The air filled with the delicious scent of grilling steaks, Beer brats and the tempting smell of potato salad and deviled eggs, grilled asparagus and green beans with caramelized onions wafting out from the kitchen through the open patio door.
For atmosphere, my father had lit the fire pit, the flames already high, dancing against the wind as the gravel crunched under our feet. The pit was centered around several patio chairs, cushioned with vibrant colors Mom would switch out when October and the harvest season hit. This section of the back area was set down, away from the patio, a middle point between the back of the lake house and the walkway that lead straight to the boat dock below. It was a beautiful spot, relaxing despite the tension that surrounded us. There was a colder wind coming from my mother and, for once, I hadn’t caused it.
Near the fire pit was where my father and I stood, twin copies of the same DNA, side by side as we cupped our Abitas and listened to Brian, Dad’s best friend and co-defensive line coach prattle on about the freshmen on CPU’s team.
“No discipline whatsoever and hell, Kona, did you see Bradford’s post the other day? I swear to Christ these kids don’t give a shit what they put online.”
“Yep,” Dad said behind a sip of his beer, utterly disinterested in his friends’ complaints.
“Brian, man.” The coach nodded at me, curious when I spoke. “It’s his birthday. No shop talk today.”
“That’s right. Shit, Kona, my bad.” Brian gave Kona’s back a friendly tap and knocked his bottle to my father’s. “You’re almost empty. Let me get you another. Ransom?” But I waved off his offer, not real eager to be shitfaced when I flew back to Miami that night.
“That dude hasn’t removed the stick from his ass in almost twenty-eight years.”
“He just wants his players to act right.”
“So do I,” Dad said, swallowing the rest of his beer, closing his eyes while he did it. “But I care more about how my guys block than what dumbass shit they put up on social media.” He shrugged, glancing at me. “You gotta choose your battles, keiki kane.”
I agreed, nodding back at him, narrowing my eyes when Mom walked out on the patio, glancing our way. Just then my parents caught each other’s gazes, held them for a long moment and I shuddered at whatever that was that passed between them. That look alone told me that my suspicions about something being off with them was right.
It was Mom who broke contact first, a thin, hesitant smile on her mouth faltering when Cass approached with his arm around a girl I didn’t know. Next to me, Dad’s grip on his beer tightened and he watched my mother with squinted eyes, not moving anything but his head in a nod of thanks when Brian returned, handing him a beer. Dad’s focus was solely on my mother—the way she moved, the flick of her hair off her shoulder, how she squeezed Cass’s hand, how the girl with him smiled a little too wide. Kona Hale had always been the jealous sort. He’d admitted that much to me years before. It had been a warning to me not to repeat his mistakes. But that look he threw at my mother, the lost longing I saw in it, had me convinced my father had forgotten the lesson he wanted me to learn years ago. The muscles in his neck flexed and I thought I spotted a flare on his nostrils, but it disappeared the second my little brother jogged down the steps, his attention on the phone in his hand.
“Put your feet down, keiki kane,” Dad told Koa when he’d flopped in the chair next to the fire pit and moved his sneakers too close to the flame. But Koa, a kid right in the middle of puberty and all those wild hormones, was full of attitude and disrespect and more concerned with whatever the hell held his attention on that phone than he was listening to our father fuss at him. “Koa. Now!” Dad’s voice carried, drew the attention of the few people that had already arrived to the party. Koa blushed, his eyes darting toward the back of the house, and I knew my little brother was grateful only a few people—Brian and his wife, our mother and Cass and his girl—were the only ones who’d heard Kona yell at him, or saw how he had jumped up so quickly at the sound that he dropped his phone.
“Makua…”
“When I tell you to do something, you fucking do it.”