Dad’s sitting in the living room, still watching the TV, and Mom is hurrying through the house back to the kitchen, her clothes on but her make-up not done yet.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to help with anything, Mom?”
“Thanks, sweetie. I’ve got everything under control.” Mom runs around the kitchen, pulling something out of the oven and setting it where it can cool. I have no idea what it is, but it smells amazing. After spending half the day setting up the house for the party, I’m already starving, but I know better than to ask Mom if I can snag some.
“Wait until she goes to do her make-up and hair, and then we’ll grab some of the meatballs,” Dad mutters to me, and I snicker.
“Done,” I agree.
We wait for Mom to do whatever it is she’s doing in the kitchen, and she scurries back to the master bathroom to finish getting ready before people start coming over. As soon as Dad and I are both pretty sure that she’s occupied, we head into the kitchen and grab some of the meatballs simmering in the crock pot.
“So it’s been a while since you saw Harper. She’s looking good these days,” Dad says, as we eat in the living room as quickly as we can.
“Yeah, she doesn’t look bad at all,” I agree.
“Weird she isn’t with anyone,” Dad adds. “Usually girls get into the city and then get involved with one guy after another until they find a good one.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes. “She’s not a cliché,” I point out. “She’s picky, anyway. Always has been.”
“Picky never lasts that long,” Dad counters.
“Obviously it does,” I tell him. “Seeing as how she isn’t with anyone right now.”
“Speaking of which,” Dad says, “when are you going to get tired of the merry-go-round and settle?”
“Not anytime soon, I can tell you that,” I reply.
“I get the allure,” Dad says, finishing off his meatballs. “But at some point, whatever your career trajectory, you’re going to appreciate having someone who can make things stable, hold everything down.”
“I don’t even know what my ‘career trajectory’ is,” I tell him. “I don’t know what I’m going to be doing in the next six months.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Dad says. “I mean, after all, whether or not you’re seeing someone seriously will probably figure in whether or not you decide to reenlist.”
“Whatever, old man,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m nowhere near figuring that out yet.”
“You should figure it soon,” Dad says to me. “And expect that people are going to ask you about it this week.”
“Not if you and Mom don’t tell them about it,” I point out.
“People are going to do the math, son,” Dad counters. “They’re going to figure you’re close to finishing your time. Even if they don’t, you’re going to get the question of what you plan on doing after the army anyway.”
Before I can say anything to that, there’s a knock at the door and I get up to answer it. The first of the guests is one of my dad’s coworkers and his wife. Mom comes out of her room before I have any chance to say anything other than hello, and I move out of the way to let my parents take over.
It’s going to be rough until some people’s kids get here, I think. At least Harper should get here soon, and I’ll have someone to talk to.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HARPER POLSEN
I follow my parents across the lawn to Bev and Nolan’s home where the party’s already in progress. The tables look great, the candles lit, the flowers all perfect, and with the sun starting to take on the gold-yellow glow of late afternoon, it’s magical. A few people are milling around outside, smoking cigarettes and chatting, eating the snacks that either Bev made or people brought with them.
Most of the people at the party are folks I recognize more or less immediately. The neighborhood party would be in a few days, and then my parents were going to have the Lewises over for dinner after that.
I’m carrying some stuff that Mom and I prepped for the party — pasta salad that I made, and Mom’s yogurt dip with some veggies and some pita chips. I hurry into the house while Mom and Dad are saying hello to everyone outside, and spot a handful of people my own age.
“Hey, good to see you,” one of Bev’s coworkers’ kids says to me, and I smile at her. She helps me open up the yogurt dip and snags a taste of it, leaning in closer. “Be on the lookout,” she murmurs, “the parentals are trying to play matchmaker.”