Shrinking

Chapter Eighteen

**Peyton’s POV**

Nervousness pulsed through me as two well-dressed adults walked up to Connor and I. The woman was short, maybe 5’5, and had a bob of store-bought brown hair. She wore a pale blue sleeveless dress with pearls on the neckline. Beside her stood a tall man, Connor’s father, who was frowning and dressed in a grey suit. His greying hair was loosely piled on his head, shadowing his squinty brown eyes. Connor had those eyes.

“Mom, dad,” Connor addressed them, his mouth pursed in a line. There was no hugging, no smiling, no pats on the back. I could feel the tension between them sneak up into the air.

“Hello, dear. How have you been?” It was his mother that spoke first. Her voice was high and pronounced, not like I expected. I watched as her eyes flickered over to me for a second.

“Great. So, this is Peyton. I told you about her on the phone. Peyton – this is my mom, Michelle, and my dad, Paul.”

Both sets of eyes shifted over to me and looked me up and down. I had the sudden urge to slowly walk away, like I wasn’t Peyton at all, and leave Connor to deal with his own issues. I fought it, though, and cooked up my prettiest smile. 

“Hi, I’m Peyton. Connor’s, um...” I realized in that moment I had no idea what I was to Connor. I looked at them, at Connor, and back to them, my eyes wide and embarrassed.

“Girlfriend,” Connor spoke. “Peyton’s my girlfriend.”

And with those words, I seemed to slip into a coma of my own. A smiley coma. I didn’t even care when I saw Mr. Hockley’s disgusted face or Mrs. Hockley’s rolled eyes. I was overflowing with smiles. My eyes flashed to Connor, blush spreading on my cheeks. “I’m Connor’s girlfriend,” I repeated again, loving the word as it rolled off my tongue. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Hello, Peyton, it’s nice to meet you as well.” Mr. Hockley spoke up for the first time now, his voice deep set and rumbly. “I wasn’t aware that my son was dating.”

“I wasn’t either,” I replied without thinking. I felt Connor squeeze my hand again, probably my cue to shut up.

“I see. Well, let’s get off to lunch then. I made a reservation at a place in town.”

It was right about then that I started to mentally freak out again. I was wearing dark blue skinny jeans and a cream colored top with lace on the back – definitely not the right kind of attire for a restaurant that you need a reservation for.

I placed my hand on my flabby stomach as we walked out of the building, my other hand intertwined with Connor’s. The nervousness crept its way back into my system. I began to wonder about the food at the restaurant. Will it be healthy? Will it be fattening? Are they going to expect me to order something? Will they notice if I don’t eat it? The questions ate at me the entire drive. It became so bad that half-way there Connor whispered in my ear, “Your hands are shaking, Pey. It’s okay, you don’t need to be nervous.” And my heart leapt for him, but if only it were that easy. If only.

The restaurant we arrived at was someplace in the far end of town with a very complicated name. Inside there was glass-everything and fancy table cloths and shiny utensils. My eyes widened as we sat down. I glanced at my jeans and cringed.

I sat down in a plush chair next to Connor and across from his parents. Our table was small, square and white with a long candle in the middle of it. When the brilliantly-tipped-waitress asked for our drinks I ordered water with extra lemon. Water was safe. The atmosphere was stiff and awkward, as expected, and Connor didn’t make it much easier. He kept rubbing his thumb in circles on the palm of my hand under the table. It was driving me crazy.