By the second Saturday in Cedar Grove, Marcus and Maya had unpacked most of the boxes. The living room had a couch and a rug. The kitchen had plates and pans. The bedroom had a bed. There were still boxes in the garage, but Marcus told himself those boxes could wait. They were the kind of boxes that could wait forever: old yearbooks, spare cables, a set of dishes from Maya's grandmother that neither of them wanted to break.
What Marcus wanted, more than unpacking, was to use the backyard.
He had been thinking about it since the first day. The yard was large and private, with a wooden fence that was tall enough to make it feel like a room without a roof. There was a patio with space for a table and chairs. There was a patch of grass where Maya wanted to plant tomatoes in the spring. And there was a perfect spot in the corner, on the concrete pad the previous owners had left, for a grill.
On Friday evening, Marcus went to the hardware store and bought a grill. It was not the biggest grill, and it was not the most expensive. It was a simple charcoal grill with a lid and a thermometer, the kind he had used at the fire station for cookouts after long shifts. He also bought charcoal, lighter fluid, tongs, and a bag of wood chips.
On Saturday morning, he called his three oldest friends.
Jamal Carter had been his best friend since high school. Jamal was a physical therapist who had helped Marcus through his back rehab. He was tall, loud, and laughed at everything. Luis Ortega was a construction foreman Marcus had met on the job. Luis was quieter, careful, and knew how to build anything. Derek Shaw was a former firefighter who had left the department a year before Marcus. Derek was the calm one, the one who always knew what to say.
"Come over," Marcus said to each of them. "We're doing a cookout. First one in the new house. Bring whatever you want to drink. I'll handle the food."
Maya spent the morning making side dishes. She made potato salad, coleslaw, and a pitcher of lemonade. She put a speaker on the patio and made a playlist of old soul music and jazz. She hung string lights from the fence to the back of the house, even though it was still daylight.
"This is going to be nice," she said. "We need this. We haven't had people over in months."
By noon, the yard was ready. The grill was set up. The table was covered with a blue tablecloth. The cooler was full of ice and drinks. The string lights swayed gently in the breeze.
Jamal arrived first, with a bag of chips and a six-pack. He hugged Marcus and Maya and walked around the yard like he was inspecting it.
"Nice place, man," he said. "Nice fence. Nice grill. You're officially suburban."
Luis arrived next, with his wife's famous salsa and a bag of tortilla chips. He shook Marcus's hand and said the house looked good.
Derek arrived last, with a cooler and a folding chair. He had brought his dog, a small brown mutt named Biscuit, who immediately ran to the fence and sniffed every inch of it.
They started the charcoal at twelve-thirty. Marcus lit it carefully, the way he had learned at the fire station: a small pyramid, a little lighter fluid, one match, and patience. The charcoal caught, turned gray at the edges, and then glowed orange.
He put the first burgers on at one o'clock. The smoke rose into the clear September sky. The smell of charcoal and meat drifted over the fence and into the neighboring yards.
Maya turned the music up, just a little. Jamal told a story about Marcus in high school, about the time Marcus had tried to cook pancakes and set off the smoke alarm. Luis laughed. Derek flipped a burger.
For two hours, it was perfect. The kind of afternoon Marcus had imagined when he first saw the yard. Friends sitting around a table, talking, eating, laughing. Biscuit lying in the shade. The sun warm but not hot. The string lights swaying. The smoke rising.
At around three o'clock, Ruth Alvarez came to the fence. She was holding a bowl of fruit.
"I smelled the barbecue," she said. "I thought I'd bring something. I hope I'm not intruding."
"Not at all," Maya said. "Come in. Have a burger."
Ruth came through the gate and sat down. She ate a burger and talked about her garden. She said the tomatoes had been good this year. She said she was glad to see the yard being used.
Tom Becker waved from across the street. Priya Nair came out onto her porch and waved too. The afternoon felt open and friendly, like the neighborhood was finally starting to feel like home.
Marcus stood by the grill with his tongs, watching his friends. He thought about the fire station, about the shifts where he had cooked for the crew after a long night. He thought about his back injury, about the year he had spent wondering if he would ever feel normal again. And he thought about Maya, sitting at the table, laughing at something Jamal had said.
He was happy. He was, for the first time in a long time, completely happy.
He did not notice the woman standing at the edge of the yard, watching them from the sidewalk. He did not notice her until Ruth went quiet and looked toward the gate.
Eleanor Whitfield was standing there, with her clipboard in her hand, watching the cookout like it was a violation she had already decided to write up.