Page 155 of The Illusion
She leans over and kisses me, soft and sweet. "Me neither."
The next day, we tackle the grill. Julie ordered it from a big box store and had it delivered. It’s a massive stainless steel beast that came in approximately seven thousand pieces. We spread the instructions out on the deck and stare at them like they're written in ancient hieroglyphics.
"This can't be right," Julie says, holding up a bag of screws. "There are at least fifty screws in here. Why does a grill need fifty screws?"
"Structural integrity?" I offer.
"It's agrill, Ryan. Not a spaceship."
I laugh and pull the first piece out of the box. "Okay. Step one: attach panel A to panel B using screws C and D."
"Which ones are screws C and D?"
"I have no idea."
We spend the next two hours fumbling through the instructions, laughing every time we realize we've put something on backward or upside down. At one point, Julie holds up a piece that looks like it belongs on a medieval torture device and says, "What the hell is this?"
"I think it's the grease trap."
"Why does it look like that?"
"Because the universe hates us."
She throws a bolt at me, and I catch it, grinning. By the time we finish, we're both sweaty and covered in grease, but the grill is standing, and it looks... well, it looks like a grill.
"We did it," Julie says, stepping back to admire our work.
"We did."
"I can't believe it actually works."
"Have a little faith, Buttercup."
She turns to me, her eyes sparkling. "You know what, Shawshank? I do. I have faith in us."
I pull her into my arms and kiss her, not caring that we're both a mess. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."
The next few days are a blur of activity. I mow the lawn while Julie plants flowers in the pots we picked out together. We hang Edison bulbs along the fence line, stringing them from post to post until the whole yard glows with warm, golden light.
We make a menu for the party—burgers, hot dogs, grilled vegetables, potato salad, coleslaw, and a massive sheet cake from the bakery down the street. Julie insists on making her famous lemonade, and I insist on buying enough beer to stock a small bar.
"We're only inviting like twenty people," she says, eyeing the cases of beer I've stacked in the garage.
"Better to have too much than not enough."
"Ryan, this is enough to supply a frat party."
"Exactly. We're covered."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.
The night before the party, we're standing in the backyard, looking around at everything we've done. The chairs are arranged in a circle around the fire pit. The Edison bulbs cast a soft glow over the yard. The flower pots are bursting with color, and the grill is gleaming in the fading light. It's perfect.
"Everything looks amazing," I say, slipping my arm around Julie's waist.
She leans into me, but there's a little furrow between her brows. "Yeah. It does."
"What's wrong?"
