Page 71 of Muscle Cub

“And yet, you swear you don’t have issues.” Austin frowned with mock concern. “I believe you believe that.”

When I opened the door in the tall wooden privacy fence, we were hit with the full force of unmistakable karaoke—my brother-in-law, John Meier, belting John Mayer’s “No Such Thing.” I wondered how many of the guests were capable of appreciating that choice. Austin would’ve been over the moon if he’d known.

I held the door for him. He paused as he stepped past me, his face close enough we could’ve kissed. “This is why you always have a song ready.” He waggled his eyebrows. “They’re really gonna love me.”

I groaned. I prayed he wasn’t going to try too hard. When Mom detected someone trying too hard, she got a look on her face like she was smelling raw sewage.

We headed for the tables set up on the lower-level patio. Balloons, paper lanterns, and streamers hung from the trees and the gazebo in the middle of the lawn that John had transformed into a stage.

I smiled and nodded at the familiar and unfamiliar faces watching as we approached—Veronica and John’s friends, a few people from my parents’ country-club set, and my aunt and uncle from Stone Mountain. Thankfully, Aunt Corinne was sitting too far away to speak to. She’d made it known years ago that she disapproved of the profanity in my books. My niece was holding court with a group of teenagers on the deck above the patio as far away from her father’s mortifying entertainment as they could get while still technically being present. My eleven-year-old nephew, David, and some kids his age appeared to be lighting a starter log in the firepit.

Austin said hello to Mom, who greeted him with a convincing smile and helpfully directed him to the drink coolers. Once he’d dropped the bags of ice, I introduced him to my dad, enunciating the name Robert. To his credit, Austin did not call him Bob or Bobby. Dad smiled warmly and shook Austin’s hand.

John’s song ended, and encouraged by the smattering of polite applause, he announced he was going to “take it down a little bit” with his next selection, “Crash.”

Austin cupped his mouth and whooped loudly. He turned to my dad and confessed what a great song he thought it was, and Dad—who probably had no idea who Dave Mathews was—agreed with him wholeheartedly.

I left them alone long enough to shove a few beers into the cooler. It was a little surreal—and only a little cringe-inducing—to watch Dad in his linen button-down and khakis, seemingly unfazed by Austin’s quintessential bear bro outfit, chatting about music. Austin shared a love of nineties grunge with his own father; he had no way of knowing Dad’s last CD purchase was Rod Stewart’s The Great American Songbook.

Dad laughed at something Austin said, and I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Honey appeared in a cloud of perfume, squeezing my arm briefly with her manicured, bejeweled fingers before gliding past to greet Austin with a hug. Austin complimented her on her red jumpsuit, and she gushed about how they were matching. They clung to each other like long lost sorority sisters until my sister interrupted.

I introduced Austin to Veronica. He thanked her for having him and told her how stoked he was they’d rented a karaoke machine.

“You know, we didn’t actually rent it.” Veronica shot me a look. “John had to buy one.” The edge to her voice told me this was an ongoing argument that would continue long after their guests were gone. “Now it gets to live forever in the garage apartment with all the other musical equipment he hoards.”

“Really?” Austin grinned like this was great news to him. “I should go say hi while he’s between tracks.” He started walking toward the gazebo, but I stopped him. “What?” He looked back, eyebrows raised innocently.

“We just got here.” In my mind, I pleaded with him. Begged.

Veronica intervened with a dismissive gesture. “Let him go. John hasn’t been able to get anybody else to play with him.”

I couldn’t have stopped him anyway.

Veronica headed inside to check on the food but declined my offer to help with anything. Mom told me I could refresh the ice in her gin and tonic. She murmured her thanks, staring toward the gazebo where John and Austin stood with their heads together, grinning and chatting over a large binder.

I handed Mom her cup. “I wouldn’t normally bring someone I just met, but since you invited him…”

“I thought maybe you’d brought him to make Charlie jealous.”

“What? No. Why would you—wait. Please tell me you didn’t invite Charles.”

She held up a hand, defensive. “I didn’t invite him. Veronica and Sadie ran into Charlie a few days ago, and Sadie asked him to come. He’s her uncle too.”

“He’s not her uncle.” This wasn’t the first time I’d had to correct her about this.

“Well, she thinks of him as an uncle. You were together the whole time she was growing up.”

“We broke up when she was eleven.”

“Those were very formative years.” She smoothed her hair. “Charlie and I still message on Facebook, you know.”

Yes, I knew. She was forever repeating the story of how Charles had sent her a friend request, and how she couldn’t have said no.

From the moment I’d brought Charles home to meet my parents, Mom had been charmed by his pretentiousness. When Charles and I had split up, my mother had pouted. She’d tried to convince me that Charles had simply strayed, that it happened all the time, and adults didn’t end relationships over an indiscretion. She’d told me a story about one of her girlfriends whose husband had cheated and how they’d worked through it. The implication being that not only was it somehow my fault I’d been cheated on, but by refusing to forgive him, I was acting irrationally.

Now she leaned closer, her voice low and purring with gossip. “Their divorce was finalized last month.”