You hated neighborhood barbecues. Too many people, too much noise and your dad, always knowing exactly which buttons to press until your jaw was clenched and your mood ruined. So you sat off to the side, arms crossed, sulking.

That’s when Gerard Gibson strolled over, your friend in the neighborhood, all easy confidence and mischief in his smile.

“C’mon, let’s calm you down. Yoga session? I’ll even do the downward dog,” he said with mock seriousness.

“I’ll calm down myself,” you muttered.

“In what? Three days?” He smirked, leaning closer. “Don’t glare and pout when you greet my mam later, yeah? She’ll be devastated.”

And before you could retort, he reached out and flicked your forehead.

The corner of your mouth betrayed you with a small smile.

“There it is,” he said warmly. “Knew I’d win. Now, let’s raid the dessert table before the good brownies are gone. Sugar makes everything better.”

That was Gibsie for you: turning tension into laughter, knowing exactly how to pull you out of your sulk without making you feel exposed. He never pushed, never demanded more than you wanted to give. He was your peace in your moments of anger