We eat outside on the rugged picnic table that came with the house. Gil carries the bread. Marigold gets the roasted veggies. I deliver the fish straight from the grill to the middle.

There’s a slight hesitation to sit, no one knowing where they should be, until Gil plops down and pats the space beside him for Marina to follow. Marigold quickly steals the seat across, leaving me facing Gil, who smirks smugly.

A collective coo (started by Marina) erupts when I peel the aluminum foil apart. A wave of rosemary, lemon, butter, and garlic steam rushes out, and they see the fish inside: two lake trout, freshly caught this afternoon. It’s a masterpiece.

“Looks good. Grady’s a gourmet when it comes to fish,” Gil says, throwing me a bone.

Marina nods. “Impressive. Looks delicious.”

“It’s always a work in progress,” I say, offering her a weak smile. “I tried to get all the bones, but be careful.”

I serve her first, transferring what I hope to be the best portion onto her plate. Gil adds the roasted veggies.

“Thanks,” she says, glancing from me to him.

The food is surprisingly perfect, considering my anxiety while preparing it. Light conversation ensues, disregarding me and mostly spear-headed by Marina as if she’s promised herself not to make this weird for the others.

But soon, silence prevails, and her attention drifts. “So, what’s with the piano? Do you play?”

“He plays,” Gil answers for me, “or he did. He’s really good, too.”

“Very talented,” Marigold confirms. “You should’ve seen Luke’s talent show⁠—”

“I don’t play anymore.” I pass the bread, hoping to shut this down.

She hesitates, brow pinched, before meeting my eyes. “Why not?”

“It triggers bad memories,” I admit.

“Then, why keep the piano?”

“It’s a part of him that he can’t let go,” Marigold reports.

“And I don’t want to forget,” I say, not wanting to hold back. She could ask me anything, and I’d tell her the truth if only to tip her favor back in my direction after this fuck up.

“Would you, though?” she asks.

“What? Play?”

“No, forget?”

“No.”

“So, really, holding on to the piano and not playing it, is you punishing yourself? Pianos are meant to be played, Grady. Played and enjoyed and shared with people. They should spread joy, not be turned into dust collectors, mocking your pain every day. It’s right there, waiting for you, hoping you’ll take a chance and try again, and you walk on by it, selfishly ignoring a beautiful opportunity. This is why you’ll never be happy—you’re too damn busy being miserable.”

She rises, resting her napkin beside her plate.

“Sorry, guys,” she smiles shortly. “Wine makes me too loosey-goosey with words.”

“I liked it,” Marigold says.

“Me, too,” Gil agrees.