"Abuela said six minutes a side."
"Abuela's not at this grill."
"Abuela's always at this grill," Tyler said, and grinned, and Eric laughed out loud, and across the patio Melissa looked up at the sound and smiled at him, her green eyes narrow and bright in the string lights, and he found that he could smile back.
He watched his son lift the meat off the grill, one piece at a time, the way Eric had taught him when he was eight, and lay it carefully on the platter. He thought about the boy who had come through the side gate a year ago with a torn box and a phone, asking for both of them right now. He thought about what he would have said then, if someone had told him what the year would hold. He did not know. He only knew that the boy beside him had his own face, which had come from somewhere else, and had Eric's way of standing at a grill, which had come from here, and that both of those things were true, and that neither one cancelled the other.
"Okay," Tyler said, holding up the platter. "Now?"
"Now," Eric said.
They carried it to the table together, under the lights, where everyone was waiting.