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Dad laughs. “That bad?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

Mom looks over from the table. “Maybe I should finally get one.”

From three different parts of the patio, Lachlin, Conlin, and I all answer at the same time.

“No.”

Ruby starts laughing as Mom’s gaze moves from me to Conlin, then over to Lachlin.

“Excuse me?”

I point at her with my beer. “Absolutely not.”

Conlin shakes his head beside me. “Not happening.”

Lachlin doesn’t even look up from the plate he’s carrying. “Nope.”

Mom folds her arms. “I raised three sons. I think I can survive a tattoo.”

“That’s not the point,” I say.

“What is the point?”

I open my mouth and realize I don’t really have one.

Dad notices too. “I’d quit while you’re ahead.”

Mom looks at Ruby instead. “You do small ones?”

Ruby’s eyes flick toward me before she answers. “I can do just about any size.”

“Ruby.”

She laughs. “I’m not encouraging her.”

“You’re answering the question. That’s how it starts.”

Mom looks far too pleased with herself. “My birthday’s in four months.”

Conlin mutters something about hiding her car keys, and Mom tells him exactly what she thinks of that plan.

Dinner gets everybody distracted before she can start choosing designs.

We eat outside while the afternoon stays warm enough to make it worth lingering. Dad tells a story about a boat that came into the repair shop with an electrical problem nobody could diagnose because the owner had somehow wired half of it himself. Conlin argues that he could’ve fixed it faster. Dad tells him that fighting fires doesn’t qualify him to rewire marine electrical systems.

Ruby laughs with everyone else, and at some point, her knee settles against mine beneath the table. I reach under and give it a small squeeze.

Jack spends most of dinner asleep beside Briar, then as the plates are being cleared he starts winding himself up. Lachlin picks him up and tries the usual combination of rocking and walking.

It works for maybe a minute before Jack’s face goes red again. Lachlin looks across the patio, spots me, and walks straight over, putting the baby in my arms before I can even ask what he wants.

I stare at him. “What are you doing?”

“You’ve got the magic touch.”

“I hate that this has become a thing.”