“Quality time doesn’t require soap. Hang out with us now, shower later. Besides, I kinda like the smell of horses. Don’t you, Pop?”

Pop didn’t answer. Instead, he drew a crooked X in the top right of the hash mark and then slowly, painfully nudged the paper toward him.

Brick’s throat tightened. There were a lot of reasons in the moment. The ravages that time and age took. The unexpected invitation. The absolution of a father’s sins. The acknowledgment of how fucking hard he’d worked to give Spencer as much normal as he could.

The girl with the wild red hair lighting up the room and making it all possible.

His toes curled in his socks, gripping the floor, but he did as he was told and sat.

Just as he carefully drew his first O, Remi leaned over and placed a bowl of neon yellow noodles in front of him. She smelled like sunscreen and summer, and he knew he’d never forget the scent. Or the memory she’d made for him there that day.

He and Pop were in the middle of their third game when Spencer burst into the kitchen in a V for Vendetta t-shirt and the infamous, god-awful pink shorts. His hair was getting lighter thanks to the island sun. Mackinac seemed to agree with him, to Brick’s relief.

“I caught the biggest freaking fish today!” he announced.

Remi whirled around from the open refrigerator with a squeeze bottle of ketchup. An arc of tomato red noisily squirted out, raining down on his brother’s shorts.

“Oh, man! My shorts!” Spencer whined, looking down at the damage.

“I’m so sorry! I was just going to have Pop try mac and cheese with ketchup, and the next thing I know, it’s raining condiments!” she said, all wide-eyed and apologetic.

“Who eats mac and cheese with ketchup? These are my favorite shorts!” Spencer moaned.

Brick got the wash rag out of the sink and started to clean the excess ketchup from the cabinets and floor. Pop let out another wheezy chuckle that he covered with a cough. Remi earned another trembling thumbs-up as Spencer bemoaned his wardrobe’s fate.

“I feel awful,” Remi said with theatrical horror. “Run on upstairs and take them off. I think with ketchup stains you’re supposed to let them set for a few hours before washing it out. Right, Pop?”

Pop gave one enthusiastic nod, the corner of his mouth still lifted.

Spencer thundered up the stairs cursing all tomato-based condiments.

“What on earth is going on in here?” Brick’s grandmother, Dolores, demanded from the doorway. Her sterling silver cap of hair had been set in fresh curls. “It looks like a crime scene in here.”

“I swear it’s not blood. No one’s been maimed,” Remi announced, grabbing the roll of paper towels off the counter and joining Brick on the floor. “It’s just ketchup.”

“Well, what’s it doing all over my kitchen?” Gram demanded.

“It was an accident,” Brick volunteered.

Remi gave him an impish grin.