddenly made the sight of my pasta primavera nauseating.

She picked at her food for a moment, pointedly waiting to make sure Dad was on the other side of the restaurant before looking up at me. "So," she began, in a tone that conveyed simmering excitement more than anything else. "I didn't know you were hanging out with Henry."

Henry, the name she was used to seeing to the point where the switch to Harry was impossible. "Yeah," I answered, also pushing my penne around. "It's new."

I noticed her nod, but I kept my eyes glued to my plate. "He seems nice."

"He is."

"I also didn't know blond was your type now."

Coming from Mom, the comment my dad made this morning was actually funny. I gave her a smile and she responded with one as well, before I looked back down. "It's not." I shrugged, pondering the idea. "He is my type."

The prolonged silence only meant she had that look on her face, the one that would make me roll my eyes and drawl out a Moooom! "Well, I'm glad," she finally spoke. "I know what it took for you to get there."

"We're not exactly there, or... anywhere, really."

"Yeah? Does he know that?" I looked up to see her shaking her head. "Honey, you touched his shoulder this morning, and the boy evaporated. Soul ascended from his body to follow you to the ends of the Earth, or whatever."

I laughed, thankful for the warm lighting in the restaurant that helped hide my warm cheeks. Even with the fact that I could tell her everything, I couldn't really find the right words for this topic. Not yet, at least, while everything still hung in the air. There were a million things I wanted to tell her, when the right time came.

For now, I smiled to myself and said, "I feel the same way." 

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votes and comments are appreciated! :)