Meeting Derry’s mom wasn’t on my radar. The bring-the-girlfriend-home thing isn’t supposed to happen on a second date. Of course, that line of reasoning presents two definite issues. One, I’m not his girlfriend. Two, we haven’t been on a date. This isn’t a date. The Rec Room absolutely wasn’t a date. This is just a coincidental meeting brought on by more poor choices on my part. In a way, I deserve this. Not the good being with Derry part, the bad meeting his mom part.

“Unless you don’t want to meet her. If that’s the case, I’ll tell her to stay in her room.”

I gasp. “No, that’s silly. It’s her house! It’s just...I mean...this is unexpected.”

How will he introduce me to her? What will he call me? His friend from school? He doesn’t go to my school. Why doesn’t he go to my school? How old is he? Will he refer to me as the girl he kissed yet hasn’t actually been on a date with? That one will go over really well. Wicked hot but mentionable to Mom not.

Moms love girls who refer to their sons as hot, Superego chides unhelpfully.

I’m so agitated I barely register him pulling me out of his lab.

Bright side: Derry does a fantastic job distracting me, giving me kitchen tasks that are impossible to screw up. We work well together, and I was wrong. It’s fun helping him, though I’m still not sure how he gained my agreement. Probably by not asking.

Whenever I internally question how I should do something, he comes up behind me and slowly guides my hands into a rhythm before switching to his own tasks. If I’m honest, I’m milking it a tad. Those hands are worth further devaluing myself in his eyes. Who doesn’t know how to shred cheese? Yeah, a knuckle grate is legitimately problematic, but the general slice motion isn’t as complex as cracking an egg and hoping you don’t lose any shell bits. All in all, food prep with Derry isn’t terrible. By the end of our silent nacho preparation, I’m at ease again.

Cleaning becomes my favorite part of the kitchen experience when Derry slides his arms along mine at the sink. Having his glorious scent surrounding me, I give the faucet a run for its money in the steam department.

He rests his head on my shoulder, burrowing his face in my neck. My tinder heart drums in response, hammering away at my resolve. His hot breath in my ear encourages a moan, but his words have me laughing instead. “Lukewarm?”

When I turn around, prepared to tell him just how hot he is, a woman is standing at the kitchen island wearing a pair of oven gloves on her hands.

Busted! Superego goads.

“Careful, you two,” she says coolly, transferring the nachos onto a serving plate. “You almost burned up our snack.”

She has no clue how right she is on so many levels.

My initial shock is replaced by awkwardness. Derry leans his back into my chest, sandwiching me between the counter and himself. He holds me there until the flush of my cheeks subsides enough I feel comfortable stepping out from behind him.

“This is Melanie Connell,” Derry announces. “My mother.”

I swallow down the rather bothersome lump creeping into my throat. Her long, raven hair is pulled into a twist at the back, showcasing alabaster skin that matches Derry’s. Her Rose and Ozone scent is exceptional. Digging deeper, I’m even further impressed. And intimidated. She’s unreadable. Chilly, even, which contradicts the warmth in her tone that fails to reach her ice-blue eyes. I’ve never met anyone who fights so fiercely to mask their emotions, next to me.

As Melanie steps in for a closer scan of the girl acting inappropriately in the kitchen with her son, Derry unfolds his arms and slides one over my shoulder. “Mom, this is Sheyla Tierney. My future wife.”

My nervous lump pretty much chokes me, the frog spawning a million egg babies. I try to tear free from his restraining grip. He looks delightedly amused by my distress and refuses to unhand me.

“Don’t scare the poor girl.” Melanie swats at his hands for the release lever.

“If that’s how you’re going to be, I’ll skip telling you she’s the future mother of your grandchild.”

No one laughs.

He lets me go, shoots his mother a dirty look, and stalks to the table to retrieve the food.

I consider lighting him on fire here and now, except I have no flame to instigate. As he’s done previously, and with little to no effort, his touch extinguished my flame.

He gives the situation a final survey. My expression says, “Don’t you dare leave us alone.” He responds to my unspoken demand by winking at me before disappearing from the kitchen.

“Derry seems quite taken,” Melanie points out.

Didn’t stop him from ditching me, did it?

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Traitorous abandoner, Superego concurs.

“He speaks of you often.”

“Oh.” I straighten my shoulders where they were caving in.

“Your friends have painted a lovely picture, particularly Tally.”

“Huh.” That genuinely catches me off guard. Tally has nothing lovely to say about anyone, least of all me.

“Derry told me he met you at the hospital.”

I nod.

“Such a strange place to meet.” She taps her nails on her chin, showcasing a deep blue snowflake design. “He goes there for the library. I home school my children.”

“Oh.” That answers the school question.

“It’s not easy, but a certain pride comes from the extra effort.”

“That’s great.”

Where’s this conversation heading? Nowhere good. My spark isn’t pleased by my anxiety crowding its space. At this point, beyond the initial meeting, the primary nerve source is my difficulty reading anything from her. Every time I pick at her emotions, I’m left feeling numb. She’s an arctic vault.

“Derry’s attending Penn State in the fall. He received his acceptance letter just before Christmas.”

“That’s nice.”

“What plans have you made for your future, Sheyla?” So begins the inquisition.

Guess she’s had enough of my clipped responses. What a prying, tough to answer, stereotypical mom type question to ask. What do I say? I don’t want to lie. The deceit tickets are piling up. How big a bonfire will I need to burn them all up? Epically big, no doubt.

I have no university ambitions, but I don’t want her assuming I intend to keep her prince from his shiny future. We’ve just met. It’s too early to think of any kind of future with Derry. To be fair, I don’t have a handle on mine, which is why I find the probing invasive. Dim side: the likelihood is high I won’t have one to worry over. Or is that a bright side? Hmm.

Things are fast spiraling from awkward to awful. If I could read her emotions, I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious. Does she hate me? She hates me, right? If she hates me, I could tailor my responses to be equally cold. If she likes me, I’d naturally try harder to appeal to whatever she wants to hear. Robot reactivated.

“Oh, well, I have a lot of irons in the fire. I haven’t figured out which one’s the hottest yet.”

“Perhaps Derry’s ambition will rub off on you.”

“He is tenacious.”

That’s the extent of my Derry knowledge base. He’s a sledgehammer. I don’t know anything other than he makes me feel emotions I have no business feeling. Tally was right. There can’t be any permanence with him. I’ll just hold him back. Worse, I’ll eventually hold him down to slurp the human essence out of him.

That’s a tomorrow problem, Superego notes.

No matter what happens between Derry and me in the future, in the now, it can’t be a bad thing to have someone mechanically inclined accessible. Maybe he can rewire my shut-off switch in a way that doesn’t cede control to my robot. How exactly can I accomplish that without telling him what I am? Keeping secrets inflames my conscience, but do I have any other option if I want him to stick around?

“Until recently, he had a very single-minded focus.”

My eyes widen. “Until recently?”

“Until he met you, yes.”

I’m scared to death. I find swallowing cumbersome, and my safety deposit box is a hot pile of garbage. I hold tight to my spark, trying to keep it contained. I don’t dare let any slip out, not even to allow for circulation. The second the air touches it, the fire will quickly spread. What does this woman want from me? Why is Derry trying to increase the incendiary disaster potential by leaving me alone with her? Robot armed.

Evidently, this is one big joke to him. I’m just a joke. Melanie Connell? She’s no joke. Not in the slightest. I’ve never met anyone more terrifyingly contradictive. I want to hug her and run from her all at once. Her emotions, or lack thereof, are the kryptonite to my empathy.

One thing is clear. Crystal, in fact. I’m not good enough for her son. Have I ever wanted to be accepted, liked, or chosen? I want that from Derry, and subsequently, I want it from his mother. Should I stick it out or head for the door before I shove my foot any further down my throat? I’ve got enough going on with that perpetual lump as it is.

Keen to my flight risk, Derry returns. “Have you been in here freaking out this whole time?” He gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “This will go smoother if you relax.” He rubs my arm. The idle movement does wonders for curbing my flare-up, in spite of him calling me out in front of the responsible party. Robot disarmed. He completely disarms me. How long can the false sense of security last? “Mom should stop torturing you, too.”

Sure, he says that after announcing his false desire to marry and breed you before vacating the premises like his behind was on fire, Superego says sourly. Seems she’s revoked her membership to the Derry fan club.

Melanie takes hold of my hands. Instinctively, I jerk mine away. Her brow draws together disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Does anyone find it hot in here?” I pull at my shirt collar.

“Yes, I am,” Derry agrees cheerfully.

“Not you.”

He’s lucky I don’t elbow that smirk off his face. He can thank his mother for that. She’d full-on loathe me if I accosted him in her direct line of sight.

Take her words at face value, Superego guides me. Stop trying to dig deeper.

Once I stop struggling to read her, the ice melts, flooding me with all her emotions at once. She doesn’t dislike me. She’s joking. Her dry delivery was just tripping up my feelings indicator.

“I’m glad he brought home a living, breathing person,” she muses. “He spends so much time in his lab that I half-expected you to be a robot.”

She’s close to correct. Robotic is the goal. With Derry, it’s a struggle to rein myself in, to find that emotionless state I need to maintain my humanity. At the same time, giving in to my feelings for him has the opposite effect it has on others. Ryan might’ve been right about Derry being good for me. The question is, am I good for Derry? I’m inclined to say no.

“I wasn’t aware he was a computer geek until tonight.”

He lets out a playful whine.

“Sort of takes a few hotness points from him, doesn’t it?” She winks, and my cheeks spark.

He waggles his brow. “Are you ready to help me defeat my siren sister at Rock Band?”

“She’s a talented singer, and Declan can play any instrument. Sounds dubious.”

“It’s not like live music. Being electronically enlightened has its benefits.”

“Wonderful,” Melanie says enthusiastically. “I’ll make a snapshot for you to show my someday-grandchild.”

Derry barks a laugh. I do not laugh. Instead, the roses permeating the room, courtesy of her unique scent, set up camp in my cheeks.

When we settle ourselves in the game room, I’m surprised by how at ease I feel. Melanie is standing at a large easel, painting on a giant canvas. Her idea of a photograph is an oil rendition of the evening. I can’t wait to see what she paints.

Will it be abstract? Someone with a bright future, stars shining in hopeful eyes. Or will it take the realism route? A scared little girl, afraid everything will erupt in flames. Most importantly, will I even be around to see it finished?