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He stood at the tent entrance while all four tall men ran through a field each carrying a large folding table from the garage as if it was one of those intense brute strength, Scottish Highland sports. Noticing Dylan, Derek stopped and grinned until Anderson yelled back at him asking if he needed a “wittle” break because the table was too heavy. Derek responded by lifting the table with one hand.
Macho bastard.
Derek winked at Dylan.
Felicity appeared and leaned on his shoulder. “I think that guy likes you.”
“I dunno. Maybe.” Dylan bit his lip to avoid beaming.
Just as he thought he’d been wrong to be worried, he saw Brooks carrying in a small sculpture that make Dylan’s stomach sink into the ground.
“Oh fuck,” said Felicity.
Chapter 36
Dylan licked the last bits of s’more off his fingertips after feeding Derek his third marshmallow. The sun had gone down an hour ago, and about thirty Gallaghers and Byrnes were milling around a large bonfire at the back part of the property. Kids stabbed marshmallows with the usual violence and lit them on fire as they had for the last twenty-five years.
Derek was seated next to him on one of the many mismatched quilts and picnic blankets laid out over the dry grass field. Fireflies blinked in the forest branches just beyond.
The day hadn’t been bad. Well, it hadn’t been all bad. There had been the usual awkward moments between him and his brothers, but the worst hadn’t happened. It had just been the typical not-quite-teasing assumptions that Dylan was responsible for every minor mishap.
Thankfully, he didn’t think Derek had heard whenever his brothers or cousins had “done a Dilly.” It was annoying that even when he could still outrun his brothers, he had to endure digs about his athletic ability. Not that he gave a shit about that kind of teasing. The only reason he’d cared about his dad implying he couldn’t carry tables was because he didn’t want Derek to think he had ever complained about carrying tables. He hadn’t.
Half the kids were running around with sparklers, much to Felicity’s chagrin. She kept yelling at them to be careful or else they’d lose an eye or light themselves on fire. Her seven-year-old doppelgänger followed her around, refusing a sparkler in solidarity with her cautious aunt.
Derek slipped an arm over Dylan’s shoulders and took a sip of his Angry Orchard. The strictest Gallagher Grill-Out rules dictated limited alcohol consumption because of the high contingency of alcoholics in the family. Brooks, Anderson, and Dylan’s dad had all been sober for years. For guests who did imbibe, only one alcoholic beverage was permitted each. Dylan’s mom grew up with family gatherings devolving into drunken brawls, ending in the occasional overnight jail stay or broken skull, so she kept a strict tally on the coolers. Dylan drank his beer at lunchtime, but Derek had waited until all that was left were the ciders.
Gentleman that he was, he offered Dylan the occasional sip. The oddest thing about today had been the PDA. Derek was a much more casually affectionate person than Dylan would have thought. It was mainly strange because it felt very not-strange. Dylan had never brought a… friend over to meet his family. Ever. But no one said a word about it. A nice surprise.
He’d spent years watching his brothers and sisters and cousins bring significant others and later spouses to this event. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted that. Watching Derek smoke his brothers in bocce was probably the most fun Dylan had ever had at a Grill-Out.
Derek finished his cider. As Dylan reached to take the bottle from him, Derek dragged his cold fingers over the back of Dylan’s arm in a way that made Dylan anxious to get home. He tossed the bottle into the large recycling bin next to the supply tables where it landed with a clunk with the others.
Felicity stood beside the bigger table. “I hate amateur fireworks.”
“We all know that. But no one’s blown off their hands in the last twenty-five years, Lissy.”
“Yet,” she said ominously. She handed a lighter to Dylan. “Hide this.”
“They’ll just go get another one inside. Mom’s got a million.”
“I’ll kill her if she’s smoking again.”
Derek slipped a hand in Dylan’s back pocket, giving his ass a tiny squeeze no one else could see. Their backs were to the woods as they stood behind the towers of paper products and stacks of fireworks boxes. In the darkness, no one would notice Derek’s hand. The covert contact sent a very specific type of thrill right down to Dylan’s dick. He flicked the lighter on and off absentmindedly.
“Who’s smoking again?” Derek asked.
“My mom. I think.” Dylan shrugged. “Having Uncle Sean around the house has been a lot.”
Derek’s head twitched in a subtle, questioning movement.
“They think it’s Alzheimer’s,” Dylan said quietly, watching the lighter flame. “Early stages, but it’s not great.”
“Damn. That sucks.”
“Toss this in the recycling for me, Big D.” Calvin lobbed his beer bottle toward Derek, but since Derek’s hand was in Dylan’s pocket, he couldn’t get it out quickly enough. As he spun, he knocked into Dylan who was, unfortunately, still holding the lit lighter aloft. Avoiding knocking the fire into his sister, Dylan fell forward into the table, directly onto the pile of highly flammable paper napkins.
The engulfed napkins singed his skin. He dropped the lighter and pulled his sister away from the flames zipping down the fabric tablecloth. As if the disaster was happening in slow motion, Dylan reacted quickly, mind working quickly. His niece popped up from beneath the table like she’d been looking for something on the ground.