I nod, feeling satisfied. We begin driving again, and I start considering telling her more, but what? Saying that he’s the one is a big revelation, and other than telling her that we’re engaged, I feel like she’s pretty much up to speed. We don’t say another word until we’re following Logan down into the underground garage, when my mom starts quietly laughing to herself.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, wondering if I missed something.

“Oh, I’m just so glad that your taste has improved,” she laughs.

I grin at her. Yeah, mom, so am I.

* * *

Before going up to the apartment, we cross the road to find Rupert lounging in the hotel bar, where the introductions begin anew. I’m a little cautious as to how mom will behave around a man closer to her age. Since her divorce she tends to treat all men over fifty with disdain, and I hover awkwardly to make sure that Rupert isn’t one of them. However, my mom puts a stop to my actions with one knowing look, after which I retreat into Logan’s arms. Instead I cross my fingers once more and hope that she behaves herself.

The five of us eat a light dinner at the bar, Logan and I sitting at the end quietly discussing how we think the evening has gone so far, and musing under our breaths about how and when we should tell them about our engagement. We contemplate telling Mary-Gene and Rupert before they leave next Wednesday night so that we can do it in person.

“And what about your mom?” Logan mutters, inaudible to our parents who are talking between themselves.

“She’s warming up to the idea of us,” I tell him.

“She likes me,” he says confidently, and I can’t help but smile.

“Oh, Logan,” I sigh, “what’s not to like?”

* * *

A short while later we hurry across to Logan’s apartment, our apartment, rushing to avoid the downpour outside. As soon as the elevator pings, I take my mom’s hand and eagerly pull her to the terrace to show her what I’ve created. She takes one long look around the space and agrees that I should change careers.

“This is gorgeous, sweetheart!” she gushes.

“Best birthday present that I’ve ever received,” Logan says, sliding his arm around my waist and kissing the side of my head.

“Second best, no?” I ask him coyly as we walk back inside, out of the rain.

He shakes his head, chuckling. He leans down and whispers in my ear, “I didn’t propose on my birthday, remember?”

“True,” I smile, reaching up to kiss him. It grows quickly into a passionate embrace, and time plays its tricks on us again. I’ve no idea how long we stand here kissing and I’m only vaguely aware of our parents voices dying down behind us.

“Don’t mind us,” my mom says loudly.

I groan a little, wishing once again that we could spend our evening alone. But, alas, we’re not.

Ever the gracious host, Logan pours us each a glass of wine and we take a seat in the living room, Logan and I sitting as close to one another as is socially acceptable while we have company. Mercifully, the evening flies by and I actually revel in how nice it is. The five of us being together seems so normal, like we’ve been hanging out like this for years. The ebbs and flows of our conversations are easy and effortless, and sometimes include all of us, like when we’re all sitting in the living room, or sometimes we break off into smaller groups, the women over here, and the men over there.

I love how relaxed my mom is around Logan and his father. Men usually do little more than irritate her and in turn cause her to be irritable. But she’s not with them, she’s open and funny, happily regaling them with several embarrassing stories from my youth, like Logan’s parents did with him two nights ago.

When she, Mary-Gene, and Rupert start talking about American political history, Logan and I lose interest. Seeing as we can’t do what we’d usually do on a Friday evening, each other, we instead indulge in old habits. Sitting at the dining table, Logan immerses himself into work, of sorts, reading through the speech he’s preparing for tomorrow night, and I make a start on those landscape design sketches, first carefully reading through the design briefs that Amélie gave me. I smile at the sight of us doing something so normal on our Friday night, and I marvel at how much I love it. It’s these regular, little, everyday things that will, overtime, make up a marriage, I think happily.

Over the next half an hour I power through two of the six sketches, while simultaneously listening to Logan’s father talk us through his prominent political career. He name-drops several popular political figures (I judge them to be popular only because I have heard of them and my knowledge is limited at best) who he still calls his friends, even fifteen years after retiring. However when they start debating an upcoming election, they lose my attention, and my sketches soon follow. I’ll do more next week, I tell myself, as I rest back in my chair watching Logan.

He’s deep in concentration as he reads his notes, making amendments here and there. His eyes are serious, focused, his brow furrowed.

“You look very sexy right now,” I say to him.

The dimple-inducing smile that spreads across his face only proves my point further. As do his taut, bare forearms which he puts on display, rolling up the sleeves on his shirt. Mmm…

“You look like you’re getting ready to do something…serious,” I say, though it’s probably just my amorous imagination.

Logan laughs, and assures me, “Baby, I’m counting down the minutes until we’re alone.” He looks at me with a mixture of love and desire, and it makes me ache. I reach my hand out to take ahold of his on the table. But then deciding that that’s not enough, I get up from my seat and instead take a seat on his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck, before kissing his forehead, his nose, and then his lips.

When we break apart I throw a quick glance at the clock in the kitchen; it’s just past eleven PM. I yawn, authentically, but then a silly idea coming to me and I yawn again. A big, showy, over-the-top kind of yawn, hoping that our visitors will take the hint. They don’t, their conversation deeming me invisible. I sigh.

Logan watches me, enjoying my attempts to be alone with him.

“Soon,” I breathe against his lips.

Soon inevitably rolls around a further thirty minutes later. My mom is the voice of reason, declaring that she has to get home to bed in order to be up for work. Although I’m fond of them, I can’t deny how grateful I feel when Mary-Gene and Rupert decide to take their leave too.

Congregating in front of the elevator, my mom says to me, “Shall I drop you at home?”

Logan and I almost laugh out loud. We’ve waited all day to be alone to together, to continue our private celebrations, we’re not about to let my mother interfere with that!

“No,” I tell her firmly, “but thanks for the offer,” I say sarcastically.

She grins a little, and then says, “Well, I’ll see you all tomorrow night, then.”

Uh, what?

“Oh, Logan, we invited Barbara-Anne to join us at your event tomorrow night,” Mary-Gene tells him, rather than asks him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Even if he did, he couldn’t say so, I think.

With Logan’s agreement my mom’s invitation is secured, and a few minutes later the elevator doors shut and he and I are alone, at last.

* * *

We lie sprawled on the sofa, our post-coital make out session in full effect. His body is heavy on top of mine, and I run my hands all over it as I bask in the afterglow of my orgasm, kissing him with gusto. It was worth the wait, worth sitting through hours with our parents, and though sleep has been somewhat lacking over the last few nights, I can’t help thinking that tonight is not the time for that to be remedied; our appetence for each other is too strong.