My father’s eyes widen. “Wow. That’s amazing. I love hearing you’re making friends again.”

“Yeah.” Why are my palms sweating? I had no idea my father was so aware of my lack of friendships. Why wouldn’t he be, though? I stopped trying to form bonds with my peers in middle school while I was still living at home. “How’s Mom? Is she there?”

“Anita!” he shouts, pointing at the screen when footsteps approach in the background. “Your daughter is on the phone.”

“My daughter? I have a daughter? Who knew?” she teases in accented English, plopping down onto my father’s lap. My heart squeezes at the picture they make, their unbreakable union obvious. I could recite the story about how they met at a beach bonfire verbatim. Their features are as familiar as my own, probably since I share so many of them. My mother’s brown eyes, her high cheekbones. My father’s pug nose. “Baby girl,” chides my mother. “You look tired.”

“Thanks Mom,” I respond dryly. “How’s everyone on base?”

“Good! Good.” She trades a look with my father that turns a bolt in my stomach. “Actually, we spoke to someone at the recruitment center. They’re willing to let you reapply for service, if that’s something you were still interested in—”

“Oh! No. No, that’s okay.” I strive for casual, but there’s a winded quality to my tone. “No, I have this great job here at the Times,” I half-lie, hoisting my pinched together fingers into view. “I’m this close to having my byline printed. It’s…good here. I’m good.”

I can tell they want to look at each other again. That they’ll be weighing every word I say in a lengthy discussion as soon as we end the FaceTime. I love my parents more than life itself. They love me the same way. Despite my untethered upbringing, they’ve always done everything in their power to make me happy.

But things have changed between us.

They used to get so excited when I told them about a new idea, a new venture. They applauded my ingenuity with the food truck. They cheered me on when I started real estate courses. Through all my harebrained ideas, they backed me up. But when I was rejected by their beloved marines for service, on the grounds that my work history showed a glaring lack of commitment, they started to lose faith. As did I.

Now, even when I reassure them, they only look worried.

Doubtful.

“Oh my gosh, I just realized I’m running late. Can I give you a call tomorrow?”

My mom’s smile is forced. Dad isn’t bothering to fake one at all.

With a fist-sized lump in my throat, I hang up before they can say anything else.

Then I stand up and hurry through putting on the pink dress.

If nothing else, tonight is the biggest distraction I could ask for.

Chapter Nine

My Uber pulls up in front of the Conrad, a downtown hotel, but I make no move to get out. Instead, I watch through the fogged back window as people climb out of black town cars and limousines, the women in sleek, black dresses, the men in tuxedos. I might be wearing a bright pink selection from the last chance rack at Marshall’s, but these people don’t intimidate me. Not at all. They wish they could pull off this shade of bubble gum.