"He's not here for the pie," Eileen observes.
I glance at her in surprise. Petr is here to ask after my brother or like he said, out of principle. I can't imagine a war hero - who's a multi-millionaire at least - wants anything to do with me. It's easier for me to believe the pie is laced with crack to keep him coming back.
"He's a good kid from a good family. You should go Thursday," Eileen adds. "I've gone every year. They literally feed the entire town and invite soldiers from the military base up."
"That's pretty incredible," I murmur, not quite able to believe Petr's that rich. He dresses nice, but he's … friendly. And a war hero. The combination doesn't make sense to someone who's gotten her education about the wealthy from reality TV shows and tabloids.
"Saves money, too." Eileen lowers her voice. "We aren't paid shit here, and you can take home as much as you want from the feast."
This reasoning resonates with me. "We'll see," I respond. "I don't mind working holidays."
"I do. We're closed Thursday anyway." The plump woman leaves me to tend to one of the regulars.
I watch her go, debating what to do about the Thanksgiving party.
Too many decisions send me spiraling into near-panic mode. Karate and Thanksgiving.
Maybe I'm not cut out to be normal after all.