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“I’m going home tomorrow.”
“What’s the rush?” my dad pipes up unexpectedly.
“No rush.” Theo looks pleased and embarrassed by all the attention. “Just, the fumigating’s done.”
“It might still stink, though,” I say quickly. “There could still be fumes. It could be toxic.”
Reese grins at me. “Solid point, brother.” And then, to Theo, “Plus, I just got here! We haven’t even had time to hang out.”
I say, “Better stay a few more days to be sure.”
Theo laughs. “You don’t have to twist my arm—it’s a hundred times more fun cooking in your kitchen than mine. Not to mention sleeping on a Tempur-Pedic mattress.”
Heat spreads through my chest. I feel ridiculously relieved, like I just got a stay of execution. Theo is staying a few more days…maybe even another week. My mood soars, and I see my smile mirrored on Reese’s face.
“Fantastic!” my brother says. “The house smells better, too—I could tell as soon as I walked in that there was a girl around. You ever notice that, how when it’s just men, it smells like pee and testosterone?”
“Our house doesn’t smell like pee,” I say, offended. “Outside of your bathroom.”
Reese shrugs. “Still smells better with Theo in it.”
I can’t argue with that.
After dinner,my dad lights the firepit so we can make s’mores again. With the fairy lights and the purple ironwood blooming and the sparks from the fire swirling upward, the backyard is almost magical.
Reese brings out his guitar and tunes the strings. “Why don’t you get yours, Sully?”
“I haven’t played in ages.”
“So what? You worried you lost all your calluses?”
Softly, Theo says, “I’d like to hear you play.”
Firelight bathes her face, turning her skin golden and her eyes blue green.
I can’t refuse her request. In fact, the way she looks in this moment, I’d probably sign over the deed to the house.
“Well, if it’s you asking…”
“Typical,” my brother snorts.
When I return with my guitar, I’m shocked to see that my dad brought his out of the pool house. I can’t remember the last time I saw it in his hands. It takes him a lot longer than Reese to tighten the strings, but when he’s finished, the notes are rich and mellow and perfectly in tune.
He strums the chords ofGolden Years. Reese plucks the riff. I join in, softly at first, the strings pressing into my fingertips because Reese is right, I’ve lost my calluses.
My dad sings the verse, his voice low and rough and husky. Reese joins in on the chorus. By the second verse, my fingers don’t feel so thick and clumsy anymore. The guitar begins to feel like an old friend again, or like an old lover, my hands fitting against the shape they know so well.
The kindling pops, the smell of smoke and sparks and burned sugar swirling through the air. Theo’s eyes are clear and luminous. After work, she changed into the sort of top that a milkmaid might wear, loose, white, and crinkly. Her dark braid hangs over one bare shoulder, bits of hair curling around her face.
“Come on,” my dad says to Theo. “You know this one, join in.”
She shakes her head hard. “I can’t sing.”
“Liar,” I say. “You love singing.”
Her eyes go wide, and she presses her lips together like a song might accidentally leak out, shaking her head even harder. “I’m terrible.”
“You can’t be worse than me,” Reese coaxes. “Come on, let’s hear it!”
