“If you want charcoal briquettes, Commander, I’ll leave them on,” Ryan shot back, grinning. “If you want a medium-rare masterpiece, you let the master work.”
My mother walked out of the sliding glass door, carrying a tray of potato salad. She wore jeans and a simple blouse. No pearls. No makeup. The haughty, image-obsessed woman who had banished me to the bleachers was gone. In her place was someone quieter, someone broken who was slowly learning how to glue the pieces back together. She visited my father in prison every Sunday. She never spoke of it, but the gray in her hair told the story of the toll it took.
I sat at the picnic table, rubbing my left shoulder. The physical therapy was brutal. I had about seventy percent mobility back, but on damp days, the ache from Mercer’s bullet throbbed like a heartbeat.
Mercer wasn’t here today, but he had called. He was medically retired, living in Montana with Maya. We spoke once a month. The forgiveness was slow, complicated, but it was there. We had both paid the price of love.
The wooden gate at the side of the house clicked open.
The yard went quiet.
Lucas walked in.
He looked healthier. The gaunt, haunted look of captivity had faded, replaced by a quiet stillness. He held a six-pack of craft beer and a slightly crumpled bouquet of sunflowers.
He walked over to the table and set them down in front of me.
“I heard there were burgers,” he said, offering a small, tentative smile.
“If Ryan doesn’t ruin them,” I replied, my heart doing a strange, fluttering rhythm I hadn’t felt in years.
“Hey, I resent that,” Ryan called out, leaning on his cane. But he was smiling.
Lucas sat down across from me. He watched my mother set the table. He watched Ryan joke with Hayes. He looked at the scars we all carried—my shoulder, Ryan’s leg, the invisible wounds that hung in the air.
“It’s messy,” Lucas observed quietly.
“It is,” I agreed.
“I brought something,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
