One Journey, the Final

Chapter 28:

Notice: I have looked and searched for some sort of clue as to what Gemma Styles does for a living, but since I don't have a Twitter, I've got no clue! Haha if you happen to know, message or comment below. Thanks!

It couldn't have been more than twenty-four hours later when I'm realizing that my future mother in-law will soon be here. In America. I shudder, remembering her less-than friendly expression when she found us making a mess of her blue corduroy pillows and matching blue carpet. I try and erase that memory from my mind, but I always come back to her flawless pale green eyes that lock me up in a frenzy state. I couldn't help but continuously scrub and re-scrub every inch of my apartment. I thought it was clean when my mother was here; it had to be a sparkling state of pure majesty when Anne arrived. I'd wake up during the middle of the night, sweat dampening my pajama shirt, and my heart unevenly pulsating, of the thought of her running along mud filled hallways with her beautifully creepy expression of discouragement. Harry's trying to convince me that I shouldn't be worried. Harry needs to be convinced that he is farther than Pluto wrong. The opinion she cuts out for me is the way the rest of our marriage will play out, holidays and birthday parties wise. I knew I wouldn't be able to physically handle more than fifty years knowing that I was the big disappointment in Harry's life.   

           "She's lovely, but whatever happened to Renee?" I could picture her saying when she thought I was out of ear shot. Then I would spend all night trying to make a perfect potato salad for an Easter dinner, only to find that I put a tad too much mayonnaise in it. It's not that I don't think Anne is nice. I just worry that I won't be good enough. So when the day arrives, I'm a nervous wreck. Harry called me multiple times, but I just stood there, frozen in front of my closet deciding what to wear. Being late fall, I decided on a chambray shirt, patterned leggings, and an infinity scarf. Was it too casual? Too flashy? When Harry began knocking at my door, I opened it to find him standing in a blazer and a bouquet of roses in his hand.

               “Are those for me?” I asked. He started to chuckle.

                “No, I’m sorry, they’re for my mum,” he said quietly. I smiled. He was so sweet.

                “Oh that’s alright. We should probably go before we’re late,” I said coolly, while inside I was seriously freaking out.

                “What if they don’t like me?” I asked while we were on the freeway.

                “They’ll love you,” he said positively.

                “How do you know?” Even his positive remarks were not helping. My palms were sweating and my leg shaking. He noticed my nervousness.

                “They’ll love you because I love you. Besdies, my mum was just having a bad morning,” he said with a soft affirmation. I slightly smiled.

                “That’s the British in you coming out,” I lightly joked. He smiled. He placed one hand on my shaking leg, and gentle rubbed it. It quickly caused the shaking to stop.

                “Now, mummy’s really nice, trust me she's not a morning person. You shouldn’t worry about her. Step-dad’s fair. Kind of shy. You’re going to love Gemma. She’s twenty-seven and models for a British magazine. Very popular. She’s very nice and can’t wait to meet you.”

                “Oh. Great,” I said halfheartedly.

                When we finally got to the airport my hands were shaking. Harry grabbed my hand and kissed it. Sure, yeah, that helps. I thought sarcastically. After about five minutes three of the most gorgeous people I’ve ever met walked towards me. The first person I saw was Gemma. She had dark long hair and was very tall. She seemed sweet. Then I saw his mother. I saw what Gemma would look like in a few years. A total carbon copy. Then I saw his step-dad. Reserved, quiet, yet gentle. He seemed like your typical middle-aged British guy. His mother practically sprinted towards us, arms outspread, ready to smother her baby boy. She started squealing, “Harry, my baby boy! Harry, Harry, Harry!” Her eyes were wide like a hungry animal; I stepped out of the way of the stampede. Your typical mother-in-law. She hugged him, fixed his color, kissed him on the cheek leaving a red lip outline, and flicked some hairs behind his eyes.