Chapter 6 #2
The backyard is bathed in the golden light of early evening, the May air is warm without being oppressive. Dad has set the patio table with a cheerful blue tablecloth that flutters gently in the breeze.
String lights crisscross overhead, ready to illuminate our meal once the sun decides to call it a day. The neighborhood is quiet except for distant lawnmowers and the occasional dog bark. Suburban symphony at its finest.
We settle around the table, passing dishes family-style. Dad serves the meat with a flourish, explaining his technique as if we haven’t heard the same spiel at every barbecue since the dawn of time.
“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.
I stop by the bar long enough to order a drink and greet some familiar faces. Then I find Leo and Ollie in their usual booth.
“There she is,” Leo grins, raising his beer in salute as I slide in and sit down across from them. “We thought you might have bailed on us.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I smile. “Did I miss anything?”
Ollie slides a basket of fries toward me. “These are fresh. We ordered for you.”
I roll my eyes. “Didn’t we just eat?” Despite my question, I grab a fry. “God, I forgot how salty and greasy they make their food here,” I wheeze.
Leo nods solemnly. “The day The Rusty Tap changes its fry recipe is the day I renounce my citizenship and move to Canada.”
“Dramatic much?” Ollie teases, bumping his shoulder against Leo’s.
“You want to marry into this family,” my brother reminds him. “So the joke’s on you.”
My eyes widen. “What!?” I screech. “You two are engaged?”
Ollie rolls his eyes. “No, we’re not. Your brother’s an ass.”
Leo grins. “I haven’t said yes or no yet.” Lowering his tone, he leans closer to me. “Gotta make him work for it.”
“Jesus H. Christ in a hamster wheel,” I exclaim. “I’m so sorry, Ollie. Just know that Leo was raised better than that.”
As I take a sip of my drink, I hear a voice I don’t think I’ll ever forget. I look around, trying to locate the owner. And there he is. Rick Hartwell aka the bully of Franklin Ridge High School.
“You okay?” Ollie asks, catching me looking around.
“Fine. Never better,” I reply absentmindedly.
I open my mouth to suggest we go somewhere else, or maybe that we cut the night short, but I’m not fast enough.
“Fuck,” Leo curses, looking straight at Rick.
My hand reaches into my pocket, subconsciously closing around my old trusty pocket knife.
Seeing the fucker doesn’t just hit me like a physical blow; it psychologically transports me back in time. I’m sixteen again, running across the school parking lot toward a circle of jeering boys.
I hear Leo’s cry from fifty yards away and know immediately what’s happening.
The sound of fists hitting flesh. Leo’s glasses skittering across the asphalt, one lens cracking as a boot comes down nearby. The laughter of the baseball team as they take turns shoving him, calling him names I can’t repeat without tasting bile.
“You fucking faggot.”
“Disgusting homo.”
The sudden silence when I shove through the circle of boys, blade glinting in the afternoon sun. “Touch him again,” I snarl, voice deadly calm despite the hurricane raging inside me, “and I will cut your fucking throats while you sleep.”
At first, they laugh. But that stops the second I make a slicing motion toward Rick when he reaches for my brother.
“I warned you,” I hiss, smirking as the knife slices across his skin.
If it hadn’t been for some wimp who told their parents, I would totally have gotten away with it. But two days later, I was hauled into the principal’s office with my parents.
Luckily for me, my parents practiced what they preached. When I told them the boys had been bullying Leo for being gay, they rained hell down on the high school until my record was expunged and Leo received apologies from every student and faculty member.
What can I say, my parents are pretty badass.
“Fuck this,” Leo seethes. “I’m not wasting time on that jerk. Let’s go somewhere else.”
Nodding, I slide out of the booth. “I just need to use the bathroom first. Give me two minutes.”
Instead of heading to the toilet, I walk straight up to Rick. “Hey, limp dick,” I shout. My gaze drops to his hand, the one with a scar I’m proud to say I gave him.
“Lena,” he says curtly.
“Just wanted to see if you still wear my mark,” I grin coldly.
When he scoffs, I slowly pull the knife out of my pocket and open it. “So,” I say. “This is awkward. But I’m only in town for a few days, and I really want to drink here tonight. With my brother. Do you remember him?”
Rick glances nervously at the woman plastered to his side. “Umm… whatever.”
I look at the woman. “Hi, I’m the one who gave your date the scar across his hand,” I say as a way of greeting. “Because he was a homophobic shit beating my brother. So—”
“What?” the woman hisses, pulling away from Rick immediately. “Is that true?”
“I was sixteen,” he argues.
Now it’s my turn to scoff. “Like that matters…” I’m stunned silent, unable to complete my sentence when his date picks up her drink and throws it in Rick’s face.
“You fucking disgusting piece of shit,” she snarls. “Don’t call me again. Ever.”
I take that as my cue that my job’s done and return to Ollie and Leo.