Nata

My stomach tugs and my armpits might need another layer of deodorant. Meeting the parents part of the relationship with Samson took so long I had plenty of time to mentally prepare myself. If I could've avoided meeting Phillip's father for another couple of months, so we could combine the meet-and-greet with the "you'll be a grandpa" announcement, I'd still be a mess but at least I could get both interactions out of the way in one day.

After the pregnancy test number six still showed a version of plus signs, positive, and pregnant pronouncements, Phillip was going to call his dad with the good news. Making him promise to wait till I'm at least twelve weeks along meant I had to promise to sacrifice my Sunday and meet Tom. I rest my palm on my stomach. The doctor's appointment on Wednesday will be the final confirmation and maybe we get to do the first ultrasound, although the nurse on the phone said that even with almost five weeks since my last period, there won't be much we could see yet.

The neighborhood I'm driving through says ultra-rich without any signs. The house I drive up to has a semicircle of a driveway and could illustrate the word 'mansion' in the dictionary. I smooth my pencil skirt and tug down the blouse I bought at Zara and wear if I have to impress a trendy crowd. Phillip said to dress casually, but I'm glad I pulled all the stops. My bag—my parents' gift for my thirty-fifth birthday—is a small Chanel clutch I would've never splurged on myself. Kate's instructions over a video call on how to apply makeup left me exhausted, but helped calm my nerves. I look put together. Everything I could do in advance to ensure I make a good impression is done.

I take three steps to the front door when it opens, and an older man in a gray suit comes out of the house, takes my keys, and instructs me to go right in. "They're expecting you."

The entrance door is heavy wood, with two sides that look like each would weigh a literal ton. I walk in through the side that's left ajar. The two-story round entryway with a massive round marble table in the middle decorated with a tall vase of flowers that manages to dwarf the table sends my pulse into my throat. The high heels of my shoes–the final piece of my protective armor for this meeting–click as I approach the grand double staircase that winds up to the second floor. A wide hallway leads inside the house.

"Hello?" I say into the empty room.

Whoever 'they' are who were supposed to be expecting me are nowhere to be seen. Phillip texted me before I left that he's already here helping his father to get ready. I put my hand on the railing of the stairs on the left and take the first step up.

"Hello? Phillip?" My voice echoing off the high ceiling is the only sound I hear.

Should I just stand here and wait? Would it be rude of me to go upstairs? Should I check the hallway instead? My knees tremble, and my fingers grip the wooden railing. This feels exactly like every time I came to the new school in a new country and had to navigate the new building, kids, teachers, and culture. What will they think of me? Will they like me? I never grew out of the wrecking ball of anxiety that came with those introductions. The prospect of dinner makes my stomach roil.

Being a third culture kid taught me many things: languages, starting over, but I never learned how to feel right at home in new environments. My hackles rise, and my mind serves me with dangers and doomsday scenarios: what if I messed up the day? What if Phillip lied and his father didn't want to meet me? What if the guy who took my keys had nothing to do with this house and was just stealing my car? I take another step up.

"Ms. Boyko?" A voice behind me halts my progress. An elegant woman in a beige ensemble strolls out the hallway behind the table. Her gray-blond curls touch her shoulders. Her makeup is done better than mine. Didn't Phillip's mom die? This must be his stepmother or his father's girlfriend. Do people that age have girlfriends? I back down the stairs and force a smile onto my lips.

"Yeah, Natalia." I head her way, my hand extended.

She takes my fingers in hers and lifts my other hand. "We are so happy to see you," she says in a low, gentle voice that I believe. I can't do anything else but believe it. "Welcome." She lays one palm on my shoulder and leads me back through the way she came. "Phillip and Tom will be down in a minute. I promised them I'll take care of you." Her touch isn't as reassuring as Phillip's, but my heart leaves my throat and beats its erratic rhythm in my chest.

We enter the large open room that is mostly an eat-in kitchen with an island that seemingly takes up a quarter of the space. The entire first floor of my and Phillip's sides of the duplex would fit into the kitchen that has multiple fridges, microwaves, sinks, and ovens, plus a range with too many burners for me to count at a glance. The table that is set behind it could seat twelve. To the right of the kitchen, a cozy white sectional couch starts a casual living-room space that houses watercolor paintings and shag carpet in pastel tones.

Unlike the kitchen, which could be on the cover of the most recent architectural digest, with the latest appliances and high-end surfaces, the vibe of the living room is old, expensive, and not lived in. There is no stale smell of an old-people house, but no one would persuade me this is a house where people and especially kids hang out on a daily basis. I stop by the counter and clasp my hands behind me, awaiting instructions. Do I stand here? Sit at the table? Move to the living room?

"Do you mind taking one of the chairs?" The woman, as if sensing my unease, that's probably rolling off me in waves, points at the row of stools along the island. "I need to mix the salad."

She moves a large bowl of cut-up cucumbers, tomatoes, a variety of leafy greens, and olives away from the edge of the counter, places sprigs of cilantro and scallions onto the cutting board and chops with the speed of a professional chef. I perch on the edge of the stool, my back not touching the back of it. My legs, too short to reach the floor, slide around a metal bar on the bottom of the chair.

Steps come from the hallway, and I swivel the stool in time to see Phillip walk in, a shorter stalker man with thinning hair and short trimmed mostly gray beard moving unsteadily by his side.

"Nata? You're here." One side of Phillip's mouth curves up, and the wrinkles around his eyes reassure me he's happy I made it.

"Hi." I give him a juvenile hand-wave.

"Blame me for being late. I needed Phillip's help with something." The man next to Phillip is unmistakably Tom Van der Heuvel: self-made billionaire, CEO of Van der Heuvel industries, and inventor of several machines labs use all over the world. My lab has two of his creations. The churning in my stomach returns. I might not be star-struck, but I'm not too far off. This man is a legend.

Although in the last decade, Phillip's face has been the one that was on the pages of magazines when VdH was mentioned, the older articles I found show a younger version of Tom Van der Heuvel shaking hands and presenting at events around the globe. No matter how "casual" Phillip insisted this dinner would be, I treated it like any other meeting. I prepared. I read everything I could on Tom, even though there wasn't much. Privacy is something Tom does well.

The tragic death of his wife Grace, when she was only twenty-six, his dedication to building his empire, the charitable foundation he established in his son's name—the information I could find was clearly curated by publicists. Nothing like Phillip's presence online: grand parties, the divorce, the Baxter sister scandal, and the playboy antics of his twenties even the publicist could not erase. Or maybe they didn't want to.

Phillip quickens his pace, joins me on one of the stools, sets his hand on my lower back, and pecks my lips with his warm and dry ones. My breath hitches. Pecks my lips? I want to protest but my mouth tingles and refuses to cooperate. This is just for show.

"I didn't mean to keep you waiting." He caresses my back and tendrils of calm from his touch enter my bloodstream. He's here. My stomach still in knots, I unclench my jaw and attempt a more genuine smile.

"I kept her company." The woman slides the finely chopped fragrant greens into the bowl.

"Lynn is the only reason our household is still running." Mr. Van der Heuvel leans on the counter but doesn't sit. His warm grateful stare lingers on the woman who's now mixing olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and spices in a cup with a miniature whisk.

"Wait until you try Mrs. Buckingham's pancakes." Phillip smiles at Lynn, and she waves him off, as if he's exaggerating.

Mrs. Buckingham is the name Phillip, mentioned many times. I imagined someone in a uniform, with a sleek bun, shrewd eyes, and long nose. This woman is trim but soft and gentle.

"She's been feeding me since I was six." Phillip's fingers find my hip and tuck between it and my sea. His arm, plastered behind me, supports me. "Best home cooked food you'd find anywhere."

Mrs. Buckingham shakes her head. "Not good enough, because I could never make him gain some meat on his bones."

"Was not a problem for me." Tom pats his stomach that is not as flat as Phillip's but is in plenty good shape.

The banter between these three feels like something happy, tight families do. Is Lynn Tom's girlfriend? Then why didn't Phillip tell me anything about their relationship? I have an NDA, not like this is something I could discuss with the press even if I wanted to.

"I set the kitchen table. I thought you would feel more comfortable here." Lynn walks over to the long wooden table with twelve chairs that separates the kitchen from the living room. The table is set for three.

"Thank you. Good idea. Although having you for dinner is a big deal. The biggest in many years," says Tom. "We are a small crowd today and the official dining room hasn't been used since..." he flicks his gaze to Phillip. Phillip's smile drops and he runs his hand through his hair. "... Phillip's engagement party with Brenda."

Brenda Baxter. Phillip's almost second wife. Tom's reference to Phillip's ex is delivered in a calm voice, but it pierces my sternum. Why would he bring her up? The press never got the full story of why those two never married, but no matter how much Phillip's publicist said their split was amicable, no one has ever seen Phillip and Brenda together after that.

"Are you ready to eat?" Lynn cuts the tension.

"That's what we are here for. Let's eat." Mr. Van der Heuvel pushes off the counter and takes a seat at the head of the table.

Phillip pulls a chair on his dad's left and gestures for me to take it. The fear of sitting next to the man twists my insides, but the pleasure of Phillip's gesture counteracts some of the dread. No one has ever pulled a chair for me at any table. Ever. Ever-ever. This feels like something people in the books did, but not real men in real life.

"Relax," he whispers into my ear, his hot breath tingling my earlobe.

A completely different twisting begins in my core. After yesterday's news the sucking vibrator that was supposed to help me forget about the desire Phillip stirred in me stayed unused in the box. Phillip drags his finger lightly over my cheek and kisses my temple. "You look better than any dinner." His compliment is loud enough for Tom and Lynn to exchange glances.

Heat climbs up my spine. My body parts seem unable to agree on what emotions they are feeling, tearing me apart.

Phillip leaves my side and sits across from me.

6.30.23

Author's Note

One chapter to go in season 1. I will post chapter 1 of Season 2 as well, so you can add the story to your readiing lists and have a taste of what's to come for Nata and Phillip in the next season.

Love,

GR