barbeque (9)

Not in words. But every slice of brisket cut against the grain, every long night tending the fire while others slept, every side-eye when Jacob tried to use lighter fluid—that had all been its own kind of love. And maybe this pit, this fire, was how he could say it back.

By sunset, Jacob had fed the fire just right. The last rack of ribs came off perfectly smoked, glistening with glaze, resting soft on the tongue. People noticed. Nods turned to compliments.

A few surprised chuckles made the rounds. Gloria tapped him on the shoulder as she passed. “Now that’s Harold’s boy.” He smiled, small and real.