After they head off, I ask, “Are they legal?”

He squints. “Depends on your definition of legal.”

“No, see”—I raise my finger in explanation—“that’s the beauty of ‘legal.’ You either are or you aren’t—it’s not subjective.”

“You worry too much, Stanton.”

“And you don’t worry near enough.”

He smacks my arm. “You sound like Daddy.”

I snort. “How would you know? Or are you and Daddy speakin’ to each other again?”

After Carter came back from college, he decided he could no longer live under the fascist rule of my father’s household. He bought a run-down double-wide trailer on the outskirts of town, fixed it up himself, and tried his hand at . . . farming.

A specialized, unique crop that’s now legal in Colorado.

During this time, Carter also developed an efficient, high-potency liquid plant food that provides weeks’ worth of nutrients with just a few drops. He patented it, sold it to the federal government, and became extremely wealthy. But you’d never know it—his tastes are simple. He still lives in that same double-wide, though he bought the surrounding acres for privacy and raising . . . crops. It’s a commune kind of thing—free living, free love. Like Woodstock all day, every day. The kids around town take refuge at Carter’s. When last year a schoolmate of Marshall’s drove drunk, smashed into another truck, and took off—he fled to Carter’s. And my brother took him in, talked him down, and convinced him to turn himself in to the police. Carter even went with the boy to the police station.

My brother’s alternative lifestyle is a bitter pill my daddy refuses to swallow. He hasn’t banned him from the house—Carter still shows up for holidays and family gatherings at my mother’s insistence—but my father just flat-out pretends he’s not there.

Carter shrugs his shoulders. “Daddy just needs more time—he’ll get used to things.”

I take a swig of my beer and wonder if bourbon’s available.

“I’m havin’ a party this week,” my brother announces, arms raised. “And I wanted to make sure you and your lovely Sofia will attend. My place, Tuesday night.”

“You’re having a party on a Tuesday?” Sofia asks.

“I believe Tuesday is the most neglected day of the week. Everybody complains about Monday, Wednesday is the hump day, Thursday’s almost Friday, and Friday is the favorite. Nobody remembers Tuesday—it’s the black sheep.” He winks. “Like me.”

I have too much to do to waste a night at my brother’s, partying with high school kids, getting high off of secondhand pot smoke.

“Don’t know if we’ll be able to make it.”

He grins knowingly. “Jenny and JD will be there.” He grasps my shoulder. “Change is difficult, brother, especially for someone as goal oriented as you. I would like to volunteer my services to ease the transition.” He links his fingers together. “To bond our families into one, you hear what I’m sayin’?”

I sigh over his New Age, touchy-feely, bullshit outlook on life. But . . . if Jenny will be there, it may give me the chance to talk to her. To get her alone. To romance her—bring back her feelings, memories, of all the good times we shared. This could be useful.

“Yeah, I hear you, Carter.”

He nods. “Good. I’m gonna go see Momma.” He kisses both Sofia’s cheeks. “It was sublime meetin’ you in person. I look forward to entertainin’ you on Tuesday.”

And then he strolls off.

“He was high, right?” Sofia asks, grinning.

“It’s hard to tell with Carter . . . but I’d be shocked if he wasn’t.”

• • •

A few hours go by, filled with cold beers and good conversations. Sofia and I go undefeated in a horseshoe tournament. The crowd thins out; people start to head home to get ready for the week ahead. A handful of us sit in folding chairs around a fire as the sky goes pink and gray with the sunset. Jenny’s there, sitting beside Ass Face. Sofia’s next to me and Presley sits on my lap. I smooth her hair down, kiss the top of her head, and enjoy holding her like this. Because in the space of a moment she’ll be too old for lap sitting, and instead of being her hero, I’ll be her ultimate source of embarrassment.

Mary sits cross-legged on the grass with her guitar. “Sing a song, Stanton?”

I shake my head. “Nah, not now.”

“Aw, come on,” Mary pushes. “It’s been ages. We can do ‘Stealin’ Cinderella’—I love that song.”

Sofia’s legs are curled under her, her head resting on her hand. “I didn’t know you sang.”

“Stanton has a lovely voice,” my momma volunteers. “He used to sing in church every Sunday.”

Sofia smirks. “You were a real live choirboy? How did I not know this?”

“I was seven,” I tell her dryly.

But then Presley takes all the argument out of me. “Come on, Daddy. I like listenin’ to you sing.”

Simple as that.

I nod to Mary and she starts plucking at the guitar. It’s a mellow, almost sad melody. A song about fathers and daughters, moving on while staying exactly the same.

“She was playin’ Cinderella, ridin’ her first bike . . .”

I run my hand through Presley’s hair again, but as the song continues the lyrics take on bigger, more relevant meaning. I feel the heat of Sofia’s gaze, watching me—this different part of me she’s never seen—with fascination. I see JD’s eyes all over Jenny, almost willing her to turn her head. But she’s not looking at him. Across the campfire, through the smoke and licking flames, she’s keeping her blue eyes straight on me. And while I sing about precious memories—old loves and new—I stare right back at her.