“And somehow the sun still rises.”
Her mouth tightened.
From the grill, Tyler watched us.
He was in uniform, even though he was off-duty.
Of course he was.
Tan shirt.
Badge.
Gun.
Belt heavy with tools he hoped people noticed.
He had been the golden boy since he was twelve and stole money from Grandma Klein’s purse but cried so hard everyone decided I must have done it.
I was fourteen.
I took the blame because Tyler’s father had just left and my mother said, “Don’t make this worse for your aunt.”
That became the family pattern.
Tyler broke things.
I became the reason they shattered.
He crashed my grandfather’s truck.
I had “distracted him.”
He lost a scholarship.
I had “made him feel insecure.”
He cheated on his first wife.
I had “always looked down on him,” which somehow explained it.
Now he had a badge.
And my family had finally found a uniform they respected.
“Evie,” he called from the grill.
Only my family called me Evie.
I hated it.
“Tyler.”
He flipped a rack of ribs with too much force.
Grease hissed into the fire.
“You still doing that consulting thing?”
“Something like that.”
“Government stuff?”
“Sometimes.”
He smirked.
“Sounds vague.”
“It is.”
Ashley laughed from a lawn chair, phone in hand, recording little clips for her story.
“Evelyn’s so mysterious,” she said. “Careful, y’all. She might assassinate the coleslaw.”
A few people chuckled.
I picked up a bottle of water and twisted off the cap.
“Coleslaw’s safe. For now.”
That got a bigger laugh.
Not because it was funny.
Because I didn’t give them the reaction they wanted.
Tyler hated that.
He always had.
He leaned closer over the grill smoke.
“You know, some of us have real jobs where we can actually say what we do.”
I looked at the badge on his chest.
“Congratulations.”
