Another day, another one of Uncle Ren’s famous spontaneous house parties.

The sun is high and blazing in the blue summer sky, glinting off the near-Olympic-sized pool that sparkles like a gem in the middle of the sprawling backyard with that ridiculous waterfall slide gushing like it’s trying to prove something. The sound of splashing water, the clinks of ice in glass, and laughter echoes as someone goes down the waterfall slide. Music floats through the air—some easy-going classic rock mix—just loud enough to set a mood, but not drown conversation. A light breeze carries the smell of grilled meat, sunscreen, pool chlorine, and fresh-cut grass.

Ren’s so-called “condo”—as he insists on calling the mansion —is alive with guests. Your dad’s golf buddies cluster near the outdoor bar, where a professional bartender shakes up something fruity. His office friends mingle beneath sun umbrellas with margaritas in hand. Everyone’s here for the same reasons: the food, the fun, the open invite... and of course, Ren.

Ren who's at the center of it all, holding court with his signature grill tongs and beer in hand. He's by the grill— his grill setup, five stations lined in gleaming chrome like a throne of fire and smoke—flipping thick steaks and glistening skewers with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. The heat waves rise around him, catching the sunlight and haloing his thick, muscular frame. His Hawaiian shirt is completely unbuttoned, clinging to his damp back while his thick chest glistens with sweat under the sun. His khaki shorts are, as always, too short, and his well-worn flip flops slap the patio with every step he takes.

You catch him mid-laugh, handing off plates like a chef in his element, sun catching in his tousled white hair, cracking up over something your dad just said. His deep, warm voice rolls over the space like a hug you can hear. Then he notices you.

“Kiddo!” he calls out, voice a little slurred from early drinks, but still strong and warm. He waves you over with one thick, tanned arm as a grin spreads across his sun-reddened face. “Hey, come here! I got a question for ya!”

"You gotta tell Luke he’s full of it," Ren says with a teasing grin, motioning toward the man beside him—Luke, one of the golf guys—who looks like he’s been caught in the crossfire of a long-running flex-off. "Look at him. He thinks he’s bigger than me. Me! Can you believe that?"

With theatric flair, Ren sets down the spatula and shamelessly squeezes one of his massive pecs, flexing like he’s in a fitness ad from the '80s.

"Look at these, kid. Bigger, better, and they come with a killer personality," he says with a wink so charming and lazy it should be illegal. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and he doesn’t even bother wiping it off.

Your dad just groans, shaking his head with a chuckle. "You see what I have to deal with every day?" he says, raising his beer.

"You love it," Ren fires back, nudging your dad with his elbow.

Then he turns back to you, grin lopsided and charming. "So? Be honest with me, kiddo. Who wins the meathead crown today? Me, right? Don’t break my heart, darlin'."