Over the past few weeks I’ve been steadily increasing my portion sizes, eating less like a little bird and more like a woman of my size, steadily gaining muscle—not as fast as I would like, but there have been tiny improvements that I’m happy about.

  I’ve made some ‘remarkable’ progress—Michael’s words, not mine, when we do decide to hit the gym together and I get distracted more often than not at how very strong Michael is. I think he’s just saying that because I’m his girlfriend and he likes being sweet to me.

  I’ve watched him deadlift five hundred pounds like it was nothing, like it was nothing but a warm-up set getting his ass and hamstrings ready for the real work ahead. My knees went to jelly and I had to find a seat or I was going to turn into a Vick-sized puddle, right there in the middle of the freaking gym.

  My boyfriend’s literally Superman and there’s nothing and no one that’s going to convince me otherwise.

  “All right, all right. I’ve got some ginger ale in my fridge, I can go get it for you,” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards our shared wall.

  I shake my head, stop and stare. “Do you like ginger ale?”

  Michael shakes his head quickly. “I hate ginger, it doesn’t matter what form it comes in.” He shudders.

  “So why do you have some in your fridge?”

  Michael’s eyebrows catapult to his hairline and he just stares at me as if I should know the answer, but I don’t. “Because you like it, Victoria.”

  And I know, it’s just fucking ginger ale, and I love the stuff, my soda of choice if I remember to buy it for myself, and here he is, hating the shit but it’s in his fridge, taking up space and his money. Not to mention that its taking up space in his brain when he goes to do groceries, and he’s thinking about getting me a bottle and putting it in his fridge because I like it.

  Oh. Oh.

  I shake my head, appalled at the tightening pain in my throat, the way I care so much that he does this for me. I scoff, laugh a little wetly, and I’m glad even if Michael notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Wow. I swear, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  He moves those boulder-like shoulders in a hasty shrug, glancing away, like I’ve pinned the truth out of him and he still can’t admit to it.

  “Anybody would have done that for you, anyone, Vick.” He grins at me when he calls me by my nickname, but I just keep looking at him, and he looks away first.

  I shake my head, adamant. “No. No, most people wouldn’t. God, how did I not know that an angel lived beside me for a whole damn year? How did I miss that?”

  “Vick, come on,” he laughs, his cheeks burning red with his bright blush, his eyelids fluttering as he looks down at his hands in his lap, playing with his fingers, cracking his knuckles. I think he’s going to start squirming soon at how uncomfortable he is at me just throwing out accusations like that.

  “You know that you keep moving your shoulders, right? Like you’re constantly trying to adjust your shirt without actually moving it around with your hands?” I demonstrate for him when he looks up at me, confused and curious, eyes narrowed.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, you keep moving your shoulders, shrugging a little, like you’re trying to adjust something I can’t really see.” I grin at him now when he rears back. “Because you’re an angel, and you have wings.”

  “What the hell, no, I don’t—” he sputters, bringing his hands up to catch me as I topple him down onto the couch, my hands going to the back of his head so I don’t cause any injury. “Vick?”

  “Hmmm?” I kiss his cheek, running a hand through his hair, looking into his beautiful eyes. “Yeah, what is it?” It feels like my heart is too big for my chest, that it’s expanding in a Grinch move that has me fighting for breath.

  Is this what’s happening? Is this the moment I realize that I’m completely gone for Michael Nash and I need to do everything in my power to protect and care for him because he deserves the world?

  Is this that moment?

  “I would like you to meet my parents.” Michael smiles at me, and it kills me sweetly, softly.

  Can I really be the person he’s looking at like this?

  The moment passes me by, and I scramble to get off of him going back to my own portion of the floor I’ve designated as my seat, putting space between us.

  FOURTEEN

  “I don’t…I don’t actually think that’s a good idea,” I say, my voice sounding rough, even to my own ears. I sound resolute, like there’s going to be no swaying me from the notion of meeting with his parents. “Christmas is just around the corner.”

  Michael nods, doing a glorious crunch to get himself sitting upright, his head tilted to the side in silent question. “Why are you so nervous?”

  I cough, laugh weakly. “I’m not nervous? Who’s nervous? Not me!” Yup, I sound super nervous.

  Shit.

  I shake my head, run a hand through my hair—hair that I need to dye immediately back to my boring dishwater blonde if I’m even going to be entertaining the idea of meeting Michael’s parents.

  I mean, I know he’s an only child, so there’ll be no siblings to contend with, but there will be a cousin who’s staying with them on a study abroad program that makes me nervous as hell. I know nothing about these people and I’m already making them out to be villains in my head.

  What am I doing? Am I panicking over this?

  Yes, yes I am.

  “I’m not…uh…presentable,” I say, pointing up to my hair as if that encompasses everything about me. I’m already getting the cold sweats just thinking about Michael’s mother asking me what I do for a living and then having to blurt it all out because I can’t lie to save my life, but apparently I omit shit really, really well.

  I can already see myself breaking down and blurting out that I’m NIKTORIOUS and dissolving into frustrated tears and then they’ll kick me out because I’m not good enough for their son.

  “Says who?” he asks, leaning back on his hands, his long (long) legs up against my left side, his toes pressing in against the side of my waist. “Says who? Who do I need to fight?”

  I snort, running my hands through my hair again, my energy flagging, even though Michael’s one of those people that doesn’t seem to exhaust me as quickly as others. It took me a while to figure that out, that some people are just more draining than others and I have to shore up more energy before I’m around them.

  “Clearly your parents, and I don’t think that’s going to be doing you any favors in the long run.”

  “Come on, they’re going to like you. What’s not to like?”

  I cringe. He just says it like that, like there’s nothing wrong with me. Michael probably still thinks I’m a cam girl and still wants me to meet his parents.

  He’s really something else.

  I shake my head at him. “Shall I count the ways?”

  Michael grins. “See? You can talk about Shakespeare with my dad, he loves that stuff.”

  “What?! Which play is his favorite? Hold on, where’s my phone so I can write this down.” I start plunging my arms underneath the cushions of the couch, knowing that’s where I last saw it and vowing to myself to get a bright yellow case. While the black-on-black look is sleek and sophisticated, everything I own is black and therefore camouflages my phone until I lose it in my own freaking home at least six times a day.

  “It’s on the table. Look, don’t stress about this. You don’t have to meet them if you don’t want to,” he says before going quiet.

  “I hate being judged, I hate it.” I locate my phone, pick it up, and pull up my notes app, thumbs flying across the screen before looking back up at him. “Michael, it’s not that I don’t want to meet your parents, but I don’t want to meet your parents.”

  He smiles, but it’s not the Michael-smile I’m used to that he usually sends my way. Shit. I’ve gone and screwed up all by my lonesome. “They’re the kindest people I know,” he says, and the way he says it makes me believe that it’s true. “They’re not going to judge you. I’ve showed them pictures already.”

  “I knew those pictures we took together were going to come back and bite me in the ass, I knew it!”

  We had gone to one of those rare photo booths still loitering around some of the malls nowadays, and Michael had pulled me inside, him sitting on the stool with me perched on his lap.

  And it made him irrationally happy that we spent a literal fortune on old, printed photos when he could have taken a bunch with his phone, with my phone. We even got a set in black and white and I’ve seen that set on his fridge in his kitchen, and yeah, it made feel all warm and gooey inside and I don’t want to talk about it.

  “They like you. My mom likes your hair as it is, you don’t need to do anything to change it.”

  “Really?” I ask, palming my head, pressing down on my hair as if I can cover it up from her gaze even though she’s nowhere to be seen. “My roots are visible from outer space, ” I exaggerate.

  “Sweetheart, they don’t care.”

  It’s absurd how my eyes flutter closed at the endearment, the way I can feel the tension in my body easing at the sound of that word coming out of Michael’s mouth. It’s magic, pure magic.

  When I open my eyes again, looking at him, it’s to find that he’s the one with the blushing cheeks.

  “I like that,” I say. “I like you calling me sweetheart. I didn’t think I would like it so much, but I do.” Michael clears his throat on a wheeze. “Are you okay there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just…something caught in my throat, frog, a boar, whatever.”

  I bark out a laugh. “A boar? What the hell?”

  “I don’t know it’s what my brain told me to say and I ran with it. Sweetheart.”

  I gasp, pointing a finger at him. “You must only use these powers for good, Michael Nash. I will not tolerate being manipulated by a single word.”

  Michael’s eyes flare wide, and he sits upright, hands on top of his thighs, moving over so he’s closer to me, within kissing distance now. “I would never do that. You know that, right? You do know that?”

  “Yeah, I know that,” I say on a sigh, moving forward a little until my hamstrings refuse to stretch anymore and kiss his shoulder, the closest place I can reach. “I know. You’re a good person.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “The only crime you commit is looking like you do and acting like you do and being an angel with invisible wings. Anything else is slander and I’m not going to stand for it.”

  “Victoria,” he says, smiling, grabbing my hand and cradling it between the two of his. “Would you come and meet my parents this weekend?”

  “This weekend? Michael, I need at least two months’ notice to prepare, oh Jesus Christ.” I try to tug my hand out of his grip but he isn’t having it.

  It’s not that I don’t want him to hold my hand, I just sort of want to run around my place and run off the panicked energy building in my muscles like fireworks about to explode into the sky.

  “It’ll be for brunch. My mom makes the world’s best French toast casserole.”

  I widen my eyes. “You can make a casserole out of French toast? Is that allowed?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, it is.”

  “Hey, hey, only use your power for good, remember? For good.”

  “They’re going to love you. They are.”

  “What about your cousin? What about them?”

  “It’s her first semester of college, and she’s doing it abroad. She’s stressed and tired, so don’t take it to heart if you’re not best friends right away.”

  “Okay, okay.” I nod to myself, really liking the way Michael’s thumb’s drawing circles on the back of my hand, like in a way you would try to soothe a scared animal with your touch. “You know I didn’t go to college, right? I’m pretty sure I’ve told you that.”

  “I know.”

  I shrug the unease settling on my shoulders, trying and push through, like I always do. “And how do you feel about that?” I don’t know why I’m pushing it; Michael’s never made me feel like an idiot because I didn’t finish my university degree, but people judge nevertheless, not knowing my circumstances.

  I can always go back to school if gaming doesn’t work out; maybe I won’t want to do this for the rest of my life.

  I also play as part of a league and I get a livable wage that’ll help me pay my bills if I were to decide to go back full-time. I’m not worried, but I wasn’t expecting how much shame it would bring my family when I didn’t go to university, didn’t get my undergraduate degree, even if it was a pawn-off like Max’s Bachelor of Commerce.

  At least she has that paper that says she spent three years in university and did her time and her stress and got that diploma.

  Me? Not so much.

  I don’t even want to think about how much Michael studied. I don’t want to think about how he went on for his Master’s in Kinesiology, and now he’s doing night classes to get his MBA and works as a trainer part-time.

  He could literally work for any of the NHL teams if he wanted (I guess) but he’s here, and maybe that’s a sore spot with his family.

  Who knows? Not me.

  “My parents won’t care about that,” he says, sounding convinced but I’m not so sure.

  They’re going to have some kind of reaction about it, some kind of reaction. My parents don’t really talk about me not going to school, but when I’m at home, it’s all they talk about with Evie, my little sister finishing up a major in commerce and a minor in classics, of all things, reading ancient texts or whatever.

  “I’m just preparing you. They may not see me the way you see me,” I say, squeezing down on his hand so he gets it.

  Michael shakes his head, his perma-blush going deeper in hue now as he glances away. I’ve never had a guy this affected by me and I’m loving it, truly, the way he’s almost flustered.

  “We’ll just take it a step at a time. One step at a time. I know they’re going to like you, and you’re not the kind of person that’s going to randomly turn into an asshole as soon as you meet them, so I’m not worried.”

  “Of course you’re not worried,” I huff. “They’re your parents. You’re biased. Biased.” My stomach decides at that moment in time to make a wailing sound even though I was full a whole twenty minutes ago, that doesn’t seem to be the case right now. I frown at the sushi, twisting my mouth, wrinkling my nose.

  “What? You want something else?”

  I sigh. “I shouldn’t want something else when there’s perfectly good food here.”

  “I don’t know if you know this, but there’s these miraculous appliances called fridges? Where we store food so it keeps and we can have it later?”

  I smack ineffectually at his giant shoulder cap, frowning down at my hand when it smarts then looking back at Michael in mock-horror. “Ouch. I want big shoulder caps, too. Shit. Stop being a smart-ass.” I’ve noticed how much calmer he’s become with me, more at ease, and I guess that’s just how it works in the dating game, even if I haven’t played in a good long while.

  “Fine. This weekend. I’ll be there.”

  “Well, I’ll drive us, obviously, since we live right next door to each other.”

  I nod, because, yeah, it makes sense.

  “Now, what do you want to eat?”

  “You’re gonna get mad.” Michael shakes his head, negating my previous statement. “I want waffles.”

  “Belgian?” he asks.

  I smirk at him. “Are there any other kind? But we don’t need to get them, I have no idea what you would eat since your body is a temple.”

  “The place on St-Catherine has buckwheat Belgian waffles.”

  I pull a face, lolling my tongue out. “That sounds disgusting.”

  “They’re good, I promise.” Michael takes his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and opens the food ordering app we like over the others and starts marking down the order. “What do you want?”

  “Buckwheat waffles.” I figure they’ll taste good, even if I have to drown them in maple syrup.

  Michael looks at me, as if waiting for me to give him another answer, but I just nod.

  And I get a sweet kiss for sacrificing my taste buds, and it makes it all worth it.

  The weekend approaches while I get myself prepared.

  I finally drag my ass to the salon and my favorite colorist, getting a refresh on my electric-blue hair and freshening up the little undercut underneath the mass of hair I have, and getting a few layers put in so my hair looks healthier than ever.

  I head over to Max’s place after the dye, cut and blow dry, feeling ten pounds lighter even though there wasn’t that much hair cut off, feeling a lot like a butterfly finally emerging from the cocoon.

  “So what are we thinking, boring-ass neutral?” Max asks as we both look at her wall of Ikea Alex drawers, stacked on top with more makeup. Max points to the top. “Those are the ones I’m going to be filming with this week,” she says, and I count them off—ten eyeshadow palettes. Ten?!

  “How many do you actually own?” I snort, look over at her.

  Max swings to look at me, nearly poking my eye out with her raised index finger and the talon on the end. I look down at my own nails, freshly buffed and varnished with a pale pink—kinda boring, yeah, but still pretty.

  “I don’t want to answer that question. I declutter about every three to four months or so. I didn’t think I would get on so many PR lists. My channel’s not that huge.”

  “It’s probably because you review as much as you do. You put out three to five videos a week, man. That output’s gotta be rough.” I cross my arms over my chest when she does the same.

  “We’re not talking about how I’m literally drowning in makeup, we’re here to assess your overall look and what I can give you and tell you to do for tomorrow’s brunch. It is a brunch, right? Not a lunch?”