Page 8 of The Complication with the Best Man

“I sure hope so. I miss my son,” Mom says, covering her heart with her hand.

I refrain from rolling my eyes. My mom dotes on my brother. Not that she doesn’t dote on me too, it’s just in different ways. My brother’s dreams were always bigger than mine. That was clear early on in our lives. He was going to go somewhere while I was… not.

“How’s work going?” my dad asks, and I’m thankful he changes the subject away from my brother and baseball.

“Good. Busy. I met with an out-of-town bride yesterday, and another couple is flying in next week.”

“Oh, Harp, that’s great news. Sounds like business is going well.” My dad peeks over the edge of his tablet and smiles.

“Do you ever think about catering more to the local clientele and not worrying so much about the out-of-state people?” my mom asks.

I grit my teeth and take a deep breath through my nose. My mom was a principal until she retired, and the guidance role that she had with her students trickled down to everything I did, whether I asked or not. She means well, I know she does, but it always makes me feel as if I’m doing something wrong.

“I do cater to the locals, Mom, there just aren’t enough of them to keep my business afloat, which is why I cast a wider net. So far, my plan has been working.” My tone comes out a little snippier than I intend, and my dad peeks up over his tablet with raised eyebrows.

She raises her hands. “I was just asking.”

I know she worries and that she asks out of love and concern for my future, but the fact that years later, she still questions how I’m running my business spurs feelings of unworthiness inside me.

Does she ask Easton if he’s really doing everything he needs to in order to win the Golden Glove award this year? Somehow, I doubt it.

“You’re doing a great job, kiddo.” My dad shares a look with my mom, and she pats my hand.

“Absolutely.” She gives me a smile as if she’s appeasing me but really thinking that if it was her, she’d do something different.

Deciding that it’s best to move on, I change the subject and ask them about the trip they have planned in a couple of months once winter settles in. Ever since they both retired from the high school, they usually spend a month or two in a warmer climate, like Arizona or California.

My parents tell me all about the condo they’ve rented in Palm Springs and their plans for activities. They’re definitely excited, their love for one another shining as they play off each other. My parents’ story as to how they met has always been told to me by people in town. How in love they were and still are. The way my dad changed his course because of my mom. On and on, I’ve heard stories as if they’re Lake Starlight’s fairytale love story. Which is gross, since it began with them hooking up in the back seat of my dad’s Jeep that still sits in the garage. They take it out once in a while during the summer, and after what I just walked in on, I’m thinking I never want to ride in it again.

“You’ve barely touched your trail mix or your pop. Are you feeling okay?” My mom puts her hand on my forehead.

Leaning to the side, I shift away from her touch. “I’m fine. I just had a big lunch, that’s all.”

I look between the two of them… I could tell them now. Just blurt out that I’m pregnant even though I’m not completely sure of my decision yet. But when I imagine telling them, all I envision is the look of profound disappointment on their faces. Them thinking that Harper has screwed up yet again.

My parents love me, I know that. But I’ve always felt as though I can’t live up to being Austin and Holly Bailey’s daughter. Their names, my family name, is kind of a big deal in this town. My brother never had any trouble living up to being a Bailey. He did well in school, did well in sports, and somehow kept all the shit he did a secret, while every time I did anything, I was caught. And now he’s a professional athlete, a hometown hero. He’s got a trophy case in the high school, and he’s turned everyone into a Colts fan, and when he comes home, you’d think he was the mayor. And the people always say, “And they have a daughter, Harper. She… well, she looks just like her mother.”

I get the difference. I never took school seriously. I was always impulsive and wild and found myself in the usual sort of teenage trouble growing up.

I can’t say anything to them yet. Not until I have a plan worked out to present to them. Maybe if that’s the case, they won’t freak out and give me that look like I just can’t do anything right.

One thing is for sure, I have to figure out what I’m going to do and soon.

After I leave my parents’ house, I head to the cabin with the hope that solitude will offer some clarity about what I want to do.

As I drive through Lake Starlight’s small downtown, I pass the town square and fixate on all the families there. The parents playing with their children, chasing them around and pushing them on the swings and catching them when they come down the slide. Can I really do that? What if I answer a phone call, and my kid flies off the slide and goes airborne?

Once I’m inside the cabin, I open some of the windows to let in some fresh air. Although the weather is growing colder with each passing day, you learn early to take advantage of being able to keep windows open when you live in Alaska. There are way too many months we’re holed up inside.

Now, what do I do? I don’t really enjoy quiet or solitude. I’m more of a go go go person, socializing with friends and family. My mind travels a mile a minute, so any lack of background noise makes all my thoughts louder.

When I was here with Palmer, I didn’t do much more than take a surface look at everything, so this time I wander around the small space. There are some bottles of water in the fridge and canned food in the cupboards that someone left behind. There’s also an unopened box of saltines. I wonder if Palmer left them for me or if one of my cousins has something to share.

This nausea is killing my addiction to food, but I should eat, so I open the box and grab a sleeve of crackers. I take crackers with me as I continue my exploration, taking small nibbles.

The bathroom is small and dated, but clean. In the one bedroom, there’s a dresser with a few items of clothing in the drawers. The top of the closet is piled with extra blankets and pillows. As I’m about to shut the closet doors, my gaze snags on something leaning against the wall in the back.

Curious, I pull it—actually them, now that I’m closer—out and set them on the bed.

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