Chapter Text
If there was an Olympic event for charging blindly into emotionally loaded rooms, I’d have medaled by sophomore year. Today, weighed down with enough pastry and caffeine to provision a small bunker, I threw myself at our apartment door, bracing myself for the chaos within. It was an apartment for students at our university with a common living room, four bedrooms, and two bathrooms. “Honey, I’m home,” I sang, letting the handle clack against the wall knowing nobody would chastise me for it. Our other two roommates had already left for winter break.
I walked over to the left side of the apartment where our bedrooms were. Hannah was running around back and forth between our bedrooms and the bathroom like a chicken with her head cut off. She didn’t pause her chaotic packing routine. “…got enough Ziplock bags in case there’s a spill on the way over and on the way back. Check.” There was a pause and sounds of her rummaging through something. “Phone charger, laptop charger, backup charger…” I followed her into her room and yelled out, “Did you remember to pack your brain?” Hannah absently replied, “Yes I’ve got it in my…” then it fully dawned on her what I had asked. She turned to me with a playful yet stressful look “Asshole,” she teased. “Nope, it’s coffee, and snacks.” I smirked without missing a beat. “But you can have my asshole later if you want,” I winked.
She closed the suitcase on her bed and snapped the latches. Then she wiped invisible dust off the plastic. Only then did she cross the room and claim her cup, “Thank you,” she said, ignoring my sexual suggestion, and took a sip. I watched her, always hoping she’d relax a little, maybe let her shoulder blades drop half an inch for the holiday. No such luck. If anything, she was more braced than usual, her movements so efficient it made me feel like a ransacked thrift store in comparison. I pointed to an unopened cell phone charger package. “Did you buy that specifically for this trip?” I asked. She made a show of ignoring me, peeling a sticker from her cup.
“There’s nothing worse than needing a charger and not having one,” she finally said after a pause. “Except maybe discovering your girlfriend hoards lithium like a deranged squirrel,” I playfully shot out. I took a sip of my own coffee. It was nice and warm. “Or facing the terror of your first Christmas with her parents.” She shot me a glance. “It’s not terror. It’s…strategic planning.” I sighed, “Planning. Right.” I managed to stop myself from rolling me eyes. “We both know your mom is going to hate me.” “She won’t.” Hannah leaned back against the wall, measuring me with that same gaze she used to diagram organic chemistry reactions on the whiteboard. “She’ll worry, but she won’t hate.”
I set the bag of pastries down, exhumed a muffin, and bit into it. “Define ‘worry,’” I mumbled with my mouth partially full. Hannah hesitated, her face was good at hiding feelings, but her hands always betrayed her. Her nails tapped against the cup lid with one while the other twirled a lock of hair behind her ear. “She does know we’re together right? Not just friends?” I asked. Hannah nodded, “Yes. And she accepts it. She was fine with me going to prom with Amanda Barkley.” I shook my head, “Prom’s a false positive for parental acceptance.” I laughed, “Nobody automatically thinks lesbian when two girls go to the prom together. Not even my parents. And I tried to tell them my prom date with Christina Ellis was a real one, but they pretended to not hear me.” I shrugged, “I think they hoped I was going through a phase.”
Hannah gave me a sympathetic look, “My parents aren’t like that. My mom, she’ll just…” she hesitated again, then continued. “She’ll ask if you’re eating enough,” her finger twirled her hair faster, “what your parents are doing for the holidays.” I frowned at that one, but let her continue. “If you’re still seeing that therapist.” I raised an eyebrow, “If all she does is pepper me with questions I can deal with that.” Hannah looked at me with an unsure expression, “sometimes she can be a little intense.” I looked at my girlfriend and tried to imagine the woman who made her. She would probably have the same flaming red hair and personality to match. Maybe the same adorable freckles all over her arms. I smiled “Sometimes intense is fun.” I let my voice turn suggestive, “Speaking of fun…” I paused for effect, “are you nearly done?”
Hannah shook her head. “Not quite.” She set her coffee aside and opened her suitcase. By now this was probably the quadruple check. Refold and recount clothes, optimize space, and go through the list one more time. She was an artist with limited canvas, and I knew better than to interrupt when she hit the zone. Instead, I sat on the floor, back pressed to the wall, and watched the way she arranged her world. There was a pleasure in watching her work. Control as comfort, order as prayer. The silence pressed in, punctuated only by the sound of her pen scratching over the checklist taped inside the suitcase lid.
When I knew she had finished with that round of checking, I spoke “Am I on your list tonight?” She glared at me. “You know you’re always on the list.” I smirked “Even if you don’t write it down?” Her face became serious and body more rigid “Does it bother you when I don’t?” I shook my head and giggled, “I’m kidding Han, I’m kidding.” Her body relaxed a hair as she checked the list for what was hopefully the last time. “We have to leave at six,” Hannah announced. “If you oversleep, I’m leaving you here,” she teased. I took another sip of my coffee, then set it down and smiled “How ruthless of you. Whatever will I do alone in this apartment all by myself over the holidays.” I feigned fainting. She giggled. Her eyes sparkled with the promise of a little fun.
Before we could get anywhere her phone rang. The screen said “Mom.” The phone’s insistent buzzing on the bedside table was enough to trigger a Pavlovian response. Hannah’s spine straightened, her jaw clicked, her hands hovered, momentarily unsure whether to answer or hide the device in the lining of her suitcase. She let the phone ring three times, as if not wanting to seem too eager, and then slid her thumb across the screen. “Hi, Mom.” The phone was not on speaker, but I could hear her mom’s voice regardless.
“Hey sweetie. Are you packed? Did you get my email about the snowstorm? I heard on the radio there’s a traffic jam. Don’t get on the interstate if you hear about a pileup, Hannah, promise me. Are you taking the all-wheel drive?” Hannah’s hand was already white-knuckling the phone. “We’re taking the four-wheel drive, Mom. Wendy’s done the route before. It’s just from here to the airport. We’re leaving early, just like you said.” There was a pause, and I sensed her mom leaning in for the real interrogation. “Now, you’re sure Wendy doesn’t have any allergies? I got the almond milk, but if she needs oat or rice, I can still run to the store in the morning. I just need to know before I start the baking.” Hannah’s lips pressed to a hard, colorless line. “She’s not allergic to anything, Mom. She’s,” Her eyes darted to me, as if checking for my approval, or maybe begging for rescue. “She’s not picky. She’s easy.” I opened my mouth in a large O and grasped by chest in a feigned look of shock, and she nearly laughed. Her mom’s voice sharpened. “You’re not easy, Hannah. You’re the pickiest eater I know, except maybe your Uncle Jerry, and he only eats microwave dinners. Now, does Wendy have any dietary needs at all? I can make gluten-free stuffing, but only if I know ahead of time…”
I tuned out and let the drone of concern wrap around me like a wet towel. Hanna’s mother’s worry traveled the distance with surgical accuracy. My own mother, by contrast, checked in once every other month, usually to ask if I’d seen the latest episode of some prestige cable drama. I envied the specificity of her mother’s caring, even as I saw how it embarrassed Hannah. Hannah stood and began pacing small, frantic loops around the bed, phone pressed tight to her ear. “We’re fine, Mom. You don’t have to…okay, yes, I’ll check with Wendy. I’ll text you if she thinks of anything else.”
I stared at my own hands, remembering the times I’d nearly died of embarrassment when I was introduced as “the friend.” Or when my parents looked at each other and pretended like I wasn’t a lesbian. At least Hannah's mother wasn’t pretending not to know. “We don’t have enough room to separate you two, but you’re both adults now. Just don’t make too much noise. If you need tips on how to be quiet, just let me know.” Hannah’s face matched her hair for a moment. “Mom!” she exclaimed. I covered my mouth and tried not to laugh. It didn’t work, and Hannah shot me an annoyed look.
Hannah’s voice dropped to a murmur after her mother mentioned another potential yet unlikely disaster. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mom. I’m not a kid anymore.” Her mom didn’t respond, not at first. Then, in a softer voice said “I’ll always worry about you, Han. It’s my job.” For a moment, I hated her mother for saying that, for making care into a trap, but then I remembered that my own mother only worried when the rent was late or the car made a new noise. The call ended with three separate goodbyes, each more reluctant than the last. Hannah held the phone in her lap, screen gone dark, and stared at the wall. We sat in silence for a few moments.
“You okay?” I finally asked. She shrugged, then nodded, then shook her head, all in the space of a breath. “She means well.” I nodded “Yeah. She does.” Hannah pressed her hands together, thumbs worrying at the ridges of her knuckles. “She’s going to ask you a million questions. Just…be patient. She needs time.” I smiled, “I’ve got this. I can handle it,” I said with confidence. She looked at me, and for the first time all day her armor slipped. “What if you can’t?” I reached across the tiny gulf between us and touched her wrist. “I’ve survived two years of you. I can handle your mother.” She snorted, but the sound was damp. “Not the same.”
I wanted to tell her I was terrified, too, that every time I thought about sitting at her family’s table with the wrong fork or the wrong stories I felt like my bones might dissolve. I wanted to tell her I would have done anything for her, including the impossible, becoming the sort of girl her mother could be proud of. Instead I squeezed her hand and said, “Don’t underestimate me. I’m scrappy.” She smiled at my joke, but I could tell she was still worried.
We stayed in that taut silence for a while, listening to the hum of the mini fridge and the tick of the wall clock. I half expected Hannah to melt down, but that wasn’t how she worked. Instead, she straightened, squared her shoulders, and began packing all over again, as if repetition could conjure stability out of thin air. I drifted back to our living room, mostly to give her time, but also to escape the coiling nerves in the bedroom. We probably wouldn’t be intimate tonight because she was too wound up, and that was ok. I knew she would relax more once the initial meeting was over.
I replayed the phone call in my head, every syllable of her mother’s interrogation, every unspoken fear between mother and daughter. Hannah didn’t know how lucky she was to have supportive parents. If I had brought Hannah over to mine, it would be way more awkward all around since they would pretend our relationship was just friends. My phone buzzed with a text message from my mom, wishing me a safe trip with my friend and confirming that she still pretended my sexual preference didn’t exist. I sighed with annoyance and hoped that one day my family would accept me for who I am just like someone else’s family already had before we had even met.