Page 92 of Full Tilt
“You ever think about staying?” she asks, casual like a bomb dropping in slow motion.
My chest tightens. Brent goes still beside me.
“We miss you,” she says softly. “I know England’s… whatever it is, but there’s always a place here. You know that, right?”
Brent clears his throat, gaze locked on the rim of his can. “I know, Mom.”
She pats his leg and gets up just as quickly as she arrived, off to chase one of her nephews—or maybe to stir another tray of something heart-clogging and delicious.
I don’t say anything. Not for a long beat.
Brent eventually meets my eye. “That wasn’t about you.”
“I know,” I say.
“But it surprised you.”
I hesitate. “Yeah.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
We sit in silence again, not awkward, just thoughtful.
And then Tony yells something about beer pong and someone plays the opening notes of “Cotton Eye Joe,” and Brent grins, nudging me up out of my seat. “Come on, Captain. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
And despite everything—the jet lag, the humidity, the low hum of nerves in my gut—I follow him. Because in this chaos, in this ridiculous, loud, loving mess of a family… I feel morewelcome than I ever have anywhere else, other than back home with my family.
We lose beer pong.Badly.
In my defence, I’ve never played before—and also, Tony is terrifyingly good at it. Like, suspiciously so. Like, were-you-on-a-frat-league-team good. He claims it’s all in the wrist, and Brent mutters something about him being “obnoxiously double-jointed,” which—frankly—feels like a weird flex to say in front of your boyfriend, but here we are.
“You throw like a dad at an elementary school sports day,” Tony announces, pulling a triumphant pose with one foot on a cooler and one hand cradling the winning cup like it’s an Oscar.
“I’m sorry,” I shoot back. “Do you usually insult strangers at national holidays?”
Brent grins behind the rim of his drink. “He does, actually.”
Tony winks. “And if you can’t handle that, my brother is way out of your league.”
“Oh, I know.” I say it without thinking, but the look Brent gives me—soft and surprised, pink rising in his cheeks—makes my chest twist in that now-familiar, ridiculous way.
We drift apart for a bit after that, Brent disappearing with Cosmo and Rachel towards the fire that’s being built in the pit in the side yard. I’m nursing a new drink and half a paper plate of someone’s famous bacon mac when Calvin drops into the seat next to me.
“Watch out,” he warns. “Mom’s about to bring out the mini flag cakes. Shaped like stars. Glazed like it’s a war crime.”
I grin. “Noted.”
He nods at Brent across the yard. “He looks happy.”
“He is,” I say instantly, no hesitation.
Calvin studies me. “You are too.”
I shrug. “Trying.”
“Man, you look like you’re five seconds from folding him into a snuggle burrito.”
