"And I'm just good at barbecue," John told her, Em's words having woken up an old, still nagging wound that ever quite closed. "You can do things, Em, you can do things great and incredible. And you're not reliant on a lighter." His praise might have been more for himself than Em, but it was still heartfelt. If he thought someone could be awesome, then they were. And if he thought someone sucked, well, he didn't give a damn.

Pausing, he checked the meat by pressing on it with the tongs: it was around medium-rare, which was how he liked it. "Maybe Frosty here would like to get our fortunes told," he said, leaving the decision up to Bobby, and reached for a dish to start piling the meat in, and then a separate one for the grilled vegetables. "I'd say yes, but I can't actually decide things for the both of us, can I sweetheart?" He passed one of the dishes to Bobby, a well-oiled cooking routine.