Leah bit her tongue, as she always did, in response to Mom’s random parenting suggestions. When Mom had chased her ambitions overseas, she’d both forfeited her right to parent and removed much of Leah’s ability to control her own life.

Leah had responded by dedicating herself to controlling what little remained—her well-being and Dylan’s well-being. Leah was the one who supported Dylan, who stocked the pantry, bought his clothes, paid for his phone and car insurance. Leah was the one who made sure he went to the doctor and did his homework and cleaned his room and avoided parties with kegs.

Because of her ingrained responsibility for her brother, every dream she’d had since taking over his care had been an anxiety dream. Her struggling to get Dylan out in time while their house burned. Her failing to watch him carefully as he stumbled into the street in front of a speeding car. Her losing Dylan in a crowd. Her remembering suddenly that Dylan lived in the bedroom next to hers and realizing that he must have starved because she hadn’t fed him anything in weeks.

Thus, if anyone had the final say on kale and chia seeds . . . it wasn’t Mom.

It was her.

The Coleman family barbecue sauce recipe was an old and closely protected secret. Very dark in color, it tasted like Georgia: southern and spicy with sweetness underneath. The smell of that sauce swamped Sebastian when he stepped out of his car into evening sunshine the night of the anniversary party for Ben’s parents.

Ben was the third of four kids. His siblings were married and had already given him four nephews and two nieces. The Colemans also had a large extended family and a huge circle of friends. All of whom had big appetites.

Since Ben’s dad, Herschel, owned only one barbecue, he’d no doubt gained the cooperation of several neighbors, and was cooking ribs and chicken on multiple grills at once.

Sebastian started toward the party, past all the cars that had forced him to park a block away. He carried a gift under one arm like a football, even though the invitation had specified no gifts. He’d never had an easy time following rules he didn’t personally agree with.

Atlanta weather was humid in the summer. But not here, thanks to Misty River’s altitude. Cool mountain breezes tugged away some of the stress of his workweek.

The Colemans’ house had been built in the late sixties in a style that reminded him of the Brady Bunch house. Roomy, with a retro rock fireplace, it had a stairway made of wooden slats that led upstairs from the front door. Because the house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac, the backyard widened from the porch like a pie slice, expanding out into undeveloped land.