Nicole had been looking forward to this day for weeks. Which was strange, really—who looked forward to meeting someone’s parents? But with Edgar, it was different.
The way he spoke about them—his mom’s sweet lunch notes, his dad’s quiet wisdom, the Sunday baseball games—it all sounded so warm, so easy. She couldn’t help but fill in the rest. Honestly, it felt… ideal.
They were halfway to his place now, winding through two-lane roads that cut between low hills and dense trees. Nicole sat curled slightly toward the window, watching the scenery shift.
She turned to Edgar. Hands at ten and two. Shoulders tight.
“You look more nervous than I do,” she teased. “Shouldn’t I be the one sweating bullets?”
He didn’t smile. Just flicked his eyes toward her, then back to the road.
“Any tips on how to impress them?” she tried. “Tell me they love homemade brownies or something.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Just be yourself.”
“Lame advice,” she said, nudging him. “I’ll have to deploy my full charm offensive. It’s not every day I meet someone’s mythical perfect parents.”
No reply.
She watched him for a moment longer, then turned her gaze back outside. Maybe he was just anxious. Maybe they were private people. No need to overthink it.
The driveway was long and a little overgrown at the edges. The house was small but tidy—white siding, dark green shutters. Wind chimes on the porch. Potted plants by the steps.
Edgar parked and turned to her.
“Would you mind waiting here for a minute? I just want to make sure the house is tidy.” He was already halfway out. “I won’t be long.”
She watched him cross the gravel, flowers she’d brought tucked under his arm. He unlocked the door and slipped inside without looking back.
The car ticked as the engine cooled.
He’s just being considerate. Some people care about presentation. Maybe his mom’s one of those throw-a-fit-if-there’s-dust types.
Still… something about it.
When the front door opened again, Edgar stepped out—alone. The flowers were gone.
“They’re not feeling great,” he said. “But come in for a bit? I’ll just get them settled upstairs.”
Nicole blinked. “Oh—sure. If they’re not up for it, I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not,” he said quickly. “They’ll be happy you came. Just… give me a second.”
Inside, the air hit her like a wall.
It wasn’t bad. Just… off. Too clean. Not lived in—scrubbed for display. Lemon, bleach, lavender maybe—but underneath, something sharper. Sterile.
She stepped into the living room. Edgar disappeared down the hallway.
The place was spotless. Too spotless. No dust. No clutter. No shoes. The throw blanket on the couch was folded with geometric precision. No family photos on the walls or mantel—just generic art: birds, landscapes, a framed quote about kindness in looping cursive.
Her gaze drifted to the bookshelf. Hardcovers arranged by height, spines uncracked. Toward the bottom, a thin leather album was half-tucked behind a larger book. She hesitated, then pulled it out.
No title. No decoration. Just soft, worn leather that didn’t match the rest of the room.
She flipped it open.
First photo: Edgar, maybe six or seven, stiff beside a barbecue grill. Clean face, unsure expression. A man—his father?—in the background, slouched in a folding chair, can in hand, gaze elsewhere.
The next few were more candid. A cluttered kitchen. His mother smoking over the stove. One shot with young Edgar mid-flinch. Another of a lopsided birthday cake, a child’s hand reaching into the frosting—an adult’s blurred arm swiping in from the side.
Nicole’s smile faded. Didn’t he say his mom was sensitive to smells?
These didn’t look like the kind of photos people kept. They didn’t look like happy memories.
She flipped a few more. Unguarded. Not joyful. Just… real. Messy. Tinged with something harsher—unseen arguments, unspoken tension. A history not yet rewritten.
She was still holding the album when Edgar reentered.
“You found my photo album,” he said, unreadable.
She looked up, startled, but he didn’t seem upset. Just… observing.
He stepped closer and glanced at the open page. “We had an old Polaroid. I used to run around pretending I was a photographer. Bugged the hell out of them,” he said, smiling faintly. “I guess I was doing selfies before phones had cameras.”
The joke landed flat.
Nicole closed the album gently. “The house looked so different back then. A lot more… lived in.”
“Yeah,” he said. “After I came back, I kind of took over. I like to keep a tight ship around here.”
She nodded, eyes drifting to the spotless floor, the air still heavy with disinfectant.
—
On the ride back, she watched the trees blur past the window, fingers resting lightly on her thigh.
What stuck with her wasn’t the messy house in the photos. Not the clutter, the sagging furniture, or the collapsing birthday cake.
It was Edgar’s eyes.
In every photo—every single one—he looked scared. Not caught off guard. Scared.
Even when smiling. Even when his parents were just background shapes. There was a tension in his face, like he thought the photo might get him in trouble.
As if a bad picture could be… punishable.
She didn’t say anything. Not on the drive. Not when he dropped her off.
But the image sat with her.
And it wouldn’t leave.