Every detail is a new point of pride for him—the fresh coat of stain on the floorboards, the framed family photos on the wall, and his true pride and joy, a bar he built out of scrap metal and leftover pallets. Behind it, three stacked shelves boast a dozen or so growlers and a row of carboys where the next batch is fermenting.

“Everything’s stored up here.” Graham shoots me a knowing look. “So nobody can knock anything over.”

The memory of the war I started with him over spilled beer puts a rotten feeling in my gut. “Again, I’m really sorry about that,” I mumble, fisting my hands. I’m half ready for another fight about it, but Graham is shockingly calm.

“If you hadn’t done that, I never would’ve come up with the design for this bar,” he says plainly, turning toward the shelf of amber-tinted growlers. “So, apology accepted.”

He runs his fingers along the shelf, squinting at the makeshift labels he’s made with painter’s tape and permanent marker. Finally, he lands on a jug that I think is labeled SHANDY. Or maybe it says SHAMU. The Tate boys have never been known for our good handwriting.

“Here. This is one I think you’re gonna like, Summer.”

Reaching for a pint glass, he pours himself a taste first, swirling the buttery-yellow liquid around his glass before taking a sip. “Yeah, you’re gonna like that one.” He grabs a second glass and tilts the growler, pouring two fingers’ worth of liquid gold. “Try that. It’s fruitier than our other beers.”

Summer folds her arms over her chest, popping one hip out to the side. “So, you’re assuming that just because I’m a girl, I like fruitier beer?”

“No, I’m assuming that because of the face you made drinking out of the flask of whiskey the other night.”

“Fair, fair,” she says with a laugh, accepting the glass.

Graham and I both watch her closely as she brings it to her lips, sipping and smacking her lips the same way Graham did. Her cheeks flush an adorable shade of peach as she swallows, a glimmer twinkling in her eyes.

“Wow, you’re right. That’s fantastic.” She holds up the glass, swirling what’s left of her tasting. “I would easily pay ten bucks for a pint of that at any Boston bar.”

“Really?” Graham’s chest puffs up with pride. “That means a lot.”

“Here, Logan. Try it.”

Summer hands me the glass, and I down the rest of it in one swallow. It’s easily as good as, if not better than, any of the fancy craft beers the guys are always bringing to team get-togethers.

“Damn, dude. She’s not kidding. That’s good as fuck.”

A wide smile breaks out across my brother’s face. I haven’t seen him smile like that since before we lost Dad.