Scarlett
"Scarlett?"
"Mhm?"
"Can you please stop shaking your legs so much. The entire car is moving and this usually only happens when I'm fucking in the backseat."
I look down and sure enough, my left leg is shaking violently. I stop shaking my leg and go back to playing with the hem of my dark green shift dress. If it wasn't obvious enough, I'm nervous. Extremely nervous and when I'm nervous I need to move. Lucas's Maserati, although spacious, is feeling like a clown car. I'm so nervous that I don't even acknowledge Lucas' comment about what was used to go down in the backseat of his truck, not that I need to too. I know all about the happenings in the infamous Maserati, hell I even found the pink panties as proof of his past...deeds.
"I told you four times already that there's nothing to be nervous about Scarlett. It's just my family."
"I know I know I know." Him telling me there's nothing to be nervous about only makes me even more nervous. My leg starts shaking again, but Lucas keeps his comments to himself.
"Okay. But what your parents don't like me? What if they hate me? What if dinner goes terribly? Did you tell her that I'm your girlfriend? Oh, my god, did you tell them that I'm black?! Are your parents racist? Did they vote for Trump? What if-"
"Scarlett!" Lucas chastises, cutting off my nerves induced rant. "My parents are going to love you. Dinner is going to go great. I didn't tell them you were my girlfriend just yet because I want to ask you if that was okay."
I go to interject some new found worries that my brain just created, but Lucas quickly cuts me off, before I can talk them into existence.
"No, it wasn't because I don't want them knowing about you, or because I'm ashamed of you or some other crazy thing you're going to stress yourself out over. No, I didn't tell them that you're black because it's not going to be an issue. My parents are very open-minded and accepting people, like me." Lucas reaches over and kisses the back of my hand. The sinking feeling in my stomach is replaced by butterflies. A warmth floods my system as his lips graze my hand.
"And no they didn't vote for Trump. They were team Hillary all the way."
I would never admit this to Lucas, but his words actually did ease my nerves. However, the way he was looking at me and not the road, did not.
"Lucas please stop looking at me, and look at the road before you kill us on Thanksgiving."
~*~
If I thought Lucas' house in Boston was nice, then the home he grew up in was magnificent, imposing, impressive, awe-inspiring, splendid, majestic, monumental, stately, luxurious, lavish, opulent and any other SAT word that basically means something I will never be able to afford. Lucas's home in Weston, MA, which by the way is the wealthiest town in the freaking state, mimics the appearance of a castle but a lot more spectacular. It's a large grey brick estate set back on acres of land. Lucas pulls into a circular driveway that has a fountain as a centerpiece, and parks among a fleet of expensive looking sports cars.
My nerves are back with a vengeance. Obviously, I figured that Lucas had money. What other college kid do you know has a house that many families aspire to have? But what I failed to realize is that he has money. More money than I would ever have in my entire lifetime. I'm talking multi-millions if I had to guess, based on the size of his house and surrounding land.
I don't know how to schmooze with the ridiculously wealthy. My family isn't poor but we aren't dripping in millions either. We're a comfortable middle-class family that sometimes have a little extra money to spend on buying supercharged Dodge Chargers for their daughter. I know absolutely nothing about yacht clubs, or caviar or classical music. I don't belong here. I'm out of my element and way over my head with this one. I knew agreeing to dinner was a bad idea. I should've just shut my mouth about Thanksgiving.
