Page 64 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

My eyes are probably rolling back or doing something similarly embarrassing.

“I’m so happy for you,” Mamma beams. “I know how long you wanted this.”

I feel Dmitri stiffen behind me.

“To think the first time you bring home someone, it’s—”

“Mamma,” I plead, scrambling from Dmitri’s arms and scurrying away.

“What?”

“Mamma!”

I feel Dmitri’s gaze burning into me. My skin prickles.

I thought Pappa would be the embarrassing one.

“What? You’re together now!”

“But—” I stare at her.

She stares back.

“Sit down,” Pappa interrupts. “Food will get cold.”

Dmitri practically sprints to the dining room table. I don’t blame him.

I don’t want Dmitri to know just how strongly I feel about him. It’s mortifying. I should be able to be friends with a stunningly attractive athlete without pining after him. I shouldn’t objectify him. It’s not right.

I take a deep breath, as if it’s possible to swallow my feelings, and sit down. Dmitri takes the chair beside me. Usually his presence settles me, but now I feel unsteady, like when he started asking about my past relationships.

God, Mamma almost told him I’ve never had a boyfriend. That no one’s ever wanted me.

My nerves remain on edge, and I’m startled when Dmitri takes my wine glass and hands it to my mother, and more startled when he takes it back from her, now filled with wine. He rubs my shoulder, as if he thinks his touch can calm me. Not a bad assumption, honestly.

I take a longer sip of wine than I normally might, and when I set my glass down, Pappa is frowning at me.

“Don’t turn my son into an alcoholic, Dmitri,” Pappa says.

My mouth drops. “I took a sip! And you wanted him to bring the wine!”

Pappa’s lips curl, and I realize I’m not exactly projecting maturity here.

God, if Dmitri actually liked men, if he actually liked me, he probably wouldn’t after tonight.

“Dmitri is making our son happy,” Mamma scolds Pappa. “Do you know how long—”

“Mamma!” I plead. “Please.”

We do that staring thing again, though for some reason, she looks puzzled.

Does she think Dmitri and I are married for real? She must know this is fake. Dmitri is straight, straight, straight. He’d never pick me. Even if he were gay, he would probably pick someone muscular who could keep up with him in the gym. Like Vinnie and Evan or Noah and Finn.

No, maybe someday I’ll meet the wiry accountant or anesthesiologist of my dreams.

Dmitri says something praising the food to my mother, and I realize I probably should actually eat it. Family dinners generally don’t involve driving to my parents’ house, then staring at the food my mother worked on for hours.

I grab my fork and knife. The meatballs are probably super juicy, but when I put one in my mouth, it feels heavy and foreign. I chew awkwardly, conscious of Dmitri beside me, worried that Mamma will say another thing that will make him know just how inexperienced I am.