I perk up. “Really?”
“Yup. Looks like he actually took a break.”
“Wow,” I respond, genuinely surprised. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
We step out with grocery bags digging into our fingers and head inside. The moment we do, the scent of fresh-baked bread drifts through the hallway. Our dad is standing behind the kitchen counter, slicing strawberries with intense focus, a dishtowel hanging over his shoulder. He’s built broad, like a big teddy bear. He looks up as soon as we walk in, his face breaking into a wide, familiar grin. “There’s my two troublemakers.”
“Hi, Dad,” I say, tossing my bag onto a chair.
Noah’s already moving in for a quick hug, and I follow right behind, squeezing him around the middle as he kisses the top of my head like always.
“Hey there, old man,” Noah teases, ducking as a strawberry gets thrown at him.
“You’re home early,” I add.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” he gestures to the counter. “I took some stuff from the cafe. Figured it’d be a nice start to the weekend.”
“You're amazing”, I say. My dad owns thebestcafé in town, which I am totally unbiased about, because anytime he comes home with ‘leftovers,’ it feels like Christmas.
Noah grabs a piece of bread. “We’re doing a barbecue tonight, by the way. The usual crew’s coming over.”
Dad nods. “That’s nice. I will prepare the grill for you.”
“Thanks,” Noah says with a grateful smile.
I slide onto one of the bar stools and pop a strawberry in my mouth. It’s seriously ridiculous how good they are. As I chew, my eyes drift to the picture on the counter with all four of us squeezed into the frame. Dad’s hair wasn't grey at the edges yet, his arm wrapped tightly around Noah.
And my Mom. She’s holding me, laughing, her head tipped back, probably at one of Dad’s terrible jokes. It’s the last photo before she got sick. Something in my chest pinches at the sight of her laugh. I still catch it sometimes when Noah laughs too, the same tilt of the head, the same squint of the eyes.
My thoughts are interrupted when I hear tires crunch over gravel.
“They’re here.” Noah calls.
3
RYAN
Family isn’t always by blood
I can smell the barbecue from the street. And it smells goddamn delicious.
I arrive at the Gracelyns' place. There’s music, laughter, and shouting already shaking from inside. Which is good, because anything else would’ve been suspicious.
I walk around the side of the house and head up the porch steps, the old wood creaking softly under my shoes. Luke—Maddy and Noah’s dad—stands at the grill, completely focused, like the fate of the world depends on perfectly cooked burgers. And of course he’s wearing the same red apron that saysgrill masterin big bold letters across the front. We gave it to him for his birthday last year, mostly as a joke, but I’m pretty sure he took it as a genuine compliment.
Luke turns to look at me, a spatula in one hand and a grin on his face. “Ryan, my boy,” he says, pulling me into a one-armed hug.
I return the hug, “Hey Luke, it smells amazing.”
He taps the front of his apron with the spatula. “Gotta prove I earned the title.”
I laugh. “Well, I volunteer to be the judge of that.”
“Then I’ll make yours extra special,” he whispers, giving me a typical dad wink.
“Great.” I smile, give his shoulder a light pat. “Good to see you, Luke.”
“You too, son.”
