I glance at the folding table Tank set up for the game, then frown. “Did you invite extra people?” Dad shrugs. “With Pat gone, we had space. You know our table is always open.” Maybe our table has always been open, technically speaking, but the last new player we added was Chase, Harper’s husband, almost seven years ago. He was my sister’s best friend for years before they finally admitted they were in love—something we could have told them long ago. Just because that turned out well doesn’t mean I want to welcome a bunch of new people. I walk to the kitchen and grab a glass of water. It does
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