Foreman was glaring so stonily at the phone, sitting quietly on the table like it was completely innocent and hadn't just put him through the ringer, that he didn't notice Amber's soft footsteps behind him. He turned sharply when she spoke. With an effort, he shook off the tension from the phone call. It wouldn't do any good to tell Amber what talking to her mother had really felt like. Amber saw her as overbearing, maybe, from the irritated, resigned groan she made when she figured out who Foreman had been talking to, but he doubted Amber really cared to have him get resentful over the tone of her mother's voice when she'd asked after his allergies. It wasn't like he could prove anything.
"You can bring a salad to Thanksgiving," he said, keeping to the facts. He gave her a significant glance, trying to assess if this was all Kate Volakis's idea, or if Amber had been conspiring to feed him to the wolves. "We're supposed to be there by four." He groped for a moment for some other part of the conversation to report; his memory already felt blurred, except for the sharp spikes of his annoyance. "And your aunt is bringing mince pie."
He supposed he should add, your mom wants you to call, but that was probably implied. He slumped back into the back of the couch, feeling tired. He wasn't angry; not even upset, really. The phone call hadn't been egregious. He'd had girlfriends before who hadn't warned their families before he showed up--when he was in college, mostly, when he got invited out to dinner with their parents so that he could be assessed. Girls who'd never for a moment thought that there'd been anything to warn for, or who had insisted to themselves that it really didn't make a difference...only to find out it did. Amber's mom making an effort was...nice. Exactly the kind of lèse majesté he hated, but it wasn't anything that was going to stop any time soon. There was no point in making a big deal of it.
Underneath that, Foreman realized that he'd never have to do the same in reverse. Introduce Amber to his mom. She'd absolutely loved Claire. And to think that he never had to worry about Amber picking up his phone to answer a concerned, motherly call; that they'd never visit his parents so Mom would have her chance at evaluating Amber. She'd never get that "are you good enough for my little boy?" look on her face, and she'd never call Foreman aside into the kitchen "to help get refreshments," only to give him either a winking, conspiratorial smile, or else a swat on his arm and shake of her head that meant Eric, what are you thinking? He let out a small, amused breath. He couldn't imagine which reaction Amber would have earned. God, he wished he did.
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"You can bring a salad to Thanksgiving," he said, keeping to the facts. He gave her a significant glance, trying to assess if this was all Kate Volakis's idea, or if Amber had been conspiring to feed him to the wolves. "We're supposed to be there by four." He groped for a moment for some other part of the conversation to report; his memory already felt blurred, except for the sharp spikes of his annoyance. "And your aunt is bringing mince pie."
He supposed he should add, your mom wants you to call, but that was probably implied. He slumped back into the back of the couch, feeling tired. He wasn't angry; not even upset, really. The phone call hadn't been egregious. He'd had girlfriends before who hadn't warned their families before he showed up--when he was in college, mostly, when he got invited out to dinner with their parents so that he could be assessed. Girls who'd never for a moment thought that there'd been anything to warn for, or who had insisted to themselves that it really didn't make a difference...only to find out it did. Amber's mom making an effort was...nice. Exactly the kind of lèse majesté he hated, but it wasn't anything that was going to stop any time soon. There was no point in making a big deal of it.
Underneath that, Foreman realized that he'd never have to do the same in reverse. Introduce Amber to his mom. She'd absolutely loved Claire. And to think that he never had to worry about Amber picking up his phone to answer a concerned, motherly call; that they'd never visit his parents so Mom would have her chance at evaluating Amber. She'd never get that "are you good enough for my little boy?" look on her face, and she'd never call Foreman aside into the kitchen "to help get refreshments," only to give him either a winking, conspiratorial smile, or else a swat on his arm and shake of her head that meant Eric, what are you thinking? He let out a small, amused breath. He couldn't imagine which reaction Amber would have earned. God, he wished he did.