“Lil, take care of that man. He's a huge crybaby. And he'll always try to get his way. But he's only a crybaby because he has a huge heart. And people with big hearts sometimes hurt a little more.”

Bobby raised his glass.

“To you both. You two are the luckiest people in the world to have each other. I am truly happy that you two are taking this step together. I am. If there is anyone in the world whose happiness I would want before my own, it's my brother's. And so, today, I am the happiest I have ever been and may ever be. To see the way he looks at you Lil, I know this is his happiest day too.”

He abandoned the sober tone for a more triumphant one.

“So here's to summers at the lake, skinny dipping under the moon until we're 80, little Lightlys running around carefree like we once did, right hooks from Lil, and hugs from my future nephews and nieces.

“You two are going to have an amazing life together. I am so happy for you. I really am.”

Bobby paused for a second.

“I love you,” his voice cracking as he uttered the words.

“To Rory and Lil!” he announced, and everyone took a sip of their champagne.

The glass clanged again as my father took the floor. I watched helplessly out of the corner of my eye as Bobby slipped away from his table, out of the tent, and into the dark of the night.

I wouldn't see him again for seven years.

Summer 1957

“Sorry we're late!” Barbie announced as she scampered over to our table with Stan. “The twins were being impossible. Throwing tantrums before we left them with the nanny.” Her unlit cigarette dangled from her lip in a daring balancing act.

“No worries,” Rory said, standing to greet her and Stan.

Stan was a hulking man, especially for the time. He was about six-foot-four, with a large belly. He had played offensive line in college and his presence was noticed in any room in which he entered.

“Heya Rory, how's it going?” he extended his hand for a shake. “Lilly,” he nodded in my direction.

“Great Stan. I've been working like a mad dog. This hot summer is great for business. How about you?”

Stan, who was a good deal older than Barbie, was the state director for a local insurance agency, and he and Barbie lived with money to spare. Stan leaned back in his chair, leaking an arrogance that he tried to conceal behind a thin layer of decent social skills. “You know, people always need insurance, no matter what the weather.” He winked at Rory.

Rory nudged me. “This guy keeps trying to get me to go work with him.”

I smiled weakly, genuinely uninterested in their small talk.

“I heard your brother came back. Is he some sort of Beatnik?” Stan rudely asked.

“He's not a Beatnik,” I interjected in an annoyed tone.

Rory glanced at me, surprised by my reaction, before looking back at Stan. “No, he's not. He's just the kind of guy who flies by the seat of his pants. He fought in Korea actually, shot right in the shoulder. I don't think Beatniks do that. He's just not the type to sit in an office, I suppose.”

I was happy to hear Rory defend his brother.

“Well,” Stan snatched the now lit cigarette from Barbie, who harrumphed at the theft, “apparently, all broads on our street are gaga over him. They ogle him doing lawn work and the like. Turns out men who put on suits and work all day aren't appealing enough.”

I directed my eyes towards Barbie who didn't return the look, her eyes planted on Stan.

“Do I sense some jealousy?” Barbie teased.

Stan scoffed. “Pssst. I'm just saying what I've heard.”

“Suddenly you have time for neighborhood gossip,” she jabbed, snatching back her cigarette, the ash falling on the white tablecloth in front of them.

“Nah, that's just Bobby. It's been like that as long as I can remember. Something about him. He has to swat off the ladies,” Rory chimed.

“I don't recall you having such a hard time with the girls yourself, Rory,” I added.

“Meh. Yeah, I had girlfriends. But I was always chasing after you it seemed.”

We eased into comfortable conversation as drinks hit the table. I subtly monitored Rory, afraid he might rebound. He had been dry, at least in my presence, since the night he shot at the ceiling. I didn't know what he was doing on his business trips, as he was always a fan of post-work happy hour, but it was nice to be around a Rory whose blood wasn't tainted with copious amounts of alcohol.

Stan, on the other hand, drank liberally on this night. Not being a small man, he could hold his own, but as the night went on, anyone would notice his lips getting looser after his sixth scotch.

“Hey, Lil. How was Chicago?” Stan asked.

“Chicago?” Rory turned to face me, befuddled.

I had no idea how Stan knew, and I couldn't find the words to downplay it, being caught so off-guard.

“How'd you know?” I asked.

“Barbie mentioned it.” He jabbed his thumb in her direction.

I darted my eyes at her. “Bobby told me that was the plan. To visit.” She held in a boozy burp as she answered.

I turned to Rory, doing my best to downplay the impromptu excursion. “I forgot to mention. It was right after you left. He wanted to meet some friends and didn't want to go alone so he dragged me there.” I rolled my eyes as if the whole thing was a nuisance.

“Oh, that was nice of you,” Rory replied. “Whereabouts?”

“South Side.”

Stan raised his eyebrows. “South Side?”

“Yeah, to a jazz club. It was a lot of fun.”

“He is a Beatnik!” Stan jeered. “So you were dancing and jiving with all those niggers?”

Barbie pulled his highball glass out of his hand. “Stan, you've had too much.”

He snatched it back. “What? We're amongst friends.”

Rory and I glanced sideways at each other and shifted in our seats uncomfortably.

“What's the big deal? It's just a word. Anyway, were you the only whites there?”

“Um, no, there were a couple of others. That's beside the point.” I tried to shift the conversation, but Stan seemed fixated on Bobby being some sort of Beatnik who loved black people. Which I suppose isn't a problem, but his insistence on bringing him up made me uncomfortable.

“So is Bobby into black women then?” he prodded.

“What kind of question is that?” I sniped.

“Alright, maybe we should discuss something else,” Rory suggested. But I had had enough.

“You know what?” I leaned forward to get a closer look at Stan. “Some of those people you call niggers, served and died for our country while you were busy dodging.” His eyes widened. “Yeah, I know what your daddy did for you. Barbie told me,” I smirked, imitating the way he brought up my Chicago trip at the table. “They bled the same blood, and some never got to see their families again. Just so you could sit there and drink your scotch all self-satisfied and call someone you haven't even met a Beatnik because they don't work for some two-bit insurance agency.”

I shot up from the table. “I'm ready to go, Rory,” I said.

Stan and Barbie sat there with their mouths agape.

“Lilly, I was just teasing!” Stan desperately tried to pacify the situation.

“Fine. But I am still done for tonight. I'll see you both tomorrow. I have a lot of preparation left and Rory didn't think about that when making plans. No hard feelings.”

I stomped away from the table as Rory stayed behind to smooth things over. As I exited the restaurant he jogged behind to catch up.

“Lilly. You okay?”

“I'm fine,” I insisted.

“That escalated really quickly.”

We both slid into the car.

“What? Are you going to tell me what a drag I am? That I should just let the men do the talking? Because he was being repulsive tonight. Way more than his usual self.”