The chef was extremely pretty and practically gushing innocent youthfulness–which was a little weird considering she couldn’t have been much younger than me, if she was at all. She had short red hair, a smattering of freckles across her upturned nose, and a heart shaped face.

“I’m Harper,” she said, still smiling. “How was everything?”

“How was it?” my dad asked. There was an edge of warning in his voice, and my mom and I shared an eye roll because we knew exactly where this was going.

Harper looked suddenly nervous. “Was something wrong?”

“Wrong?” my dad stood up and took a step toward her. Harper took one step back, eyes wide, like she was deciding if she should run. “The only thing wrong is there wasn’t more of it!” His mock-serious act broke as he smiled, squatted a little, and burst out laughing.

“Easy there, Earl. You’re going to scare the girl,” my mom said.

My dad composed himself, then did a little chef’s kiss gesture before patting his rounded belly. “You are amazing. Best waffles and eggs I’ve had in years. And that syrup. Let me guess. It’s a homemade blend, right? How’d you get the waffles to have that perfect crunch? And what was that sneaky note in the syrup? It was nutmeg, wasn’t it? And was that cherry reduction?”

Harper’s unease melted away and she ended up gesturing for my dad to follow her back to the kitchen with her. We could hear the two of them jabbering about recipes and techniques.

My mom looked my way. “Should I be jealous? That girl was super cute.”

I grinned. “She had a wedding ring on. I think you’re safe. Not that Dad isn’t a catch for a twenty-something knockout like her.”

“Your father would be a catch for Miss America herself, and don’t you ever believe otherwise.” My mom actually sounded offended that I thought Harper wouldn’t try to steal my dad out from under her.

I smiled. My parents were always like that. The perfect couple. Pure happiness. Pure wholesome goodness at all times. Usually, I was simply happy for them. But sometimes I couldn’t help feeling a bit sad by comparison. Why did they make it look so easy and why did it seem so hard when I tried to be happy with someone?

“So now that Mr. Nosy is gone,” Mom said, leaning in and looking excited. “Tell me about Dean. And wow. He’s even prettier than that picture of him you showed me. No offense, but I thought maybe that picture was edited or something. You know how young people are these days. It’s filters this and Brazilian Butt Lifts that.”

“Right,” I said, smiling. “Because Dad is the nosy one.”

“Oh, come on. Spill the beans, Pearl!”

I told her a more or less true version of what had happened since the hotel in Asheville. I told her about the couple’s game we won (minus the last two games where I humped and then kissed Dean), the spa day, the restaurant, the road trip, and even how much we’d enjoyed the bonfire. When I finished, though, my mom was still watching me with a look I didn’t particularly like.