I once proclaimed that the sugar and fat combination is a magical recipe for productivity, but somehow, I doubt Dylan would share that sentiment.

Everything about his house is more formal than what I’m used to, so I shouldn’t be surprised when he leads me to the kitchen and I see a woman who has to be Dylan’s mother chatting with another woman who seems to be a professional chef cooking their dinner. But I am.

I’m screaming internally at the luxury.

“Dylan, you didn’t tell me we were having company,” his mother says sharply to him.

I suck in a breath, fully prepared to start groveling and apologizing for being in Dylan’s room without her permission. I’m sure that most moms wouldn’t want some strange girl lounging on their son’s couch.

Dylan ignores her comment and heads straight for the refrigerator. Of course, it’s the size of a closet and totally packed with brand name drinks, yogurt, snacks, and everything else I could imagine.

He takes out two bottles of water, handing me one, which I accept with a smile.

Bottled water.

In a house.

When there are two sinks in this kitchen and exposed shelves with rows of glassware.

I fiddle with the label and take in his mother’s polite expression. It looks eerily similar to the one Dylan fixes when he’s trying to keep his composure.

“My son has forgotten his social graces,” she laughs warmly. “I’m Abigail.”

She extends a hand, and I shake it.

“I’m Harper Reed. It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Archer.”

“Seems someone knows how to do a proper introduction,” she scolds and playfully snaps a hand towel at him.

Dylan rolls his eyes. “We’re in the middle of homework.”

“Homework,” she repeats, taking in my appearance. “Is that what kids are calling it these days?”

Dylan’s eyes take in the creases on my pants and untamed hair. “Oh no, that’s how she always looks.”

“I thought we agreed on no more hair jokes,” I say to him quietly while I unsuccessfully try to brush through my curls with my fingers.

He shakes his head. “I never agreed to anything like that.”

“We’re really just doing homework, Mrs. Archer. AP English seems like double the workload this semester,” I say to Dylan with sharp eyes.

“Well, all that studying must be making you both very hungry, and Marcie is putting all the finishing touches on the first course.”

First course. Where on earth am I?

“There’s more than enough here for you both to join us.”

Dylan twists the cap on his water bottle. “Oh no, we’ll take it up—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Archer,” I jump in. “I would love to.”

I graciously accept before he can finish declining. I pointedly ignore Dylan’s glare. He clearly was not planning on me joining in on a sit-down dinner, but it’s such a good opportunity that I can’t pass it up.

It’s like my own personal sociological experiment, seeing and understanding where Dylan Archer came from and why he is the way he is.

“Can I help set the table?” I ask, attempting to be the gracious guest.

My mom always ends up shoving various plates and everything at James and me until we begrudgingly move everything over to the table. Filling up four water glasses is such a simple, mundane task, but for some reason, I can’t stand it and always try to pass it off to James.

She regards my offer with a look of surprise. “Oh no, dear, it’s all taken care of for us. Why don’t you go ahead and get situated? I’ll be in shortly.”

Dylan begrudgingly leads me to the formal dining room.

I don’t have a chance to stare at the carved archway or the art on the walls because I’m so taken aback by the table itself. If she had wanted me to set the table, I wouldn’t have had a clue where to even start.

There are two plates stacked on top of each other at the individual place settings and seven pieces of silverware decorating it. I don’t know how many courses a person has to eat that require that many utensils, but I’m eager to find out.

My stomach grumbles in excitement.

Dylan actually pulls out a chair for me, and I fully expect him to yank it out at the last minute so I fall onto the floor, but he doesn’t.

His mother enters and hums in approval as I take my seat.

“Is Father joining us?” Dylan asks.

I pick up on the edge of nervousness in his tone, but his mother doesn’t comment on it.

“It appears not,” she answers coolly.

He repeats the same motion for her, and she takes her spot at the head of the table, leaving Dylan to sit across from me and scold me for the entirety of the meal.

10

The Archers are apparently well versed in the formality of the sit-down dinner and letting others serve them. The chef brings in the first course, expertly balancing three bowls between her two hands.

I inhale the rich scent of garlic and well-seasoned tomatoes. Part of me wants to just pick it up in my hands, drain it, and ask for another serving.

I watch the way Mrs. Archer uses her spoon, the one on the far right of her place setting. How she eats is almost a skill, scraping the side of the spoon lightly across the top of the soup, smoothing it along the back end of the bowl before bringing it up to her mouth.

After a few sips, she places the spoon between the bowl and one of the plates and starts to engage me in polite conversation.

She asks me about my family and school projects, and she seems to be surprisingly interested in my plans for the yearbook.

I don’t hesitate to gush over what I’ve been working on, telling her about how the entire project plays on the Throwback Thursday trend online where each spread encompasses the feel of a sort of social media scrapbook.

“I couldn’t think of a better way to encapsulate this time than by trying to be a reflection of who we are as a generation, so defined by our online presence.”

“That is certainly an interesting idea,” she compliments. “How did you come up with it?”

“Last summer, my mom made my sister and me clean out the attic, and we found a box of her and my dad’s old yearbooks. They were pretty funny, I mean, early nineties hairstyles and whatnot. But anyway, all of the pictures were so posed and the superlatives were pretty cringey. It just seemed so overdone and corny, and I wanted to figure out a way to not be like that.”

Mrs. Archer laughs. Well, it’s not exactly a laugh—more of a smile with sound.

“I, for one, am grateful my mother refused allowing me to perm my hair.”

If I were her mother, I probably would have refused it, too. Her blonde hair, even if it’s colored that way, is absolutely gorgeous. Like a sheet of pure gold.

The last time Audrey tried to straighten my hair, it was curling up again on the first side before she even finished the other.

The chef replaces our soup bowls with salads, marking the start of the second course. It’s a few pieces of shredded kale with julienned carrots, sunflower seeds, and two pieces of shrimp arranged beautifully on top. It smells divine, but I have to stop myself from swallowing it in two bites.

If the portions are this tiny, I assume we’re going to be here for three hours and at least ten courses.