Page 31

A Texas Welcome

Song : Texas - Blake Shelton

M y redneck man was about to meet my Trinidadian parents.

This was either going to be a hilarious cultural collision worthy of a Netflix special…

or the beginning of Jon’s slow and painful demise via passive-aggressive comments.

Either way, I was ready—with freshly waxed eyebrows, a tight grip on his hand, and a prayer to the ancestral gods of curry powder and good first impressions.

Jon, of course, looked about as nervous as a golden retriever in a duck pond—relaxed, mildly curious, and completely unaware he was about to be psychologically strip-searched by two sixty-something Trinis who took parenting, and cooking, very seriously.

I took a deep breath. The air smelled like freshly mowed grass, hi biscus blooms, and impending judgment.

I turned to Jon, “You ready?” I asked, brushing a bit of dog hair off his shirt that had probably come from Nacho, our four-legged, fur-coated emotional support chaos machine.

“Babe,” he drawled, grinning, “I survived basic training, your road trip playlist, and Patricia. I think I can handle your folks.” Famous last words.

The front door swung open before we even made it halfway to the ring doorbell.

My mom stood there in all her curry-scented glory, her house dress crisp, her brows arched with the power of a thousand unspoken opinions.

Beside her, my dad hovered like a tall, quiet watchdog with a steel-trap mind and a suspicious squint aimed directly at Jon.

“Hi, Mommy!” I said, trying to sound casual and not like someone leading her boyfriend into the lion’s den.

“Father.”

“Look how long you take to come home!” my mom said, enveloping me in a hug that smelled like cumin and garlic.

“You lose weight? You eating properly on the road? What happen to your skin? You not using that blue soap I give you?” And then her eyes shifted to Jon.

“This is him?” I opened my mouth to speak, but she was already circling him like a seasoned customs agent. Jon, to his credit, smiled politely and extended his hand.

“Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your daughter talks about you all the time.” My mother hugged him, gave him a once-over, nodded slowly, and turned back to the kitchen.

“Nice to meet you, Jon,” she said.

“Ah make curry chicken.” Translation: You’ll earn my respect one bite at a time, cowboy.

Inside, the house smelled like heaven and impending heartburn.

The living room was just as I remembered—plush caramel sofas with seasonal throw pillows, fresh cut flowers that had somehow become permanent fixtures, and my mom’s shrine-like collection of porcelain animals judging us silently from every available surface.

We followed the scent trail into the kitchen, where a full Trini spread awaited like the opening credits of a food documentary: golden roti piled high and soft, curry channa glistening with coconut oil, baigan choka perfectly charred, and the crown jewel—Mom’s legendary curry chicken, thick and fragrant with a kick that could bring tears to your eyes and cleanse your soul in one bite.

Jon, who had once considered Taco Bell to be “exotic,” looked like he’d just walked into the promised land.

“You hungry?” my mom asked him, still smiling.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Smells amazing.” Five minutes later, he was elbow-deep in roti and licking his fingers like a man who had found religion.

“He eating like he grow up in Barataria,” my mom said to my dad, who grunted noncommittally and kept sipping his freshly made sorrel.

After dinner came the interrogation—Trini parent style. Which meant slow, methodical questions delivered between sips of tea and long, appraising stares.

“So… Jon,” my dad started, leaning back in his chair.

“What do you do for work again?”

“I’m retired navy, sir.” My dad nodded.

“Mmm. You ever plan to leave Idaho?”

“Not really,” Jon said.

“I like it quiet.” My mother tilted her head.

“So what you want with my daughter, who grew up with noise, traffic, and seasoning?”

I sipped my tea and pretended to study the pattern on the tablecloth.

Jon took a breath and said, “Well, ma’am, I love her and I think she’s the funniest, smartest, prettiest person I’ve ever met.

I don’t care where we live, long as it’s together.

” Cue dramatic pause. My mother blinked.

My dad’s eyebrows briefly disappeared into his hairline. I nearly choked on my ginger tea.

“Well,” my mother said, still smiling, “at least he not shy.”

After another round of food with a dessert of coconut drops and awkward silence, I gave Jon the tour.

“This is the theater room,” I said, clicking on the remote.

“Where my dad insists on watching Marvel movies and soccer.” Jon looked around at the massive screen, the surround sound, and the wall-to-wall La-Z-Boys.

“He got surround sound?” he asked, eyes lighting up.

“And Dolby Atmos? I could live in here.”

“Good,” I said.

“Because you might be living here if you flunk this visit.” Next stop: the boat dock, where we watched the sun begin to dip over the lake like a mango melting into syrup. The water glistened, still and lazy, as dragonflies flitted around us and Nacho barked at absolutely nothing, per usual.

“This is beautiful,” Jon said softly.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“My dad calls it his ‘escape from women. But we still show up anyway.”

Back inside, it was time for the real test—the dog mafia.

Ranger, my ancient chihuahua-dachshund mix, was curled up like a grumpy cinnamon bun in his usual chair.

He opened one eye, sniffed, and went back to sleep.

Lilo, my mom’s loudmouthed black chihuahua, let out a shriek that could shatter glass the moment we walked in and then there was Cleopatra Belle, my dad’s twelve-year-old brindle corgi-dachshund mix, who eyed Jon as she’d just seen a UPS driver on her property.

“Don’t move too fast,” I whispered as Jon slowly approached Ranger.

“They smell fear.” Ranger blinked, gave one sniff of Jon’s boot, and—miraculously— let him scratch his head.

“Well I’ll be,” Jon whispered.

“He likes me.”

“He probably thinks you smell like jerky and grass,” I replied. “It’s a compliment.”

Upstairs, I showed him my lair—the room that had once been a teenage girl’s hideout and was now a guest suite meets memory lane. Old Sims games, a bookshelf of books I never finished, and a walk-in closet big enough to hide a small crime.

“This is yours?” Jon asked, setting our bags down in the corner.

“Every time I visit,” I said.

“They don’t come up here. It’s sacred territory. We’ve got it all to ourselves.” He raised an eyebrow.

“So… you mean…”

“Yes,” I said, slipping my arms around his waist.

“Privacy.” He grinned, leaned down, and kissed me, just slow and sweet enough to make my knees whisper a quiet prayer for strength.

“We better shower,” I said, breathless.

“Before I jump you in my childhood bed and scar my soul forever.”

Cleaned up and re-clothed, we headed back downstairs to regale the parents with tales from the road. “We started in North Carolina,” I said, curling up on the couch with a second helping of coconut drops.

“Drove through Illinois, and then to Vegas.”

“Vegas?” my dad asked.

“What you do there?”

“Lost $40,” Jon said.

“Won a girl.” Smooth. My mother side-eyed him but didn’t protest.

“And then there was Patricia,” I added. My mom sat up straighter.

“Who?” I sighed.

“Blake’s girlfriend. Or… psych patient. We’re still unclear.”

I proceeded to tell them the entire saga: Patricia’s emotional breakdowns, her accusation that Jeanine put cat poop in Vance’s suitcase, and the fact that she tried to sage the microwave because she thought it was haunted, the meth lab accusations and my sex ring operation.

By the time I got to the part where she sobbed into her potato salad because someone made eye contact with her, my mom was fanning herself with a dish towel and my dad had stopped sipping his tea .

“She sounds like a real nutcase,” my mom said.

“She sounds dangerous,” my dad added.

“She’s both,” I confirmed.

“Well,” my mom said, finally breaking into a smile, “at least you bring home a man who could survive that madness.” Jon beamed.

“I like him,” she said finally, and I could’ve sworn the angels on the shelf nodded in agreement.

It was the tail end of September—still hot enough in Houston to make your thighs stick to leather seats, but just cool enough at night for my mother to start talking about “bush tea weather.” Jon and I had told them over dinner that we were going to start looking at townhouses soon.

You’d think we said we were moving to Mars.

My mother froze mid-sip of her ginger tea, her eyes widening as she’d just been told Carnival was canceled.

“This soon?” she asked, clutching her mug like it was an emotional support teacup. My dad looked suspiciously neutral, but even he paused the rerun of Law and Order: SVU he’d been half-watching.

“We’re just looking for now,” I reassured, squeezing Jon’s hand under the table.

“Not packing our bags tonight or anything.” She nodded slowly, then offered a classic Trini deflection:

“You both looking tired. Why don’t you go upstairs and relax?

” Translation: I need to emotionally process this and maybe talk to your dad behind your back first. Tired was an understatement.

We’d just showered but still looked like two mildly traumatized travelers recovering from emotional jet lag and Patricia-induced PTSD.

So, we followed orders with tumblers full of ice and Coca-Cola—the kind that burns your throat just right—we trudged upstairs like teenagers sneaking off after church.

Ranger, my 14-year-old, a grumpy cinnamon roll of a dog, decided at that moment he was officially Jon’s best friend and life partner.

He waddled behind us with the determined huffing of an arthritic old man on a mission.

Nacho, of course, followed too because heaven forbid someone leave the room without his full emotional support.

By the time we got to my lair, we had a whole senior citizen dog entourage. We surrendered to our fate .

“Guess we’ve been adopted,” Jon said, scooping Ranger up like a baby and placing him on the bed next to Nacho, who had already claimed the left pillow.

I changed into my pajama shorts and one of Jon’s oversized T-shirts, while he wore gym shorts and that worn-out tank top he claimed was “good sleeping material.” We crawled into bed, dogs nestled between us like tiny, judgmental grandparents, and began the sacred ritual of programming the Roku.

“Babe, why does your dad have three different HBO logins?” Jon asked.

“Because he keeps forgetting his passwords but refuses to reset them. This is a generational curse. Just click the one with ‘Batman1961’ in it.”

Eventually, we settled in with the new season of Blue Bloods—a comfort show for people who enjoy cop drama and intermittent emotional breakthroughs between stoic men and their Irish Catholic trauma.

We’d barely made it through Jamie’s first monologue when Jon’s phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen, raised one eyebrow, and handed it to me silently. It was from Blake .

“Hey guy, just wanted to let you know that I love you like a brother, but I don’t want Delilah in the house again. Too many red flags, especially since she told Patricia that she shot at her ex’s car and he was an N-word.”

I stared at the message for a second, trying to figure out if it was a prank, an actual emergency, or just… Blake being Blake. Then I laughed. Hard. Like, bent-over, stomach-clutching, wake-the-dogs-and-maybe-my-parents kind of laughing.

“Oh my god,” I wheezed.

“This is gold. Blake is officially living in an episode of Cops mixed with The Real Housewives of Idaho.” Jon chuckled too, but his laugh had a weary edge.

“ Delilah. Shot at. Her ex’s car. ”

“ And told Patricia. Like it was a cute icebreaker!” I gasped. “Like, Hey girl, I like your nails. Also, I once discharged a weapon in a jealous rage.’” Jon leaned back on the pillow, running a hand through his hair.

“ And the N-word part … just makes it so much worse. What the hell, man.”

“Why does Blake always find the women who come with a free crisis hotline and two active restraining orders?” I asked. “It’s like his dating type is ‘ Haunted. ’” Ranger sneezed, clearly unimpressed by our drama, and Nacho stretched across Jon’s chest like he paid the mortgage here.

We lay there, Blue Bloods playing quietly in the background while the glow from the TV made shadows dance on the walls of my childhood room—now transformed into a makeshift grown-up retreat complete with emotional support dogs, absurd texts from redneck friends, and the overwhelming comfort of being somewhere familiar.

I looked at Jon. This was a man who had followed me through tornado warnings, Vegas casinos, emotional baggage heavier than our suitcases, and family dinners where his mashed potatoes got seasoned against their will.

And now he was lying next to me, reading a text from his old navy brother Blake about a possibly criminal girlfriend with racial slurs and gunplay in her dating history and he hadn’t run.

Not once. I smiled, leaned over, and kissed his cheek.

“Welcome to the family,” I whispered. He smirked.

“I’m gonna need a drink.”

“We’ve got soda, curry chicken and two overly affectionate small dogs,” I said.

“It’s the Trini way.” He pulled me closer, Ranger groaned, Nacho farted, and somewhere in the background, Donnie Wahlberg said something dramatic about justice. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was kind of perfect.