“Choosing denial?” Leah asked mildly.
“YourHeritage probably didn’t even bother to run the second sample you sent. I bet they just gave you the same answers as last time.”
Hopefully, Mom would remain in a state of denial. If so, she wouldn’t mount a search for her missing child. Which would make things easier for Leah.
“You haven’t told Dylan, have you?” Mom asked.
“No.”
“Good! Don’t tell him. It will just rile him up.”
“I agree.” Leah was momentarily disoriented. Were she and Mom actually in agreement?
“And there’s no sense getting him riled up over something that’s not even legitimate. You are my daughter.”
“I’m not going to tell Dylan. Will you please sign the waiver that I faxed to you?”
“Why would I?”
“Because it means a lot to me and because I’m asking nicely.”
After a taut moment, Mom said, “Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you been feeding Dylan enough kale, Leah? And also chia seeds? Chia seeds provide fiber, and you both need lots of fiber in your diet.”
Leah bit her tongue, as she always did, in response to Mom’s random parenting suggestions. When Mom had chased her ambitions overseas, she’d both forfeited her right to parent and removed much of Leah’s ability to control her own life.
Leah had responded by dedicating herself to controlling what little remained—her well-being and Dylan’s well-being. Leah was the one who supported Dylan, who stocked the pantry, bought his clothes, paid for his phone and car insurance. Leah was the one who made sure he went to the doctor and did his homework and cleaned his room and avoided parties with kegs.
Because of her ingrained responsibility for her brother, every dream she’d had since taking over his care had been an anxiety dream. Her struggling to get Dylan out in time while their house burned. Her failing to watch him carefully as he stumbled into the street in front of a speeding car. Her losing Dylan in a crowd. Her remembering suddenly that Dylan lived in the bedroom next to hers and realizing that he must have starved because she hadn’t fed him anything in weeks.
Thus, if anyone had the final say on kale and chia seeds ... it wasn’t Mom.
It was her.
The Coleman family barbecue sauce recipe was an old and closely protected secret. Very dark in color, it tasted like Georgia: southern and spicy with sweetness underneath. The smell of that sauce swamped Sebastian when he stepped out of his car into evening sunshine the night of the anniversary party for Ben’s parents.
Ben was the third of four kids. His siblings were married and had already given him four nephews and two nieces. The Colemans also had a large extended family and a huge circle of friends. All of whom had big appetites.
Since Ben’s dad, Herschel, owned only one barbecue, he’d no doubt gained the cooperation of several neighbors, and was cooking ribs and chicken on multiple grills at once.
Sebastian started toward the party, past all the cars that had forced him to park a block away. He carried a gift under one arm like a football, even though the invitation had specified no gifts. He’d never had an easy time following rules he didn’t personally agree with.
Atlanta weather was humid in the summer. But not here, thanks to Misty River’s altitude. Cool mountain breezes tugged away some of the stress of his workweek.
The Colemans’ house had been built in the late sixties in a style that reminded him of theBrady Bunchhouse. Roomy, with a retro rock fireplace, it had a stairway made of wooden slats that led upstairs from the front door. Because the house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac, the backyard widened from the porch like a pie slice, expanding out into undeveloped land.
Based on previous cookout experiences, he knew it would be loud and crowded inside, so he let himself through the side gate into the backyard. The sound of conversations increased as he neared.
CeCe, Ben’s mom, would kill him if he showed up in scrubs, so he’d brought a change of clothes with him to work that morning. His jeans were in good shape, but the car ride had creased the light blue dress shirt he wore untucked.
People he didn’t know were playing cornhole beneath the big sweetgum tree at the far edge of the lawn that had once supported a tree house. When he’d first started coming here, he and Ben had been thirteen. They’d been too old to play in tree houses, but Sebastian had still used it as an escape whenever he’d needed a break from all the talking, eating, and cleaning inside the house.
He’d grab his homework or one of the books he’d checked out from the library, and climb the wooden rectangles hammered into the trunk. Through an opening in the floor, he’d enter the simple square box with no roof.
He remembered sitting on the tree house floor in hot weather and in cold, when the space had seemed large for his frame and after it had become small. The branches provided privacy. Spider webs stretched across the corners, and twigs and leaves littered the floor. The wood had been old and rough, quick to give splinters.
