Blame it on me

26

Mitch leans back against the side of the truck, cracking open his cooler with a dramatic flourish. Cold mist billows out as he digs around, the sound of cans clinking together like music to the boys’ ears.

“Coming in hot!” he shouts, then lobs a beer high into the dusky sky.

Luke leaps up with the swagger of an old high school quarterback and snatches the can mid-air like a football, gripping it to his chest with a triumphant laugh. A cheer erupts around the fire someone whistles, Jordyn pounds the picnic table, and Josh slaps the side of his chair with a clang of his fork.

“Touchdown, baby!” Luke shouts, holding the can up like a trophy and smiling at Jada like he has impressed her. He has but she rolls her eyes at him.

Mitch keeps going, tossing another to Josh, who fumbles before catching it against his belly. Jordyn grabs his out of the air with both hands like he’s fielding a grenade. Each catch gets another round of whoops and hollers, as if they’re in the middle of a backyard Super Bowl.

For the father's, they get theirs handed over gently, respectfully, a quiet moment in the background of the chaos. A nod. A clink of cans. A silent understanding that this is tradition, legacy, something more than just a drink.

Austin doesn’t raise his hand. He sits, swirling a glass of red wine between his fingers. It's expensive - the kind with a name that sounds French and complicated. He sips slowly, with care, almost like he’s waiting to be seen.

Zia watches from where she leans against his side. It still catches her off guard sometimes this version of Austin. Her Austin used to chug beers with the boys, shotgunning cans and burping the alphabet. Now, he swirls and sniffs like he’s preparing for a tasting.

She hadn’t understood it at first, the switch. Thought maybe it was just part of city life, some natural evolution. But then she overheard a conversation at one of those stiff New York dinner parties. Two men in tailored suits, laughing behind their wine stems, tossing around words like “palate” and “bouquet” as if they meant anything. One of them, a silver-haired man with too-white teeth, scoffed and said, “Beer’s for river rats. No sophistication in that.”

It clicked then. The wine wasn’t just a drink. It was armor. A declaration. A ticket into a world that looked down its nose at muddy boots and calloused hands.

She likes wine - cheap, syrupy, fruity. The kind with screw tops and names like “Sunset Blush.” The fancy stuff tastes like vinegar to her. Bitter. Pretentious. But that’s not the kind of thing you say in a New York loft surrounded by polished smiles and quiet judgment.

So, she said nothing. Just smiled. And watched her husband pretend like he hadn’t grown up playing beer pong with his brothers in the back of a truck bed.

Now, as the guys toast their beers around the fire and laugh until they can’t breathe, she sees the way Austin glances their way. There’s a flicker in his eyes just for a second. Something soft. Regretful. Like he remembers, too. Like a piece of him wishes he could laugh that loudly again.

He takes another quiet sip, then screws his face up, lips pursing, nose wrinkling like the wine has personally betrayed him. His brow furrows as he peers into the glass, holding it up to the firelight as if it might explain itself. The bitterness clings to his tongue, and he stares at the ruby liquid like it’s vinegar disguised in silk.

Then, without a word, he tips the glass sideways and lets the wine pour out, a dark stream sinking into the dry earth. The bottle that wine came from had cost over $300. Zia watches, her face twitching in a wince. That bottle had been chosen specifically for the weekend its label spoken of with reverence by the host of a dinner party months ago. But all it really was, was sour and sharp and cold.