Page 49 of Cut Off
The Barbecue
ZOE
I’m definitely, most definitely not thinking about the thing that happened in the gym on Wednesday. The thing that altered my entire brainwave pattern because I haven’t been able to think right since.
Today, I have to think right because the grandparents finally get to meet Eli, and Jonah and I are hosting a Sunday barbecue. It’s unseasonably warm, and in Idaho, you don’t miss the chance to be outdoors when that happens.
Jonah and I agreed: there is zero talk or thoughts of Gwen today because nobody else needs to shoulder that burden.
And no, I still haven’t told him about Seattle. It’s coming—but I still have another week and a half before I hit the two weeks notice mark, so I’m using that as my deadline.
The Holts pull up in the same Subaru they’ve been driving since Syd and I were in high school, and I swear the car has more personality than most humans.
It’s the kind of dusty forest green that says we vacation in national parks and will absolutely give you our last granola bar, and the bumper has a faded sticker that says GO TROUT in a font no graphic designer ever endorsed. Claire is out the passenger door before Tom has it in park, arms loaded with a casserole dish, two grocery bags, a wrapped present the size and shape of a small dog, and what looks like an entire tray of brownies balanced on top.
“Help her,” I tell Jonah, because the man stands in the doorway like a statue.
“She’s got it.”
“Jonah.”
“She’ll yell at me if I take the brownies.”
“Go.”
He goes. Claire kisses both his cheeks and then his forehead and then sort of pats him all over like she’s checking him for ticks, and Tom unfolds himself from the driver’s seat in the careful way of a man whose knees gave forty-five years to youth hockey. Salt-and-pepper hair, Trout cap, a flannel that is too warm and exactly right for Tom Holt. He spots me on the porch, and his whole face curves into a grin. “There’s my girl.”
“Hi, Tom.”
He gets to me and wraps me up in a bear hug that smells like Old Spice and engine oil, and for one embarrassing second, I think I might cry. Tom Holt has hugged me like this since I showed up on the Holts’ doorstep in tears because Sydney was out of town and I’d had a blowout with my parents. I sat on the Holts’ couch and lost three rounds of Yahtzee to Tom while Claire fed me leftover lasagna and pretended not to notice me ugly-crying into the parmesan.
Some things you don’t forget. Tom Holt’s hugs are one of them.
“You’re skinny.” He releases me. “She’s skinny, Claire.”
“She’s always skinny, Tom, leave her alone.”
“She’s skinnier.”
“I’m fine,” I tell them, and accept the casserole dish Claire shoves at me without breaking stride. “Welcome to the chaos. You ready?”
Claire’s eyes go a little glassy. “Where is he?”
“His room. Hiding.”
“Oh, that poor, sweet baby.”
“He’s just adjusting. He hid from a UPS man yesterday.” Eli met with his therapist for the first time on Thursday, and the therapist says this is normal behavior after what he’s been through, so if she’s not worried, I’m not worried.
Claire laughs, but it’s wobbly. Tom puts a hand on the small of her back, and the two of them stand there looking at the front door of their son’s house like it’s the gate to a place they’ve been waiting nine years to visit. Which, I realize, it is.
“Seventy-two degrees at the end of March,” Tom announces, like we needed weather reporting. “Idaho. March. You believe that?”
“It’s the apocalypse,” I agree. “Let’s grill on it.”
Jonah has, predictably, over-prepared.
The backyard looks like a Williams Sonoma catalog had a baby with a sporting goods store. Three different kinds of meat marinating in three different bowls. A side table covered in a cloth he definitely bought yesterday. Cushions on every chair. A pitcher of lemonade that has actual lemons floating in it. He’s wearing an apron. I’m sorry, he’s wearing an apron that says GRILL SERGEANT, and I’m physically restraining myself from photographing it forThe Zoe Show.
