In the kitchen, Kevin’s wife Trish is busy emptying the fridge of condiments and cold side dishes like potato salad, coleslaw, and a large bowl of fresh fruit. She has a platter of cut vegetables, complete with dip, balanced precariously on top of a bowl of noodles—macaroni? I don’t know, I can’t tell—and turns to close the fridge with her hip when she sees me. “Nik, hey,” she says, flashing me a smile. “Kevin tell you I got the times all wrong?”
I give her an odd look. “I sort of figured it out on my own.”
She winces. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
The veggie platter starts to slide and I hurry to catch it. “Need a little help here?”
But Trish manages to set the bowl down on the counter without dropping anything. “Nah, I got it. Why don’t you head back outside where the party is? I’ll call
