The neighborhood barbecue is loud. Kids shrieking in the pool, dads arguing over whether charcoal beats gas, moms on their third margarita laughing at jokes that aren't funny. I'm sitting in a lawn chair with my legs crossed, wearing the red sundress I bought last week and haven't had the nerve to wear until today.
I'm forty-two. Divorced two years. And for the first time since the papers were signed, I feel like something other than a failure.
Caleb is at the grill, shirtless because it's ninety degrees and he doesn't give a damn what the neighbors think. Twenty-three. Tattooed arms slick with sweat, lean muscle moving under sun-browned skin. He's been redoing my backyard for the past month, always showing up early, staying late, finding excuses to take his shirt off when I'm watching f
