It wasn't. Diane came out her front door like a woman who'd been shot from a cannon. Across her lawn, across the street, across the Fletcher driveway. Heels clicking on concrete, finger already raised. "So, you're just going to do nothing?"
Bowen turned. "Ma'am, every weekend, the noise, the smoke, the people coming and going at all hours." Aaron stepped forward, calm, apron still on. "Diane, you're welcome to join us. There's plenty of food."
She recoiled like he'd offered her poison. "I don't want your food." Her voice climbed a register. "I want you to understand that this," she swept her arm across the yard, "the guests, the grill, the music, the children, is not how we do things on this street." 20 guests watching now.
Forks frozen midair. A toddler on someone's hip started fussing. I have lived here for 1five years. 15. I know every family on this block, and it was fine.
It was peaceful. It was safe. Her voice cracked on the last word. Before you people, she stopped, but not fast enough. "You people."
The yard went silent. Even the toddler stopped fussing. Denise set down her glass, stood up, walked forward until she was shoulder to shoulder with Aaron. "Which people, Diane?" Nothing.
"Go ahead. Finish the sentence." Diane's mouth opened, closed, opened again. Her eyes darted to Bowen, to the guests, to the neighbors peeking through windows up and down the street. Then the mask snapped back on, fast, practiced, seamless.
"You're twisting my words." Her hand flew to her chest. "I feel threatened right now, officer." She pointed at Aaron. "I want to file a complaint about him."
Bowen didn't blink. "Ma'am, no violation has occurred. I'd recommend everyone return to their own property." Diane spun on her heel, took three steps, stopped, turned back. "This isn't over.
I'm calling the mayor. I'm calling the county. I'm calling everyone I know." She marched back to her house. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame.
The barbecue was over. Everyone knew it. Guests started packing plates, gathering kids, making quiet exits. Nobody made eye contact with Aaron. One woman whispered to her husband, "I told you we shouldn't have come."
Elijah carried leftover ribs inside without a word. Naomi tugged Aaron's apron. "Daddy, why does she hate us?" Aaron looked down at his daughter, 12 years old, paint under her fingernails, eyes searching his face for an answer he didn't have. Not one that a 12-year-old should ever need to hear.
"She doesn't hate us, baby. She's just scared of things she doesn't understand." It was a lie. He knew it. Naomi probably knew it, too.
That night, after the kids were asleep, Aaron sat in the dark living room with his laptop. He pulled up the security camera footage. Every second of the confrontation, Diane's face twisted with contempt, her finger jabbing the air. "You people." In crystal clear audio.