Passover
You pace around your parents’ porch, fingers clenched into pulsating fists, crickets in the background. You hope that every car in the distance was him, but if it came across your house at all, it wasn’t him at all.
Behind you the door opens. You jolt at the sound and turn to find your little cousin smiling up at you innocently. “I’m op’nin’ da door fo Elijah,” she says.
“You don’t do that until after we eat, kiddo,” you correct her gently, though a hint of impatience for your fiancé lingers in your tone. Your cousin doesn’t catch it, but your aunt seems to.
“At this point, when it’s time to open the door for him, he’ll be there,” she says coolly, picking up your cousin as she screen door closes.
“Elijah?” your cousin asks in surprise. This isn’t the first Passover she can remember, but last time, Elijah didn’t come. What was different? She didn’t know, but the adults did.
“No,” your aunt corrects her. Then she looks at you, her impatience clear. “Cousin (Y/N)’s fiancé.”
“What’s a fiancé?” your cousin asks.
“It’s the man she’s going to marry soon,” your aunt explains to your cousin. Then she looks at you. “And you absolutely can’t tell us his name?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you explain gently. It’s true. You consider going in and saying, “Everyone, Tony Stark asked me to marry him the other day and I said yes,” listening to their laughter, and basking in their shock when he walks through the door. But you’re not that cruel, and you can’t guarantee they’ll react just like that.
“Whatever. Have fun waiting, but we’re getting a little antsy in there.”
“You’re not just waiting for me and him, are you?” you ask. You don’t want to make that big of a scene, but in your heart you know it will be.
“Meh, there’s food to be readied and stuff, but y’know. Text him or something.”
He texted you as you were helping your mom and grandmother in the kitchen some forty five minutes ago that he was on his way, but you didn’t know where from. You didn’t want to encourage texting and driving, even though he probably upgraded his car to have voice control or F.R.I.D.A.Y. or something. If he wasn’t here in ten minutes, you’d call.
“I wanna wait with (Y/N),” your cousin whines as your aunt takes a step back, squirming in her grip.
“Go back inside,” you tell your cousin. “I gotta…make sure he’s ready.”
The door closes but doesn’t lock. You look ahead and pace in a circle three more times before a car comes on this street, slowly. It’s red and sleek, the finish glimmering in the setting sun. Oh my god, you think. He had to bring the Ferrari. He parks between your uncle’s car and the neighbor’s car, bends to the side to pick something up, then gets out of the car. You turn to look into the living room window and see your cousins’ eyes peeking out, and your aunt staring in the distance from the couch. You turn back and Tony has approached you, a calm and collected look on his face. He embraces you, hands on your waist, a bottle of wine in a bag in his hand bumping your thigh before he kisses you, and the nervousness you were previously drowning in drains. Everything will be okay. You’re with him. Besides, your parents wouldn’t mind you marrying a bazillionaire. Not at all.
“All right, let’s meet the (Y/L/N)s,” he says, keeping one hand at your waist. His hand is tense, his fingers pressing against you and trembling a little.
You chortle. “Oh my god, Tony, are you nervous?”
“Very,” he admits, masked in a cool tone as his fingers press tighter.
“Me too,” you reply, leaning into him. You hold in a breath and open the door to find your parents, sister, aunt and uncle, cousins, and grandparents crowded in the living room, staring at you with wide eyes. Your heart stops. The room has a dead, eerie silence which is doing nothing for your nerves.
“You’re marrying Iron Man?” your younger cousin exclaims, falling to his knees.
“Yup,” you say. And you know that there’s no way that your family will get through the Passover Seder tonight.