Page 91 of Breaking Free

“Wow,”I say as we pull into his parents’ driveway. “Is this where you grew up?”

He shakes his head as he parks. “No, they moved here several years ago.”

I rub my palms over my pants—a pair of navy blue chinos and not jeans. I make sure the collar on my white polo is down, and scrutinize my hair in the mirror.

Trevor laughs. “Dominic Hernandez. Are you nervous?”

“Fuck off.”

“I never thought I’d see you nervous.”

“I’ve never done this. Parents?” I shake my head. “I feel like my heart is in my stomach.”

Trevor reaches out and touches my thigh. “They’re gonna love you. Don’t worry.”

I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Okay, let’s go before I decide to bolt down the street.”

As we head up the pathway to the door, I ask, “Are you not scared?”

“Less nervous than I thought I’d be, but the nerves are still there. They took the news really well, and I’ve talked to them a couple times on the phone since.” He exhales. “But yeah, this is the first time I’ve brought someone home, so I’m kind of freaking out, but I guess one of us needs to be the brave one.”

I screw up my mouth and narrow my eyes at him. “Anyway.”

He laughs. “Anyway, here we are.” And he opens the door and walks in.

His parents aren’t anywhere to be seen right away, so we walk out of the small foyer, and pass a small sitting room to our right that looks like it was set up by one of those HGTV shows. As we keep walking, I realize the entire house looks like it’s been staged for a magazine shoot. Everything is organized and tidy, but it doesn’t feel stiff. It’s definitely a warm, homey atmosphere.

Trevor heads for the kitchen where there’s the sound of dishes clinking and water running. I once again rub my palms on the sides of my pants, taking a deep breath.

“Hey,” he greets.

“Oh, Trevor, I didn’t hear you come in,” his mom says, putting a knife down and wiping her hands on a towel.

Her eyes bounce over his shoulder and land on me so I give her a smile.

His dad turns the water off and dries his hands before spinning around with a wide grin. “Hey, son. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he replies, stepping to the side and looking back at me. “This is Dominic.”

“Of course. Dominic, it’s so nice to meet you,” his mom offers, coming around their massive island and holding her hand out.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. I love your house.”

She smiles and Trevor’s dad comes to shake my hand next. “Thank you. I’m Marshall, and this is Michelle. We’re happy to have you join us this year.”

“Thanks for having me.”

Trevor clearly got his dad’s eyes, but he’s a good mix of both his parents.

“Well, I was just about to take the food to the table if you want to help,” his dad tells me.

“Of course.”

“Trevor, will you help with this?” his mom asks, heading over to the oven.

As I pick up a couple of dishes and follow his dad through a doorway leading to a dining room, I hear his mom whisper, “He’s cute,” to Trevor, and I can’t fight the smile on my face as relief washes over me.

Once we get all the food transferred to the table, we fill our plates and sit down.