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The red-haired woman took a step forward. She had a beautiful, ethereal face with Caribbean blue eyes that were fixed on Dylan’s hand. She looked like an actress who would be cast as a forest nymph or an elf in a book adaptation.
When she opened her mouth, Dylan half expected Elvish to come out of it. “When exactly did this injury happen?” Although her question was clinical, her voice was gentle and soothing, which made Dylan feel even more like a dying Frodo when he first sees Arwen in the forest and the light goes all gauzy and white while he’s gross, gagging, and being absorbed into the shadow realm.
Derek’s eyes flashed as he towered over Dylan. “I thought I told you to go get stitches today.” Not gentle or elf-like.
Before Dylan could give Derek the indignant retort he deserved, the red-haired woman crouched next to him. “He’s right that this really should have been sutured.” Her head tilted as she examined the hand. “It’s probably going to scar… but I don’t think there’s any tendon injury.”
“I told him—”
“He also needs a tetanus shot,” called out the woman still being gently kiss-mauled.
Dylan closed his hand. “I… I can’t drive without glasses.” He couldn’t hide the defensiveness in his tone. “It’ll be fine.”
“The hospital is literally a block and a half away,” Derek said, his tone more of a grumble than a dig.
Ears burning hot, Dylan pushed his aching body up with his un-gashed hand and squared his shoulders to Derek. “Look, I’ve been a little busy and—”
“Okay.” The red-haired woman patted Dylan’s upper arm. “I think we got off on a bad foot—or a bad hand, as it were.” The corner of her mouth quirked upward. “Health-care workers tend to jump on a crisis.”
“It’s just a cut.”
She winced as if she were too polite to tell him he was being reckless. “In any case, I’m Joni. And that’s Olive.”
“Happy to meet you,” Olive said with fur muffling her words.
“We just ordered pizza, and we’d… all”—Joni’s head twitched at Derek—“we’d all love for you to join us. While we wait, do you mind if I look at your hand?” Her lips pursed for a second. “I also have a sneaking suspicion that you have a rib injury, too, from the way you’re moving.”
Joni’s voice was coaxing but firm. Christ, how could anyone say no to her when she sounded so calm and reasonable? Derek stalked away and was pacing in the kitchen with an enigmatic mix of frustration and maybe… concern on his face?
Olive stood and brushed off her scrub pants. Her smile had an almost catlike wryness about it, but she genuinely seemed to want him to stay too.
All Dylan had wanted to do when he’d been stuck in that closet was to escape back upstairs and into the familiar silence, but now… it had been so long since he’d just had pizza with friends. Even if in this case they were someone else’s friends.
So Dylan nodded.
In thirty minutes—or less—like the old commercials, a tall stack of Il Forno Pizzeria pizza boxes arrived, including a smaller box on top. Dylan’s hand was freshly bandaged after swearing he would watch for signs of infection and dosed with medication by his rather overqualified care team. They’d all seemed relieved when he’d explained he’d gotten a Tdap booster before his brother’s last kid was born. It was weird to have complete strangers fussing over an injury that any other Gallagher would have—once literally—poured a Guinness on and then kept going. But… it was almost nice.
Damn. Was he really that pathetically lonely?
Olive grabbed the small pizza box on top and placed it in the oven. “That one’s gluten-free for my girlfriend. Her flight was delayed.”
In unexpected social moments like these, Dylan had to remind himself how to human. He’d been sequestered in his uncle’s apartment for months now.
“Where’s she flying in from?”
“Fort Worth. She had a job interview out there.” Olive’s cheeks went pink with a kind of tender reverence. “She’s a pilot.”
“That’s cool,” Dylan said. “Wow. Does she—”
Derek bopped Olive on the nose with a breadstick. “Be careful about getting Olive on the topic of Stella. They’re still in the honeymoon phase.”
Honestly, it was only recently that hearing about successful relationships didn’t make Dylan want to shrivel like a bunch of sour grapes. While his brothers were all getting married and having kids, he’d had a series of failed relationships when he lived on the West Coast, the last of which involved a colleague. But it wasn’t until that one truly disastrous setup date here that he’d gotten mostly content with being single and embracing his hobbies instead. It no longer stung to hear about someone happily in love. Maybe everything he was doing for his mental health was helping him grow.
Olive grabbed the breadstick out of Derek’s hand with her teeth, looking more like a lion than seemed possible. Although Derek’s words had been snarky, his face was all reflected joy as his best friend tore into the breadstick carcass. He’d never imagined the guy who barked at him whenever he put out recycling on the wrong day or parked slightly crooked could make this face. His dark eyes glowed warmer with each of Olive’s laughs.
Dylan’s heart gave a perplexing, jealous hiccup.
Derek might love his best friend, but the guy was still a dickhead to him. At least most of the time. It shouldn’t matter how good he made Dylan’s pillow smell. Not that he was still thinking about that.