Story code: ST-000284
Part 2: The Yard Started Showing the Cracks
By the time the first round of burgers came off the grill, Drew had repeated the same story three different ways, and every version shaved more of me out of it. He told Mara he had taught himself food costing. He told her husband he was thinking about branding. He told Aunt Celia, loud enough for the picnic table to hear, that I was “helping him get organized.” Helping him. I stayed where the work gave me cover. I sliced tomatoes, refilled the ice bucket, checked the foil pans, and watched what I could actually verify. The cash box was still missing. My notebook was still on Mara’s kitchen counter, but the loose pricing sheet I kept tucked inside the back cover was gone. Drew’s second phone stayed in his right pocket all through lunch. It buzzed twice while he was carrying a platter to the family table. Both times he set the platter down too fast, checked the screen at his hip, and answered with his body turned away from everyone else. He wasn’t hiding in another room. He was doing it in the yard, in plain sight, counting on nobody naming what they saw. Mara waved me over near the drinks. “Can you write down that tray order for my neighbor? She wants two full pans next Saturday. Drew said to put her in for brisket and mac and cheese.” I looked at her. “Did he tell you a price?” “He said he’d work it out.” She lowered her voice a little. “Isn’t that what you two are doing now?” I took the notepad she offered and wrote the neighbor’s name because I wasn’t going to punish Mara for listening to the person talking the most. But my stomach tightened when she added, “Good for him, though. He’s finally found his thing.” Found his thing. I asked, “Did he say where the cash box went?” Mara blinked. “What cash box?” “The small gray one under the drink table this morning. The one for deposits.” She glanced under the table, then back at me. “I didn’t even know there was one.” That answer landed harder than I expected, because it showed me how cleanly Drew had set the visible story. He was the voice. I was the pair of hands. The money part had already shifted out of sight. I went back inside and checked my notebook again. The back page was bent where the price sheet had been pulled out. On the counter beside it sat one of Mara’s serving spoons, a pack of hamburger buns, and Drew’s regular phone charging by the wall. The second phone was still on him. I tore a fresh page from my notebook and started rewriting the price list from memory. Half pans. Full pans. Holiday upcharge. Deposit amounts. I knew every number because I had built them to cover meat costs, packaging, charcoal, gas, and enough left over to make it worth the labor. Drew liked repeating the totals. He had never stayed at the table long enough to figure them. When I came outside, Uncle Ray was standing near the smoker with a paper plate balanced on his palm. “I got a question,” he said to Drew. “How long you rest the ribs before you cut them?” Drew didn’t miss a beat. “About ten minutes.” Uncle Ray lifted one eyebrow. “These weren’t rested ten minutes.” Drew shrugged. “Crowd’s hungry. Had to move fast.” I said nothing. I just set down the bowl of pickles and listened. A little later, Mara’s husband asked Drew whether he was still doing pickup orders out of our house or if he had moved to a commissary kitchen. Drew said, “We’re flexible right now,” and took a drink of beer in the middle of the sentence like the answer had been complete. Then came the money piece. Aunt Celia walked up with an envelope in her hand and said, “Drew, honey, here’s the deposit for those Fourth of July trays. You said cash was easier.” I saw the envelope before he did. So did Uncle Ray. Drew took it fast and slid it into his back pocket. “Perfect,” he said. I asked, still in the same controlled tone, “How much did she give you?” He smiled without looking at me. “I’ll square it up later.” “No,” I said. “How much?” Aunt Celia looked between us. “Two hundred. Was that not right?” I kept my eyes on Drew. The deposit on two holiday trays was one hundred, not two. That wasn’t a judgment call. It was written on the sheet that had gone missing from my notebook. He patted his pocket once. “I rounded because of the holiday rush.” “There isn’t a holiday rush fee on deposits,” I said. The table went quiet for one beat. Not dramatic. Just that tiny family pause when everybody hears a sentence land and decides whether to step around it. Mara broke it by asking if anyone wanted more corn. Drew laughed like I had corrected a typo. “We’re still tweaking pricing,” he said to the group. But Uncle Ray didn’t let it go. “Then who wrote the first pricing?” he asked. Drew looked at me again, the same quick glance he had given me over the sauce pot. Not anger. Not apology. Just that brief check people make when they need the person beside them to carry a load they already claimed as theirs. His second phone buzzed at that exact moment. He pulled it out too late for me not to see the screen. The new message said: She asked for the same menu as last time. Can you send the file again? I can’t open the one you sent. The contact name at the top was Lena Catering. Drew closed the screen, but not before I saw enough to know there was a file, there had been a “last time,” and someone on the other end expected him to send over work that apparently wasn’t even opening.