As I was getting closer to Cheshire the excitement began to transform into this anxiety that, by the time I found her house and turned off the engine, felt like a giant monster sitting on my chest.

I am still in the car and it is getting colder by the second, so I should probably get out and knock on that door already.

But I don't move. Instead I just keep gripping tightly at the wheel, like there's a part of me that is actually considering the possibility of going back to where I came from.

I have never done this before, and the fact that I want it to go perfectly is causing the pressure to pile up on the already heavy weight perched upon me.

It is ridiculous how I just keep having all these stupid second thoughts; like I should have maybe picked some fancy red wine instead of Scotch, or an entirely different outfit. Definitely, I should've worn better shoes.

"Hey!"

I only realize that she's standing there when I hear a few soft knocks on the rolled up window, and I jump.

She's bending forward, clutching her coat to keep it closed, and looking at me with a furrowed brow. I stare at her for a moment, and then she walks around the car and tries to get in.

"Open the door, would you?" She says, loud enough for me to hear her, and I unlock the door.

She quickly slides in, slamming the door shut before rubbing her hands together to warm them up.

"Hi..." I say timidly, as if she just caught me in the middle of something, and she looks at me. "I was about to get out."

"Liar." She says with a smile on her face that strangely manages to ease my mind in a second regardless of her acussation. "I saw you coming through the driveway fifteen minutes ago. What's up?"

I glance in her direction but I quickly divert, shrugging nonchalantly as if I have no idea what she's talking about. But she gives me a soft punch on the arm, urging me to talk.

"I'm freaking out, alright?" I blurt, and it sounds like I am confessing that truth to myself rather than to her. "What if they hate me? What if I say or do the wrong thing and they decide that I'm not worthy."

I guess I was expecting her to laugh at my concerns, rushing to reassure me that they are totally unfounded and irrational, and that is why that heaviness grows back on my chest when she doesn't.

"Look, we are the only ones that get to decide that." She says with a serious tone. "You and I. Not even the gods above. Pun intended."

"What?" I ask her, knowing that there's a less poetic reason as to why she is saying that. "What is it?"

She tells me about her father and his reaction, and although she is doing her best to make it sound funny, I am definitely not laughing.

"So basically, he hates me." I synthesize, and she snorts.

"He doesn't hate you, Harry." She hurries to say. "And even if he did, is not like you haven't changed other people's mind about you before. He just has to know you, replace that twisted version he has of you with the real one."

I nod lazily, suddenly saddened by the fact that she is so right, and having people misjudging me is pretty much a common currency in the story of my life. Pun very much intended.

"Alright. Any advice on how I can do that? What exactly does you father... dislike about me?"

She bites the inside of her cheek, and takes a deep breath, as if the list was rather long. I know she's once more trying to be funny; but again, it's not working.

"Well, that's a good start, actually." She points her finger at the bottle inside the bag between us. "Great choice." She congratulates me, and I smirk.

"Great. What else?"

"Let's see... he's not a big fan of your hair. So you may want to use this..." She hands the hair band that's wrapped  around her wrist and I take it, tying up my hair neatly with it. "And I don't know... just answer his questions. But don't worry, I won't let him get too rough on you."

She reaches for my knee, patting it a few times, reassuringly. My hand goes to meet hers and I hold it tight.

"The things I do for love." I whisper, and she chuckles. "Let's do this."

*****

She wasn't kidding when she said her father wasn't a big fan of my hair. In fact, he wasn't even exaggerating in the slightest.

I was prepared to answer all kinds of questions about whatever stories he might have heard or read about me in the media, but aside from a few acid remarks on my dating choices from the past, which I decided to take like a champ despite Lea's complaints, all he seems to be focused on is my hair.

How long is it really? When was the last time I trimmed it? How come I don't find it inconvenient? Or worse, why do I even like it?

To all of those questions, I gave a polite answer; although barely managing to keep a straight face for there are a lot of things I have had to explain myself for in the past, but this is definitely not one of them.

"Do you have a limit? I mean, you won't let it grow much longer, will you?"

I shrug, thinking that I should probably tell him I will have to cut it off sooner rather than later, but Lea's mum walking in interrupts me.

She, unlike her husband, has been nothing but welcoming and warm towards me. She greeted me with a hug that people only give to those that they've known since forever but haven't seen them in a really long while, and there is a smile upon her face that tells me that, although it is clear Lea has inherited a great deal from her father on the outside, they both share the very same essence.

"Oh, Angus! Leave the poor boy alone already." She cries out, placing a big plate at the center of the table, and then coming to my side, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Don't mind him, darling. He's just jealous he can't grow his own hair since 1997."

I stifle a chuckle as he huffs, outraged by his wife's aggravation, and we all make our way to the dinner table where Lea is putting the final touches.

"Are you alright?" She asks me quietly as I take a seat right in front of her.

I nod and give her a reassuring smile, and once everyone is seated, we proceed to dig in.

For the most part of the meal we barely speak about anything but the food. Ellie, as Lea's mother keeps insisting me to call her, asks me a few questions about my childhood and my family, and the rest of the conversation flows surprisingly relaxed.

By the time we are all finished with our plates and then some, Ellie suggests that we should play some games and have a few drinks, to which, both Lea and I, agree cheerfully.

"Isn't it a bit late?" Mr. Matheson, who hasn't given me any specific permission to call him by his first name just yet, asks rather serious. "Besides, he shouldn't be drinking if he has to drive."

I look at Lea, a bit confused, and she stares at her mum as if she's expecting her to say something. But she merely responds with an amused roll of the eyes.

"Well...  I guess it's a good thing that he won't be driving anywhere tonight, then." She eventually takes it upon herself to retort, a bit defiantly. "He's spending the night here. With me."

It is quite clear that she is starting to resent his behavior instead of taking it as an adorable demonstration of fatherly love, if she ever did.

And in a matter of seconds, the peaceful atmosphere that surrounded us during dinner gets shattered with the crashing silence charged with a palpable, breathable awkwardness that comes with this stare contest that is now being held by Lea and his father.

"That's not happening." He finally says, after what I can only assume it was a feigned moment of consideration. "Absolutely not."