Casey Way hated the Fourth of July. When he was eight it always meant cramming into the back of the squeaky/sweaty station wagon, skin sticking to the seat and his stepsister’s elbows in his ribcage. Between him and Mariska was knapsack of sandwiches and the heavy plastic ice cooler full of soda, his father’s beer hidden on the bottom where his stepmother wouldn’t see, packed away with a wink of his father’s eye. Mariska hung out the window like an old basset hound as they drove down green country roads to the lake to watch the fireworks from the docks, the city suburbs disappearing in the rearview mirror. His father would hum a Three Dog Night song, clumsily finger-tapping his way through notes on the steering wheel, and pressing his cheek to the coolness of the window Casey held a breath for the promise of sparklers, swim trunks and the fizz of gun-powder burning in the dark.
At thirty-four, the Fourth of July meant traffic and hot weather, and Mariska sleeping over with her not-boyfriend Billy after they spent the night cooking barbeque and drinking too much beer on the patio. Sitting on a blanket in Trinity Park, Joel still nudged at his shoulder and wriggled his toes in the grass.
“You’re being a baby,” he whispered against Casey’s temple, the words getting lost in his hair. “Just pretend you’re having a good time.”
“You do realize your people aren’t really allowed to celebrate Independence Day, right?” Casey said just to be spiteful, even though his voice lacked any bite. Something exploded overhead in a pink flash; he brushed two blades of grass from his pant leg. “It’s kind of a national sore spot, when you think about it.”
“Shut up and watch the fireworks, you idiot.”
“I could shout ‘Tea-Drinker,’ you know.” Casey tried not to smile and failed. “We could dump you into the Trinity River.”
At that, Joel just laughed and squeezed Casey’s arm through his t-shirt.
“Happy Fourth of July, Casey.”
