Pat makes a foil basket on the table, and Jo moves the vegetables from the pan into it. He lets her slice the butter and together, they distribute it over the vegetables. Meanwhile, I try to keep my heart from melting into total mush at the sight of them working together across from me. I could be offended Pat hasn’t asked for my help, but honestly, I wouldn’t ask for my help either. I am a happy spectator and will participate fully in the eating portion of the evening.
The three of us head outside, dogs in tow. Pat carries the steaks, Jo holds the foil packet, and I try to take discreet photos of the two of them with my phone. Because: adorable.
With one hand, Pat drags the grill away from the side of the house, where it’s been functioning as ugly yard art. It’s stainless steel, though it’s a bit rusted over in places. More like—it’s rust-colored with a little bit of stainless steel accents.
“It may or may not work,” I warn. “We can always go to Mari’s.”
“Nonsense. It’ll be great,” Pat says, dodging the dogs, whose baser natures have been activated by the scent of raw beef. He pulls the grill to a stop. After examining the front for a second, he turns a knob and a hissing sound can be heard. Pat pushes a button. There are a few clicks and then a whoosh. He turns to me with a smile. “We’re in business!”
Suddenly there is another noise—a kind of scrabbling, scratching sound from inside the grill. “Is that … normal?” I ask.
Amber and Beast start barking, probably trying to hurry the steak-cooking process along. The scratching gets louder. And is that a squeak?
Pat stares at the grill. “Huh.”
Holding the plate of steaks higher to avoid the dogs, Pat lifts the top of the grill, then immediately jumps back as not one but multiple squirrels leap out of the grill directly onto his body.
Three—count them, three!—squirrels, singed with tails still smoking, run up Pat’s chest like it’s a climbing wall.
I didn’t know Pat had the ability to scream like a little girl, but he does. Loudly.
Amber leaps on Pat, going either for the squirrels or the steaks, and Pat flings the whole plate, still screaming and pinwheeling his arms.
The squirrels use Pat’s shoulders as a launchpad, leaping off and scampering away, thin wisps of smoke trailing behind their blackened tails. Beast and Amber sprint after them, pausing only long enough to grab the steaks. And there goes our dinner.
I still had my phone camera open and, in the confusion, somehow switched to video, recording the whole thing. I’ll be really thankful for that later, but I probably won’t mention it to Pat, who is still dancing around, aggressively brushing at his shirt. Which has tiny, soot-stained footprints up the front and on the shoulders.
“Are they gone? Are they gone?” Pat asks, his eyes wild.
“They are.”
“Along with dinner,” Jo says, and I realize in the confusion, she dropped the foil packet and now vegetables are scattered in the dirt along with the remnants of the broken steak plate.
“Maybe we should go out to dinner,” I suggest as my stomach moans an agreement.
“Yes, please,” Pat says, switching off the grill. “But first, I need to change. And then burn this shirt.”
Before Pat takes two steps toward the house, Jo stops him where he stands, looking deadly serious. “You need to check first for cuts and scratches. Squirrels can carry rabies.”
And that is how I end up in Pat’s bedroom, examining his bare chest in close detail. Close, close detail. To make sure I was extra thorough, Jo gave me her magnifying glass. Because the naked-eye visual of Pat’s body wasn’t enough. Nope. I needed the magnified version.
“I think you might have missed something over here,” Pat says, grinning and pointing to his right pec. He flexes it up and down like it’s waving hello.