Marcus looked at me.
Not at Tyler.
At me.
His eyes asked one question.
Do you want me to intervene?
I gave the smallest shake of my head.
Not yet.
Because the whole family was watching.
And for once, I wanted them to see the shape of the knife before I took it away.
The BBQ had started at noon.
By three, the grass was flattened from kids running in circles, the folding chairs had sunk into the soft ground, and smoke from Uncle Rob’s ribs hung low beneath the pecan trees.
The Klein family did Memorial Day big.
Too big.
Flags on the porch.
Red, white, and blue cupcakes.
Cheap plastic tablecloths.
Country music from a Bluetooth speaker that kept cutting out.
Everyone wore patriotic colors like it proved something.
Nobody mentioned that the only person in the family who had actually served was me.
That was the rule.
My service was invisible unless they needed to borrow it for Facebook.
My mother posted pictures of herself beside folded flags and wrote captions about sacrifice.
My cousin Tyler wore mirrored sunglasses and told people he “basically served too” because he worked law enforcement in Pickens County.
My younger cousin Ashley called me “G.I. Jane” when she thought I couldn’t hear.
I heard everything.
I had arrived at the BBQ at 2:17 p.m. in jeans, a white button-down, and flat brown boots I could run in.
Old habit.
I parked at the end of the driveway so nobody could block me in.
Another old habit.
I brought two pies from a bakery in Atlanta and set them on the dessert table beside my aunt’s banana pudding.
My mother looked at the bakery box and sighed.
“Store-bought again?”
“Nice to see you too, Mom.”
She kissed the air beside my cheek.
Her perfume smelled expensive and sour in the heat.
“You look tired,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
