“The secret,” he says solemnly, “is to baste during the final flip, not before. That way the sauce caramelizes without burning.”
“Revolutionary,” Leo deadpans. “Someone call the Food Network immediately.”
“Mock all you want,” Dad says, pointing his tongs at Leo. “But when you’re forty and your friends are still serving hockey pucks off their grills, you’ll thank me for this wisdom.”
I laugh, loading my plate with chicken, potato salad, and enough vegetable skewers to make Leo side-eye me. The conversation flows as easily as the lemonade Mom keeps refilling in our glasses.
“Remember when Lee decided to cut her own bangs the night before picture day?” Leo says through a mouthful of burger.
I groan. “We were ten. And you told me I could do it.”
“I was ten too,” he laughs. “Why would you listen to another ten-year-old about hairstyling?”
“Because you’re my twin,” I deadpan. “You’re supposed to have my best interests at heart.”
“I still have that picture on our bookshelf,” Mom interjects. “You looked like you got in a fight with a lawnmower and lost.”
We all dissolve into laughter, even me. The memory, mortifying at the time, now just feels like another thread in the fabric of our family history.
As twilight deepens around us, Dad lights the citronella candles, their subtle scent mixing with the lingering smell of barbecue. I lean back in my chair, sated and happy.
Dad hums softly, rubbing his stomach with exaggerated satisfaction. “Now that,” he declares, “was a meal fit for royalty.”
Leo tosses a napkin at me. “You’ve got barbecue sauce on your chin, Lee.”
I catch it midair. “At least I don’t have ketchup in my hair,” I reply. Shooting him a grateful smile, I gesture to where a glob of red sits like a bizarre hair accessory above his ear.
As Leo frantically paws at his hair, Ollie rolls his eyes before taking pity on his boyfriend and wiping it away. “Can’t take you two anywhere,” he admonishes.
“Does that mean we’re not going to The Rusty Tap?” I ask with a frown.
“Oh, we’re going,” my twin confirms. “We’re going home first so we can ditch the car. Meet you there in an hour?”
It takes me forty minutes to do my makeup and get changed into another pair of shorts, ones without food stains, a strapless crop top and wedge sandals to complete the look. My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders and down my back.
Not that The Rusty Tap deserves this much effort, but I do.
Downstairs, Dad waits by the door, ready to drive me just like old times. He won’t hear of it when I suggest I just get an Uber.
There isn’t much traffic, so it doesn’t take long before Dad pulls into the parking spot outside The Rusty Tap. Killing the engine, he turns to me, looking all serious.
“Do you still carry the knife I gave you?” he asks solemnly.
I can’t help grinning as I pat the left front pocket where both my phone and the pocket knife he gave me when I was fourteen are.
Dad nods, pleased with himself. “Good. Don’t be scared to pull it if you need to.”
“You know I won’t,” I say softly.
“And you still remember how I taught you to use it?” he presses.
“I do,” I confirm.
After hugging him goodbye and promising to call him if I don’t stay with Leo and Ollie, I leave the car. Dad’s protectiveness hasn’t lessened over the years, and I’m oddly glad for that. I like the safe feeling it gives me. And, well, it’s nice to be treasured. Even if it’s by my parents.
The Rusty Tap hasn’t changed since the last time I was here. It’s the same scratched wooden bar top, same vintage beer signs on the walls, same perpetually sticky floor that makes my sandals lift with an audible squelch with each step.
It’s gloriously familiar, down to the faint scent of spilled beer and the music blaring from the ancient jukebox in the corner.
