Page 11 of Offside

“Griff, get your friend a beer,” Linda called from the kitchen.

“May I offer you a beverage?” Griffin asked, doing a terrible impression of a sommelier.

“I can get my own.” I knew where the cooler was. That was what being here meant now. They were like a second family.

I fell into the rhythm of the house. Tom’s running commentary on the Diamondbacks’ bullpen, Griffin’s counterarguments, Linda appearing periodically from the kitchen to tell them both they were wrong. I’d been to enough Sunday dinners the last couple of weeks to know the arguing was affectionate and the wrongness was beside the point. I drank my beer and let the week drain out of me.

Even though she wasn’t there yet, I noticed, with the part of my brain I was actively discouraging, there were five plates at the table.

I was watching the game. I was absolutely watching the game, just caught the table setting by accident.

The brisket came out on a cutting board the size of a small table, dark-barked and pulling apart at the touch, and Tom carried it carefully, both hands. I, who had eaten well in a lot of cities, was unprepared for how good it was every single time. Tom had been making this brisket for thirty years. It showed in every bite.

“Tom,” I said. “Every week.”

Tom waved a hand like it was nothing, which meant it was everything. “Low and slow. You can’t rush it.”

“He says that every time,” Griffin said. “Every time it’s still true.”

Linda set a green chile sauce on the table alongside the brisket, and I regarded it with the wariness I’d earned through a breakfast burrito, a burger, and a queso that had looked completely innocent from first glance.

I heard the front door.

I reached for the serving fork. Completely casual. Nothing to notice or make a big deal of.

She came in with her huge sunglasses pushed up into her hair which was piled on top of her head, and a six-pack under her arm, and a flush on her cheeks from the heat outside. She said, “Sorry, traffic was insane,” to the room in general, and they all acknowledged her like the life of the party had just arrived. Linda’s face brightened, Griffin called something from the table, Tom didn’t pull his eyes from the game but raised one hand in greeting and pointed at his cheek, which Maren promptly kissed.

“Brisket smells amazing as always, Dad.”

“Thanks, kiddo.” Her dad gave her a quick glance then turned his attention back to the TV.

Her eyes found me at the table, and for one unguarded second she was exactly as caught as I felt. Color moving into her face, a half-breath before the smile came up and got itself in place.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” I said it like I had to choke it out, which I did.

She set the six-pack down, kissed her mother’s cheek, and took the empty chair beside me. I went back to the brisket.

Linda moved around like feeding people was love, not labor. “Maren, did you eat today?”

“I ate.” She sounded defensive.

“What did you eat?”

“Mom.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I had lunch.”

“At what time?”

Griffin had moved to the table and pointed at Maren. “She does this to everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

“I had a late lunch,” Maren said.

Linda set the bowl down with a finality that didn’t invite argument. “Then you need to eat.”