The One Night(3)

“Wait . . . Mom.” But it’s too late; they ignore me as they retreat to their room to put on their Christmas garb.

What in the hell just happened?

How did I go from peacefully sitting on my parents’ couch to going out with them? I think they’ve lost their minds, because there is no way in hell I’m letting this happen. I’m putting a stop to it before they set foot outside this house. My parents will not be attempting to take me out so they can act as my wingmen.

Over my dead body.



“I think I’m having heart palpitations from excitement,” Mom says, giving my hand a squeeze as the ferry pulls into Elliott Bay.

“You know, I’m never one to insert myself into my children’s lives”—insert sarcastic cough here—“but I would have to agree with you, Peggy. I’m quite excited about scouting out a nice girl for our Cooper.”

Sandwiched between my parents on the ferry’s blue fiberglass bench, I stare at the dark water in front of me rolling and dipping just like my stomach. But unlike nausea that can be tamped down by some Dramamine, there unfortunately isn’t a sedative big enough to tamp down the wild ideas coming from Peggy and Martin Chance.

I hate to admit it, because I prefer to say I have control over most situations, but my parents’ little plan came together fast, too fast—there was no controlling it.

Before I knew it, Dad had on his “Christmas conversational sweater” and plaid pants, and Mom was jingling her “bells” at me as we headed out the door. I attempted to dig my feet into the ground as they pulled on my arms, but one trip on the sidewalk from my dad, saved by their carry-on suitcase, had me easing up.

Now I’m dreading what this evening has in store. They asked for some bar suggestions, and instead of giving them the bars I actually like to frequent, I told them the Dirty Beaver was a top-notch choice. I was kidding.

But guess who looks past sarcasm when they’re too excited?

My mother.

She said the Dirty Beaver sounded like the perfect place to find a “companion.”

I beg to differ.

No one finds companionship at the Dirty Beaver, just some questionable nachos and a possible staph infection.

“Oh, honey, this could be it—this night could change your life,” Mom coos.

“Yup, it will change it all right, into deeply emotionally scarred memories I won’t ever be able to get over.”

“I see that you’ve picked up your mother’s flair for dramatics,” Dad says. “How about this—instead of focusing on what could possibly go wrong with this night, tell us something positive, something else that’s happening in your life that brings you joy. We need to get you in the right frame of mind.”

Something positive . . . well, I do have something to tell them, something I’ve been working on for a bit now and that I haven’t told anyone. Maybe my news will make them think I’m not a total loser.

“I signed up for some classes at the local community college.”

“What?” they say at the same time, turning toward me.

I nod, staring down at my hands. “I’ve been tinkering around with Procreate on my tablet at night, just something mindless to do, and I started to realize that I’m pretty good at it. I thought that digital art might be something I could, you know, get into.”

“Seriously?” Dad asks, completely facing me now. “Do you have any of your work with you that we can see?”

Excitement blooms in my stomach as I grab my phone from my pocket and flip through my photos until I find some of the simple mountain designs that I’ve been working on. I’m surprised at how excited I am as I hand my phone over to Dad. He holds the phone an arm’s length away, just enough to be able to see it without his glasses.

“Wow, Cooper, you drew this?” When I nod, he blows out a low whistle. “This is really good, son.”

A sense of pride rushes through me. “Thanks, Dad.”

Mom takes the phone from Dad and peers at the screen. “Would you look at that. Oh, these are lovely, Cooper. Are there more?” She starts scrolling through the pictures on my phone.

“Mom, you’re not supposed to scroll through someone’s pictures.” I reach for the phone, but it’s too late.

“Cooper Chance, why are there nudes on your phone?”

“There’s nudes?” Dad asks. “Nudes of our son?”

“I’m not nude,” I say, snatching the phone away and stuffing it back in my pants. There goes that momentary joy I felt. The ferry is docking, and I’m happy to get off this vessel and end the conversation, even though it means “chick hunting” with my parents. “I’m wearing a towel. It’s a progress picture. I’ve been working out.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mom says while adjusting the buttons of her vest. “You have quite a few muscles.”

Please . . . please let someone end this.

“Either way, nudes or not,” Dad says, “those drawings are really good, Cooper. I’m glad you’re pursuing something in another field, especially since it seems to bring you joy.” Dad claps me on the back. “Maybe you can draw some pictures for me to color in.”

“Oooh,” Mom sighs happily. “How delightful would that be? Your dad can color something other than swear words.”