Eventually we get up and wipe the grass and beer off of us as well as we can, and the guys run ahead. I look over at Aisha. I should probably go talk to her. Walking toward her, I feel the alcohol sloshing through my veins. It’s a dirty, wonderful secret that Aisha can’t know, so I make an agreement with myself never to tell her how much I drank.

“You have an accident?” she asks, frowning. She points at the wet spot on the front of my green cargo shorts.

“It’s stupid,” I say, lingering a bit away from her.

She smells it anyway. “Carson, were you drinking? Are you kidding me with this?”

Her voice is higher than usual, and it scares me, the emotion in it. I shake my head. “Hodge had beers in his shorts and they exploded when we rolled.” I laugh, but she doesn’t. She walks over and sniffs my face.

“Bullshit,” she says. “You drank.”

I nod slightly. “Just one.”

“Jesus,” she says. “Are you crazy?”

“In what universe is drinking a single beer crazy?”

She puts her hands on her hips and looks at me. “In the universe where your grandfather and your father are alcoholics. C’mon.”

I look away. She doesn’t get that these are the first drinks I’ve ever had. That’s not quite alcoholic territory. And just because I liked it? People like beer. Please.

“Carson.” She sits back down on the bench and pulls me to sit next to her. She grabs my head and forces me to look at her. “Seriously. You have even one more sip of alcohol and I am done with you. Not a joke. Done. Like I drive off and leave you here and you never see me again. You feel me?”

My brain focuses, suddenly sober. The world still spins a bit, but within it I am totally here. “I feel you,” I say.

We sit there in silence. Getting yelled at for drinking is like this weird new place I didn’t know I’d be in, ever. Was my dad here? My grandfather? A place where they were like, I love this drinking thing. I’ll make sure it doesn’t get the best of me.

“Will those guys be done soon?” she asks.

“I think so,” I say. “Sorry about the drinking, by the way.”

She responds with a tiny, tight-lipped nod.

“I’m sure they’ll be back any minute. I know you hated that, but hey, it’s almost over.”

“Yay,” she says. “Can we never, ever see those people again, ever?”

“Yeah, you don’t really get them, do you?”

She picks at her fingernails. “You’re right,” she says. “I don’t get them. I wanna smack that guy Gareth’s head against the concrete. I don’t want to do that with you. How come you actually wanna spend time with this person when I want to kill him?”

I bite my lower lip. I know the answer, in a way, but I also know she won’t get it. “He’s a ’sup, dude.”

She screws up her face in a mask of annoyance. “A what?”

“A ’sup, dude. I’ve never had a ’sup, dude friend. You know. Someone who you’d meet for breakfast at a diner. Someone you’d order huge breakfasts with, and guzzle down milk shakes, and order more bacon, and talk about cars or Frisbees or baseball, maybe.”

I brace myself for her laughter. It doesn’t come. Instead, she says, “You want that?”

“Well, no. Yeah. I don’t know. I want to try it, maybe.”

“Can’t someone who is not a total asshole be your ’sup, dude?”

“He’s not a total asshole.”

“He’s not not a total asshole….”

I laugh. Then she touches my shoulder, bats her eyes, and says, “ ’Sup, dude?”

I kiss her shoulder. “I can’t believe it. You’re jealous.” My skin tingles. The ego boost I get from making Aisha feel jealous of me is way more than I got from the entire Frisbee golf game.

“Not really. Maybe,” she says, pulling away slightly.

I pull the shoulder back and plant three kisses on it. “I love you, Aisha Stinson. I love that you can be jealous of me, when you’re you. That’s just … I love you, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, giving my shoulder a quick peck. “Love you too, asshole.”

THAT NIGHT’S DINNER starts out with a prayer. Aisha and I are across the table from Gareth, while Mr. and Mrs. Bailey sit at either end. We see them grabbing hands, so I tentatively take Aisha’s hand with my right and Mr. Bailey’s with my left. Aisha takes Mrs. Bailey’s other hand.

Mr. Bailey says, “Dear Heavenly Father, we’re thankful for this bounty and for the chance to spend time together as a family with our new friends. We’re thankful for the people who helped grow the food that went into this meal. Please bless them. Amen.”

I say “Amen” when Mrs. Bailey and Gareth say it. Not sure if Aisha does or not. But for me, saying the word in unison makes me feel like part of something, and I want that. Thanks to this trip, I’m beginning to really enjoy feeling like a part. Rather than always apart.

And that prayer? It was just … thankful. It was nice. I didn’t hate it.

Over dinner, Gareth talks about Frisbee golf, and about a new set of “rockin’ discs” he’d like to buy. Mr. Bailey jokingly asks Gareth if he’s considered putting half that much enthusiasm into a job search, and you can kind of feel the tension at the table, that there’s a story and an ongoing drama surrounding this.

I guess no family is perfect. Though clearly, some families are more perfect than others.

I have never sat at a dinner table with both my parents that I can remember. When my mom took us back to New York and we moved in with my grandparents, the four of us had dinner sometimes, but that’s it. Ever since my grandparents moved down to Florida four years ago, I mostly dine in front of the TV. Mom and I rarely eat at the same time. And meals are important, aren’t they? I have never really thought about that before.

I turned on my phone before dinner. There were three long voicemails from Mom. The first one went like this:

“Carson. I feel like we need to have a conversation about boundaries. I feel really surprised that you would violate my boundaries like this. I hear that you have your heart set on this trip you’re taking, and if you would simply engage me in a conversation, perhaps I could come to understand why you think it’s necessary at this time, of all times, to drive off with a friend you barely know. I want you to know that I recognize that you’re individuating right now, and certainly that process is made no easier by spending time with your father. I know that’s been terribly difficult for you, and I honor that. But you simply need to be aware that my boundaries are not to be crossed. If you do cross them, there will be repercussions. I intend for us to sit down when you return and really tackle some of these issues. Please keep me updated about when you’ll be back.”

I looked at my phone. I thought about sitcom mothers. They run hot, not cold. They care too much. They meddle in their kids’ business. They yell and scream or they work hard not to yell and scream even though they want to. I thought, My mom would not make a great sitcom mother. I didn’t respond. I turned my phone off again.

The conversation bounces between our journey, and Gareth’s lack of a job, and Mr. Bailey’s exciting yet fascinating career as an accountant. Then Aisha says to Mrs. Bailey, “So what was your committee thing this morning, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s a church thing. I counsel abused women,” Mrs. Bailey says, her voice taking on a more serious tone we haven’t heard before.

Mr. Bailey, who looks a bit like a TV senator with his khaki-colored hair parted at the side, says, “I encourage Stacy to get out into the community.”

Aisha asks, “Counsel them how?” I hear the edge, but I’m hoping Mrs. Bailey doesn’t.