Charlie always knew what he wanted. Some nights in-country, we’d lie on our backs on the ground with our boots propped up against the schoolhouse wall, pass a cigarette back and forth, and he’d talk about how he wanted to go to culinary school when he got out of the Marines.
“I want to be a chef, Solo,” he said. “But not like those pretentious guys who make teeny-tiny dishes no one can pronounce, you know? I want to have a restaurant where regular people can try gourmet food without feeling stupid or wondering which fork to use.”
I never pointed out that most regular people aren’t all that interested in trying food like that, because it was his dream and who was I to stomp all over it?
“What about you, Trav?” he asked.
“I don’t know, dude,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go recon.”
He laughed because we learned real fast that you always make fun of the hard chargers who talk about reenlisting or going recon. Reconnaissance Marines are specially trained scouts. Elite. A lot of guys join the Marines wanting to go recon because they think it’s cool, but they go through some seriously rigorous training. I was only a year out of high school and no closer to knowing what I wanted to do with my future. I was only joking with Charlie but now—I don’t know. I think I could do it.
Now Charlie is dead, and I’m having trouble even picturing a future with me in it. Still, I humor my mom. “Maybe. Anyway, you should see a lawyer. I’ll go with you if you want.”
Her smile slides off her face and I can tell the beer buzz has dredged up some doubt. She glances at her watch. “Travis.” She hiccups. “We need to go. We haven’t bought groceries yet.”
“Give me the keys.” I settle the tab, turn in my membership application, and follow my mom out to the Suburban. She keeps missing the slot on her seat belt, so I have to do it for her. “We should go home,” I say. “We can shop later.”
“Your dad will be mad.” She yawns. “I want a nap.”
I laugh. I’ve never seen her this way. “Okay, then, a nap it is.”
Dad is watching golf on TV, a bottle of beer in his hand, when we get home.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” he says. “Linda, did you remember to buy beer?”
She nods and holds up three fingers, then uses her other hand to bend one finger down so she’s only holding up two. “Two pitchers.”
My mom is wasted. It’s kind of… cool.
His eyes narrow. “Have you been drinking?” He turns his glare on me. Cool Dad is gone. Real Dad is back. “Travis, you got your mother drunk?”
I shrug. “You can blame me if you want.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?” He’s on his feet now, eyes blazing, voice sliding up an octave. “We’ve got company coming tonight and nothing is ready.” He turns back to her. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. You have all the time in the world to buy socks for Travis and to google all night with strangers about your son in Afghanistan, but I ask you for one little thing—”
“This isn’t about Travis,” she says.
“Of course it’s about Travis,” he spits. “It’s always about Travis.”
“Mom.” I keep my eyes on him. “Why don’t you go up and take that nap? I’ll take care of everything.”
“But—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got it under control.”
She plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “You’re such a good boy.”
I am nowhere near good right now.
“I thought the military would have matured you,” Dad says when she’s out of earshot. “But you’re the same disrespectful little punk you were before you left.”
I grab the front of his shirt in my fist. It takes this little punk no effort at all to pull him toward me. He looks scared, and he should, because there’s not much in this world more frightening than a pissed-off grunt. “You know what I was doing at six o’clock this morning? Sitting in the kitchen with Mom, who waited all night for you to come home. So don’t fucking talk to me about respect.”
He doesn’t say anything and his eyes are wide. I shouldn’t feel good about that, but I do.
“You want to be pathetic and screw around behind Mom’s back because she pays attention to someone other than you, that’s your business,” I say. “But I won’t be your excuse.”
I shove him a little as I let go and he staggers backward. If I wanted to drop him, he’d be on the floor right now, but this was my warning shot.
“I’m going to the grocery store.” I grab the keys to the Suburban. “Gotta make sure Becky feels welcome.”
Dad’s tanned face goes pale. He pulls out his wallet. “Do you—do you need some cash?”
“Not from you.”
It isn’t until I get to the Winn-Dixie that I realize I have a problem—I didn’t bring Mom’s list. I have no clue what people cook for dinner parties, even for people they hate.
I head for the meat department.
“Can I help you?” the butcher asks.
“What would you cook if you were having a, um—dinner party?”
Jesus, I feel like an idiot.
“Well, a roast is always tasty,” he offers. “Or pork chops. Or even lamb chops.”
Lamb chops? I walk away from the counter and stand in front of the cooler full of meat. I have no idea what to buy. I don’t even know what most of it is. This is a nightmare.
“Do you need help?” a female voice from behind asks.
I’m about to throw an offended no over my shoulder when Harper comes up alongside me, all green eyes and tousled hair. I could probably look at her forever and not get tired of that face. “If I say yes will you think less of me?”
She shrugs, but I can see a smile at the corner of her mouth. “I already do think less of you.”
“You’re not planning to hit me again, are you?”
“Well, I wasn’t planning on it, but I try to keep my options open.” She puts her plastic shopping basket in my cart. “So you’re having a dinner party?”
“Yes, I mean, no. My mom is, but she’s—not feeling well, so I figured I’d come buy the stuff, take it home, and cook it.”
She cocks her head, skeptical. “Do you know how to cook, Travis?”
“How hard can it be?” Her eyebrows lift and she doesn’t say anything at all, which makes me laugh. “Okay, no. But I want to do something nice for her.”
Harper’s smile is like standing in a patch of sunshine and feels like a reward. “So maybe you should try something a little less complicated, but still good,” she says. “Like… okay, I have an idea.”
As I follow her to the produce section, I notice her jeans are faded to white in spots with a circle worn into the fabric of the right back pocket where someone once kept a can of dip. Thrift store jeans. I used to buy most of my clothes from thrift stores, too. I liked that they were already broken-in and soft from wear.
On the way, she gives me a tutorial on choosing the freshest tomatoes, but I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about Becky Michalski. Why would my dad have an affair with her? She’s unremarkable, especially compared to Mom. Seems to me, she’s the ultimate loser in this scenario. Going from Don to my dad is kind of a lateral move.
“Travis, are you in there?” Harper is waving her hand in front of my face.
“I nearly punched my dad today.” I’m not sure what possesses me to blurt this to Harper Gray in the middle of the produce section of the Winn-Dixie, but there’s something I trust about her.
“Why?”
“He’s cheating on my mom.”
“I… wow, I’m sorry.” She looks up at me and what I see in her eyes isn’t pity or even satisfaction that karma is coming back to bite me for the way I treated her in middle school. She just looks sad. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Those are the words that come out of my mouth, but then I find myself leaning against the vegetable bin, telling her everything. Including the part about getting my mom drunk.
Harper smiles at that. “That’s sweet… in a weird sort of way.”
She moves so we’re both blocking the avocados, her arm brushing against mine. It makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle. “My mom left when I was ten,” she says. “She went back to Denmark to take care of my grandma, who was dying of cancer, and never came back.”