“Alright,” Logan smiles against my lips, his eyes full of playfulness and excitement.

Unable to resist him looking this gorgeous, I kiss him eagerly for a few long moments, before we leave the dance floor in search of our parents, whispering back and forth the entire time, deciding what exactly we should say. In between Logan’s serious, grownup suggestions, I throw in a couple of inappropriate ones which cause us both to laugh like naughty schoolchildren, and which certifies in my mind that my level of inebriation is now one step up from tipsy.

When I spot the three of them sitting together at a table in the middle of the room, I stop in my tracks, swaying on my high heels, nerves overcoming me. Our parents are talking quietly amongst themselves, each of them looking austere and so…so authoritative. I need to be firing on all cylinders for this and right now I don’t feel like I am. For the second time tonight I detour off my path, pulling Logan behind me. We’re only going to get one shot at this, I want to do it properly, so at the bar I guzzle a glass of water, sobering myself up as much as I can. This is too important to respond to any of my mother’s questions with a shrug and a drunken giggle. No one’s going to feel better if I can’t conduct myself with conviction.

Ten minutes later, when I feel a little more like myself, our mission resumes and this time, despite the butterflies in my stomach, I have no desires to detour.

Mary-Gene and Rupert are just as worked up about Taylor’s behaviour as Logan told me they would be.

“Gemima, I am appalled that he said those things to you,” Mary-Gene says the second we’re in earshot.

I’m about to say it’s OK, but I stop myself. It’s not OK, not by a long shot, but what I can say sincerely is, “I know you didn’t raise him to speak like that. Don’t feel bad about it.”

“We’re so sorry, darlin’,” Rupert says, the look of concern on his face very similar to Logan’s.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I tell them, impressing the point. “Are you good?” I gesture between the three of them, wondering if my mom has been giving them hell in place of their son.

“I haven’t gone apeshit on them if that’s what you’re subtly trying to ask,” she says, knowing me too well.

“Alright,” I mutter. I look at Logan. “We should tell them about Taylor first,” I whisper. Get the bad news out of the way.

“I have, uh, ended my relationship with my brother,” Logan announces, and I have to admit the lack of reaction his words receive is startling.

“We already know,” Mary-Gene then tells us.

“How?” Logan asks. “Have you spoken to Karen?”

“No,” Rupert shakes his head, “but Taylor messaged your mother about half an hour ago. He told us in some colourful language what transpired between you.”

Hold up, I think, if he told him them about that, did he also tell them…

Surmising the same as me, Logan asks, “Do you already know what else we want to tell you?”

The three of them exchange a weighted look. Oh my god, they so know!

“Well, if you’re referring to you two deciding to get married,” my mom pipes up, “then yes, we do know that.”

Shit, fucking, shit!

Making a decision on the spot, Logan says, “Taylor shouldn’t get to take this moment away from us. So, forget you know,” he tells our parents.

Uh…

Mary-Gene nods enthusiastically, going along with the game; my mother rolls her eyes at the theatre of it; and Rupert, the realist, says, “That’s a little hard—”

Ignoring his father, he continues, “Mom, dad, Barbara-Ann, two nights ago I proposed to Gemima, and she said yes.”

“Multiple times,” I interject, grinning up at him.

Logan smiles back at me, before looking at our parents once more. “We’re in love, and we’re getting married,” he says simply.

Mary-Gene is sitting on her hands, and I have the feeling that if she weren’t she’d burst into applause. She’s onboard, that couldn’t be any more obvious. One down, two to go, I think.

To say my mom and Rupert look unconvinced would be an understatement.

“We would like to speak to Logan alone, and your mother would like to talk to you,” Rupert announces unexpectedly.

Alarm bells start ringing in my head. What are we, teenagers?

Logan looks at them suspiciously too. “Divide and conquer?” he asks.

I suddenly gasp — he’s right, it’s a test! “They’re trying to see how firmly we stand united,” I mutter to him, getting carried away.

Logan shakes his head at his parents. “So sneaky,” he comments.

My mother rolls her eyes again. Not the most assuring sign of support, I admit to myself.

“It is not a test. I want to ask you a few questions, and I’m pretty sure that you don’t want me to ask them here,” she says, trying to frighten me.

She’s bluffing. “You can ask whatever you like,” I say confidently.

An almost gleeful look comes over her face. Oh, shit! She is bluffing, isn’t she? I brace myself.

“You might want to ignore this tirade,” my mom says to Logan, before she bombards me, “What’s his favourite colour? What’s his medical history? How much debt has he acquired? Do you know his income? Does he know yours? What’s his favourite cuisine?” she goes off on another tangent. “Where’s his favourite restaurant? Have you met all of his friends? What do they say about him? Have you seen him at work? How he treats his employees is a real insight into his character,” she says pointedly, forgetting entirely that she’s seen Logan with his employees ample times tonight and he’s been nothing but gracious.

“Mom…” I try and stop her.

“Has he ever had cosmetic surgery?” she continues. “What’s he like to be around under pressure? What’s his biggest fear? Is he claustrophobic?”

OK, this is getting embarrassing. “Mom, stop!”

“What’s his favourite drink? Does he prefer tea or coffee? What’s his favourite type of candy?”

“Sherbet,” Logan and I say together before bursting into immature giggles. And if for a moment we thought that my mother wouldn’t read between the lines, her next question shows that she knows exactly what we’re laughing about.

“How are the two of you when you’re not glued at the hips?” she says.

Glued? Eww! I grimace at the word.

Logan clears his throat. “That’s quite an extensive list of questions, some of which we have already discussed.”

“Some?” she shoots back quickly. I can tell that she’s getting stressed and it’s coming across in a really zany way.

“Most,” he amends, and that silences her, at least for a minute. “I’ve loved your daughter for a long time, Barbara-Anne. Whether others think we’re idealistic, naive or ignorant fails to matter. Gemima and I think being in love and wanting to be together is what matters the most.”

“But can’t you wait a year?” Rupert asks us, and though it’s a perfectly reasonable question both Logan and I look at him as if he’s said something ludicrous.

“No,” we say together.

“Logan, please don’t take this the wrong way,” my mom begins and I feel myself tense on the spot, “but you’re so charming that I suspect you could convince a baboon to sing the alphabet,” she tells him.

Huh?

“I want to talk to my daughter,” she continues, getting more stressed and more zany. I don’t know why, though. She likes him, I know she does. What’s more, she knows how much I love him, so why is she protesting this much? Is it just maternal instinct, or is there more to it? “It’s been less than four weeks for you, Gemima. I knew your father for seven years before we got married,” she reminds me.

“That’s because you were high school sweethearts,” I counter.

“That fails to matter,” she snaps, and she’s right, pressing on, “The point is that I knew him. I knew him on his best days, I knew him on his worst. That kind of relationship takes time.”