I think the worst way to meet your boyfriend's parents is arriving at their house unannounced.

At least that's how it feels.

The neighborhood doesn't help, either. It's one of those tree-lined streets that you imagine when you think of Home Alone – with big houses that could probably house twenty people, with garage space for at least 3 cars. Some have 4 car garages. And lawns. Everywhere is really green. Perfect green. A green that seems too saturated to be natural, all manicured and clean and pretty. It doesn't feel real at all.

Mrs. Hopkins (I assume it's Mrs. Hopkins) opens the front door and looks at the both of us before she hugs Simon, who wraps a single arm around her. When she pulls back to look at him, her eyes start getting misty. “Oh my God, look at you,” she says. Her hands are on his shoulders. She cups his face. She smiles, and for a second, it feels like this will be okay.

He shies away from her. “Mom,” he starts, but doesn't finish the thought. It's drowning in pain, in discomfort.

“You – ” She stops and looks at me. “Sorry, and you are...?”

I step forward, acutely aware of every movement I'm making. “Hi, Mrs. Hopkins. I hope we haven't interrupted anything.” I smile and put my bag down against the wall by the front door and stick out my hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I can see Simon gets his looks from you.” I laugh. It’s out of place, and I know it. I don't really know what else to do.

“Yes...but...who are you?” Mrs. Hopkins' eyes move between me and Simon like she might puzzle out who I am and what I’m doing here by staring alone. She does shake my hand eventually, but only briefly, before she turns back to Simon.

I’m too relieved that she took it at all to care how short and awkward it was. The world feels a little more right. Not enough, but just enough.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. “I-I thought you were in Alabaster-by-Sea.”

Simon sighs. It's low and tired and sad-sounding, and it makes me want to hug him really tight. “Mom, we got your email about Dad.”

“What email?”

“Can we come in, at least?”

“What – oh! I'm so sorry! Please, please come in!”

If I thought the house was big on the outside, it seems to stretch forever on the inside. The front hall's got one of those sweeping staircases that reminds me of the ones girls loved to take prom pictures on. The stairs to the basement are right under it, and there's this great big chandelier that hangs above us. From the front door, I can see into the library (a freaking library!) (or maybe it’s a study, because it’s more suited for working), the living room, and dining room. Everything feels so precise and elegant and magazine-ready. There's even a freaking orchid (and in bloom!) on the front table.

This is way too pretty and too big for me. I'm not sure if I want to start crying or start looking around.

“Amy, who is it?”

“It's Simon. He's come to visit!”

I glance at Simon.

He doesn't look at me. He’s staring straight ahead, rigid in posture. Everything on him screams tension.

I have to stop myself from reaching out to him.

An older man – who I can only assume is Mr. Hopkins – appears at the top of the stairs. He's got a blanket draped on his shoulders, and a book in his hands. The moment he sees us, he frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“That's what you say to your son?”

“What is he doing here?”

Simon sighs. “We got an email from Mom – ” His voice is quieter, mousey.

“That's the thing I'm confused by. I didn't send you an email.”

“You said that Dad was sick, and that I needed to come home.”

“Simon, your father is fine.” She gestures up the stairs to her husband.

“I'm fine,” Mr. Hopkins says.

“He's off work right now because of his back.”

“I'm fine, Amy,” Mr. Hopkins says. “It's a strain, not a partial dislocation.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “And you.” She slaps the air around his head, frowning and trying to be playful. “You show up out of the blue without so much as a phone call?”

Simon says nothing. He clenches his jaw.

Something is missing in all this, and this heavy feeling in my stomach is too much for me to handle, so I step forward and try to wedge myself between her and Simon. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hopkins,” I say, smiling. “I'm Micah. I haven't heard a lot about you or Simon's dad, but I hope I get the opportunity to get to know you.” I keep smiling even though the look on her face says she still doesn't know who I am, and I'm realizing how stupid or freaking deranged I sound saying things like that.

I'm right, too, because Mrs. Mrs. Hopkins asks, “I-I'm sorry, Micah, but who – ?” She turns back to Mr. Hopkins. “Honey, did you email Simon?”

“No,” he says, and its so definitive that something crumples in me. “Why would I?”

“'Why would you'?” I ask. I look up at him, and my head starts spinning. How big is this house? “We got an email from Mrs. Hopkins saying you were sick! Why wouldn't we come back and – ”

“Who are you?” asks Mr. Hopkins.

I take in a breath and smile. “Oh, uh, I...guess that was lost in translation or something. Right?” I turn to Simon to give me some idea of what's going on, but he has that vacant look in his eyes, like he's trying to dissociate or something. And when I see it, the awful pit in my stomach grows. “I-I'm Micah Cohen. I'm your son's boyfriend, and it's a pleasure to meet you – ”

“Boyfriend?” asks Mrs. Hopkins.

I don't know what else to say. I silently beg someone to stop me. It's a pleasure to meet you. It's a pleasure to meet you. My smiling's starting to hurt. 

“Oh...o-oh, Simon!” Her eyes light up with the realization, and she smiles. She hugs her son, rocking him back and forth before pushing off him, and shakes my hand ferociously. “Oh my gosh! Forgive me, Micah, I-I didn't realize you were Simon's boyfriend. Welcome to our home! What brings you this far out? We all thought Simon was in Alabaster-by-Sea.”

My eyes are on Mr. Hopkins. He looks pained. Uncomfortable. Sad, even.

I look at Simon, who has never seemed more exhausted to me than right this second. My heart aches for him, and he feels too far away to reach.

“Well, regardless, you're here now. Are you hungry? Thirsty? It's been so long since Simon's been home – ” Mrs. Hopkins shakes her hands in front of her face, frazzled or trying to regain her train of thought. “Are you staying? For how long? Oh, I haven't cleaned your room in a while. The cleaner's been off for the past couple weeks, so things might be a little dusty.”

“O-oh, we're not...fussy. I...don't know how you'll feel with me rooming with Simon, especially since you just met me, so I'd be more than happy to take the couch if need be – I've done it before.” Although I feel like this house has 70 bedrooms. All with en-suites. “Not a particularly fussy sleeper. One time, I fell asleep on a bike while waiting for one of my friends to show up. Still have a scar on my leg from when it tipped over.” I laugh.

When I stop, the silence screams in my ears. I swallow, smile still on my face, and become very aware of how still the house sits. How Mrs. Hopkins, Simon, and I are all standing within arms reach of each other and it still feels like we're so far away.

I stammer, glancing to Simon. “Are you okay?” I touch his hand. “Simon?”

He looks at me, and I can read the desolation in his eyes like I put it there.

“No one wants to see that,” Mr. Hopkins says, standing on the staircase landing, except he doesn't say it maliciously. He says it worn, like he's tried drilling it into everyone's heads one too many times. “Please do it out of sight, when no one's around.”

“Colin, we haven't seen our son in years, and this is how you treat him coming home?”

“I did not ask him to come home.”

“How about – ” I interrupt, because the tension here is absolutely going to kill me. “ – you show us where we can sleep, and we can talk after we get settled?”

Mrs. Hopkins nods. “A good idea, Micah.” She turns to Simon. “Sweetheart, you and Micah can unload your stuff in your room – ”

“Mr. Cohen, the guest room's in the basement,” Mr. Hopkins says.

Sighing, Mrs. Hopkins wipes her brow, and the glint of frustration in eyes tells me everything. “Simon, can you show Micah your room?”

I gasp and grab Simon's arm. “Wait, am I going to see your childhood room?” I chuckle, but I'm so tired. “Lead the way.”

Simon does, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and trudges up the stairs like it's a death sentence. I grab his hand. He pulls away.

We pass his father, and I smile and nod at him. “Mr. Hopkins.”

He doesn't. He just stares.

If the downstairs rooms were prim and proper, Simon's bedroom is the exact opposite. His room smells like B.O. and could easily swallow most of our apartment up. The ceiling is higher than our old place, too, and it's so bright and airy and...cold. The room had obviously been last occupied by a teenager, but now an elliptical and a set of free weights takes up the space of where a desk clearly used to be. The furniture's been moved around in a badly-played game of Tetris. A bedside table sits in the corner by the window and the door to the en-suite bathroom, where we can see Simon's car. The bed is off-center and turned the wrong way around, so one side's against the wall. The desk is at the foot of the bed, with the chair pushed all the way in with no chance of moving it out. 2 lamps sit next to each other, and the other bedside table sits underneath it. A bookshelf is shifted into the closet, and everything is arranged neatly and covered in a thin layer of dust.

Posters that have fallen down were just thrown on the desk. Old mail. The envelope with his high-school diploma. Little things like books and toys that must've fallen off from somewhere else.

Simon drops his things with a sigh, and opens the windows. He rolls down the blinds. He sits down on the edge of the bed and deflates. He has that look again. “We shouldn't have come.”

I kneel in front of him and cup his hands. “Hey. It'll be okay,” I say, smiling, though I feel like a freaking liar. “We'll figure out what happened, and everything will be okay...okay?”

He doesn't say anything for the longest while, and I touch his face.

He blinks. That look is still there, but it's less so, now. “We shouldn't have come, Micah.”

“We'll figure out what happened, and leave ASAP. Okay?”

He sighs, closing his eyes and leaning into me. “Why not now?”

“You need a break from driving.”

“You can drive, then.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I knew I should've driven today. I-it was too long of a drive, and I-I knew – ”

“No, it's not...” Simon starts, but doesn't finish the thought. He sighs, muttering something into my neck. He takes my hand and traces the outline with his fingertips. That's the moment he disappears on me.

I hold him close. As close as possible.

It's as much as I can think to do right now.

I call the Reynolds to let them know we arrived safely. “Yeah, I think the drive was too much for him.”

“It is a long drive,” Mrs. Reynolds sighs. “You should've taken over for him.”

“He said he was fine, and I don't like driving.”

Mrs. Reynolds huffs, and I can tell she's smiling. “But you arrived okay?”

“Yeah, we're both...fine.”

“Fine?” she asks.

I hum, frowning. “We...were expected.”

Mrs. Reynolds makes a sound before she asks, “But you said Simon was emailing his mom.”

“Yeah, but she – it looked like she didn't know what they were talking about.”

“Odd.”

“I know. I don't know what happened.”

She hums. “But you and Simon are okay?”

“Yeah, we're – yeah.”

“Keep me posted on what's happening, okay?”

“I will.”

“We're glad you got there safely.”

“Thanks.”

“We love you, Micah.”

I hang up, and feel this kind of warmth in me. Taking in a breath, I go back to Simon's bedroom and cuddle up next to him.