Page 30 of Fixing Up My Love Life

“Because it’s Father’s Day,” I mutter. “And I guess this is the thanks I get.”

We fall into a rhythm. I wrestle sausages off the grill while Brett brings over a tray of freshly cut watermelon.

“So,” Brett says, dropping his voice low enough that Caroline won’t overhear. “You still thinking about that pier property?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, tossing a burned brat onto the discard plate. “If it hits the market, we’re going for it. Could be the anchor for everything we’ve been talking about.”

He nods. “You sure about Twin Waves? That’s away from your usual playground.”

“I wasn’t sure,” I admit. “But . . . Hazel’s here. Caroline’s doing better. And honestly? I don’t hate it.”

Brett’s smirk says he knew it before I did. “You’ve stayed longer than I expected.” We’re already booking up the vacation rentals we’ve invested in here in Twin Waves.

I shrug. “The house needs work.”

“She’s not the only one,” he says casually, and I chuck a brat at him. It bounces off his plate and lands in the grass.

“Five-second rule,” Brett mutters.

At my grossed-out expression, he says, “Youactually believed I was going to eat that,” and tosses it in the trash before I can tease him about eating a dirt-covered sausage.

Just as I’m checking the grill one last time, Brett leans over and says, “Hey, man. Your shirt?—”

Before he can finish, I feel it. The bottom hem of my T-shirt has caught on a low flicker of flame from the open grill.

“Whoa! Fire! Fire!” I jump back, flailing like an idiot while my dad smacks me with a dish towel. Brett just laughs and keeps recording.

My mom charges out with the garden hose, shrieking.

“Hold still!”

“Not the face!” I shout, just as the ice-cold blast hits me square in the chest.

Everyone’s laughing. Except me. And possibly the shirt, which is now dripping and sporting a singed hole near the bottom.

“Nothing says Happy Father’s Day like a third-degree burn,” I mutter.

Brett smirks. “Hey, at least you’re hot.”

I shoot him a look. “You’re lucky I don’t set your pants on fire next.”

Caroline’s grinning as she passes me a towel. “You okay,Human Torch?”

“Barely.”

“Guess we know what you’re getting for Christmas. Flame-retardant underwear.”

My mom disappears inside, muttering something about needing to find napkins or tongs or both. We return to the grill, Caroline chatting with Brett about the worst BBQ fails she’s seen on YouTube.

Just when the smoke starts to die down, the screen door creaks behind us, and my mom steps out like the sassy Southern woman she is. She’s carrying a framed photo and a smirk that makes the hair on my neck stand up.

“Look what I found,” she announces, holding it up like she’s presenting a family heirloom. “Your prom picture.”

I freeze.

Sure enough, there we are—me in a cheap tux and Hazel in a pale pink dress, grinning as though she trusted me with her whole heart. Which, at the time, she did.

And looking at it now, it hits me like a gut punch.

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