taking the barbeque starter and the tray of chicken out the patio door when a deep voice stops me in my tracks.
“What’s that? And what on earth are you doing?”
I turn slowly like a criminal caught breaking and entering. I stare Luke down levelly, not wanting him to see how his voice suddenly affects me—affects me in the way of making me nervous. Because he doubts I can do anything at all, and that’s all it is. I hate how he’s always waiting for me to fail. Those shivers going up and down my spine, they’re fear-of-failure shivers.
I got this. Seriously. I watched some video tutorials. How can I fail?
“I’m going to barbeque this chicken.”
“Sweet mother of…uh…chicken nuggets. There’s no way in heck you’re barbequing.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I challenge. Shade is still in the living room. I can see him standing over at the tree, so it’s just Luke and me, about to spar this one out. “I burn the chicken? Well, it’s not going to happen. I know what I’m doing.”
“I very much doubt that,” Luke snorts. “The worst that could happen? You’ll burn your face off because you’ll turn on too much propane. Or you’ll light the whole backyard on fire. Or even the house and everything.”
“I don’t think that’s actually possible.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “You could still burn your eyebrows clean off. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Fine. Then go turn it on. I’ll do the rest.”
He actually gives me a comical look. As in, he thinks I’m funny. He’s amused by me. That should piss me off, but instead, it secretly thrills me. Because, you know, I’ve apparently become a lost cause who needs those kinds of thrills.
“Not a chance.” Luke steps forward, plucks the pack of chicken out of my hands, and heads past me.
He fiddles with the barbeque—a huge stainless contraption—for a few seconds, and it lights up. Of course, there’s a switch. Why didn’t I think of that? He adjusts the heat and stares at the flames coming up through the grill. It is pretty intimidating. Can a person really burn their eyebrows off? I’ll have to look that up later. Not because I find it funny but just because I want to know.
“Tongs?”
“What?”
“Tongs. To get the chicken out. Or a fork?”
I scurry back into the kitchen, already feeling completely humiliated. How the heck did I think I was going to get the chicken out? Does Luke always have to prove he’s smarter than me? And better at everything? I choke back my annoyance and pass him a pair of tongs through the patio door. I’m not going to stand around and watch and let Luke see how he got under my skin, so I join Shade back in the living room. He’s fiddling with the tree, repositioning ornaments, so I watch him create and sort. It’s much more soothing than thinking about his father barbequing out there.
I’m kind of lost in my own little world, but I get shaken out of it pretty darn fast when Shade yells, “Fire!”
I leap off the couch and immediately look at where he’s pointing. Yup, the barbeque is on fire, and Luke is nowhere in sight.
“Oh my fucking god!” I forget all about word substitutions. This one calls for a definite fuck.
“What do we do?” Shade yells frantically.
Big orange flames are pretty much engulfing the whole barbeque by now. “I have no idea. It’s probably a grease fire, so don’t put water on it.” At least I know that much. “And I doubt a towel is going to help.”
Suddenly, Luke is back from god knows where. He opens the lid of the barbeque, and great big billows of smoke erupt from the inside. Choking on the smoke, he quickly shuts everything off, and what do you know, it pretty much takes care of the fire. The flames go way down to a tiny little sizzle, and the smoke thins out. Shade and I gingerly creep closer.
I smile wickedly when I see the black lumps. Every single one of them is charred. I think there were probably twenty pieces of chicken drumsticks. It was a family pack of chicken.
“Ewwww,” Shade whispers to me. “Do we have to eat that?”
“No, sweetheart.” I take my phone out of my back pocket just as Luke turns around to face us. When he meets my eyes, I make sure he can see the gloating satisfied look on my face. A look that says, obviously, it’s not just me who burns