Page 91 of Full Tilt
Apparently, I’m not the only one who got the memo about shorts and bare feet. Every guy here—except for maybe Brent’s dad, who’s manning the grill like it’s a competitive sport—is shirtless or close to it. Tattoos on show. Music loud. People everywhere. It’s chaos.
Beautiful, messy, genuine chaos.
“Brent!” a voice hollers from across the garden.
Before I can blink, a blur barrels out of the house and flings itself into Brent’s arms.
“Jesus,” Brent wheezes, catching the full body of Cosmo as his youngest brother clings to him like a koala. “Warn a guy, would you?”
“You brought the Brit!” Cosmo exclaims, detaching long enough to peer at me with his too-familiar grin. “CamdenbloodyCrawford in my backyard.”
I lift a hand awkwardly. “Hey.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Cosmo mutters, circling me like he’s inspecting a new toy. “You. Him. Together. Wild. I’m emotionally unprepared.”
Brent’s eyes roll skywards. “He’s been like this since I told him you’d be joining us.”
Cosmo throws a dramatic arm around Brent’s shoulders. “You wound me. After everything I did for you two.”
“You sent otter memes,” Brent deadpans.
“And look where we are now.”
Before Brent can retaliate, Tony appears. “You met Calvin yet?” He jerks his head towards the shaded table under a tree, where another twin—Calvin, presumably—is sitting with a guy. “That’s Ash. They’re disgustingly happy.”
“You say that like you’re not the one who got all teary having us all together again,” Brent mutters.
Tony shrugs. “I get emotional. Fight me.”
It goes on like this—greetings, introductions to those I’ve not already met, jokes flying faster than I can keep up. Brent’s sister, Rachel, gives me a warm hug and immediately starts teasing Brent about something he did when he was eighteen involving a piñata and a sprinkler. His mum, Lyn, insists I call her by her first name and offers me a plate before I’ve even figured out where to sit. His dad, Jo, gives me a nod that somehow says everything and nothing all at once.
By the time I find myself seated under the awning with a plate of ribs, coleslaw, and something suspiciously neon that Brent assures me is “just a patriotic Jell-O salad,” I’m sweaty, slightly overwhelmed, and… oddly content.
“Your family’s amazing,” I tell him as he sits beside me, beer in hand.
“They’re loud.”
“They’re real,” I say.
He nudges my foot with his. “You’re doing great.”
“Is this a test?”
“It’s the final exam. If you survive the line dancing later, you get to stay.”
I raise a brow. “Line dancing?”
“Oh yeah. One of Rachel’s friends teaches it at a community centre. We’re all roped in. Even Dad.”
This, apparently, is hilarious to everyone but me. And then, just when I’m starting to believe I’ve passed the vibe check, Brent’s mum sits down on his other side.
“Darling,” she says, smile wide but eyes sharp. “You look happy.”
Brent hums around a sip of his drink. “I am.”
“It’s good to have you home.”
He nods.
