Page 48 of What We Burn

“About what, honey?” Gloria asks, taking a sip of wine.

“About . . . exactly what you said.” Dennis picks up his fork. “You’re absolutely right.”

She giggles. “I always am.”

My brain compiles all the information it’s been flagging since we got here and damn near explodes. The turtleneck. The ridge under the fabric. The bulge at the collar that doesn’t match the garment. I look at Dennis’s neck. At the way his fingers keep drifting up to adjust the fabric. At the small, rectangular outline pressing against the knit just below his left ear.

That’s a shock collar.

I glance at all of the dads.

They’re all wearing shock collars.

I look at Sage. Her eyes are wide. She saw it too.

I look at Micah. His lemonade is frozen halfway to his mouth.

I look at Milo. He’s buttering a roll.

I guess this is normal for him.

Gene reaches for the corn. His hand pauses midway across the table, changes course, and picks up his napkin instead. He dabs his mouth. Sets the napkin down. Then reaches for the corn. The whole sequence takes about four seconds and is the most controlled act of vegetable acquisition I’ve ever witnessed.

“Milo tells me you’re all quite serious about Sage,” Gloria says, pivoting back to us like she didn’t just electrocute her partner. “A mother likes to know these things. That her son is with people who understand what they’ve committed to.”

“We’re very committed,” Micah says, and means it.

“Good. Because Milo loves deeply. He gets that from me.” She takes a sip of wine. “And the people I love, I keep.”

She says it like a compliment. It lands like a warning.

Sage shifts beside me. I feel her knee press against mine under the table—not flirtatious, just are you hearing this?

I press back. Yeah. I’m hearing it.

“What time does Rodrigo get home?” Milo asks, spooning more potato salad onto his plate. “He’s going to be so bummed he missed meeting kitten.”

The table seizes. Gene’s fork freezes midway to his mouth. Dennis goes perfectly, absolutely still. Ray tenses across the shoulders.

Dennis catches Gene’s eye. He gives the smallest shake of his head.

Gloria sets her wine glass down. The sound of the stem meeting the table is barely audible, but every dad at this table flinches.

“Rodrigo won’t be coming home, sweetheart,” she says. Her voice is measured. Pleasant. A weather woman describing a cold front. “He and I came to a parting of ways. He wasn’t behaving the way he should. There were conversations. Boundaries that were discussed and then disregarded.” She picks up her fork and examines a piece of potato as though it requires her full attention. “Some people aren’t built for this kind of life, no matter how much they want to be. Rodrigo turned out to be one of them.”

“Oh.” Milo’s face falls for a moment. Then he glances through the sliding glass door into the backyard, and his expression clears. “Actually, I should’ve guessed. New garden plot.” He turns to us to casually explain. “Whenever one of my dads moves on, Mom plants a commemorative garden of their favorite flowers. You know, to remember all the good times.” He smiles at Gloria. “That’s nice, Mom. What were Rodrigo’s?”

“Marigolds,” Gloria says, and takes a sip of wine.

I look through the glass door and almost choke on my drink.

There are six garden plots in the backyard. Six neat, rectangular beds, each roughly six feet long and three feet wide, spaced at even intervals along the back fence. Fresh soil on the newest one—dark, recently turned, the marigolds just beginning to sprout. The others are more established. One’s thick with lavender, one with roses, others with daisies, wildflowers, and bushes with tiny purple flowers I don’t know the name of.

“Ah, what were your dad’s favorite flowers, Milo?” I ask.

“Lavender. Why?” Milo responds, and Sage kicks me under the table.

“Just asking,” I say, cool as possible.