Chapter 3 - The Fallout
The aftermath of Derek’s impromptu flight off the patio was characterized by a profound, trembling silence, broken only by Derek’s pathetic, wheezing gasps for air.
He lay flat on his back amidst the splintered aluminum legs of the patio table, shards of white plastic plates, and a generous distribution of yellow mustard and potato salad. His face was no longer the color of a bruised plum; it had turned an alarming shade of pasty gray.
Diane was the first to break the paralysis. She rushed forward, her designer sandals clicking frantically against the concrete, dropping to her knees beside her fallen golden boy with a series of frantic gasps.
“Derek! Derek, baby, talk to me! What did she do to you? Are you bleeding? Oh, my god, someone call an ambulance!” Diane shrieked, glaring up at me with eyes filled with venomous hatred. “You insane, violent psycho! Look what you did to my son!”
I didn't flinch under her glare. I simply crossed my arms over my chest, letting the wet fabric of my sundress cling to me as I looked down at the matriarch of the Carter family with mild pity.
“He tripped over his own ego, Diane,” I replied evenly. “I just helped him find the floor.”
“You assaulted him!” Diane screeched, patting Derek’s damp forehead with a lace handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. “Derek, baby, breathe! Can you hear mommy? Ryan, control your feral wife before I call the police and have her thrown in a maximum-security prison!”
Ryan stepped up beside me, casually sliding his hands into his pockets. He looked down at his brother, who was finally starting to draw ragged, whistling breaths back into his lungs, and then down at his mother with a spine of steel he had clearly never dared to show her before.
“Mom, stop,” Ryan said, his voice cold and steady. “Derek assaulted me, he poured beer over my wife’s head, and he threw the first punch—or at least, he tried to before he tripped over his own clumsy feet. If you call the police, we’ll be more than happy to show them Marissa’s video, along with the security camera footage mounted right above the garage.”
Diane froze, her mouth hanging open. She looked over at Marissa, who was still pressed against the patio door looking like she wanted the earth to swallow her whole.
“Marissa? You recorded this?” Diane hissed, betrayal dripping from every syllable.
“Mom, I didn't record the fight, I was looking up something on YouTube and the algorithm threw up an old sports highlight from when Claire was fighting professionally!” Marissa whimpered, holding her phone out defensively. “I didn't know! None of us knew! If we knew she was a literal national champion, do you think I would have let Derek pour beer on her head? I value my teeth, Mom!”
Uncle Gary, who had remained safely seated through the entire ordeal, cleared his throat awkwardly and adjusted his glasses. “Well... to be fair, Diane, Derek did start it. He’s been running his mouth all afternoon. A man can only poke a bear so many times before it bites his head off. Or, in this case, sweeps his leg.”
“Gary, shut up!” Diane snapped, turning a furious red. She managed to help Derek roll onto his side, where he coughed violently, finally spitting out a glob of saliva and glaring up at me with eyes full of pure, unadulterated humiliation and malice.
“You’re... you’re dead,” Derek wheezed, his voice sounding like gravel grinding in a cement mixer. He clutched his ribs, wincing as he tried to push himself up. “You’re both dead. I’m suing you. I’m pressing charges. I’ll take your house, your car, your stupid little graphic design business—”
“Derek, shut your mouth before you embarrass yourself further,” I interrupted, taking a slow step toward him.
Derek flinched. Even flat on his back, covered in mustard and potato salad, his primal instincts recognized that I could end him permanently before his mother could finish dialing 911. He instinctively tucked his chin and shrank back against the splintered wood.
“You invited us to this barbecue,” I continued, my voice calm, rhythmic, and entirely devoid of fear. “You insulted your brother, you disrespected me, and you thought you could bully your way through the afternoon because you’re fifty pounds heavier than Ryan. But here’s the reality check, Derek: the world doesn't care about your gym membership. And neither do I.”
I turned my gaze to Diane, who was still hovering over her son like a frantic mother hen.
“We’re leaving,” I said clearly. “Ryan, let’s go.”
“Right behind you, honey,” Ryan said, offering me a warm, reassuring smile.
As we walked away from the wreckage of the patio table and toward our car parked in the driveway, the entire backyard watched us in stunned, terrified silence. Not a single person dared to say a word. The myth of the Carter family’s superiority—built on Derek’s loud mouth and Diane’s superficial snobbery—had been shattered in less than ten seconds on a suburban deck.
We got into our sedan, the engine purring to life as Ryan backed out of the driveway.
For the first few minutes of the drive, neither of us spoke. The tension of the afternoon slowly began to drain out of the cabin, replaced by an odd, quiet energy.
Finally, Ryan glanced sideways at me, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. He reached across the center console and gently took my hand, squeezing my fingers.
“You know,” Ryan grinned, “for five years, I’ve been waiting for someone to put Derek in his place. I didn't think it would be my wife in a wet white sundress.”
I looked out the window at the passing suburban houses, a small smile playing at the corners of my lips. “He was asking for it, Ryan. Besides, I told him he had three seconds.”
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“Yeah,” Ryan laughed, shaking his head. “He didn't even make it to two.”
Little did we know, Derek’s bruised ego was already plotting a pathetic revenge—one that would drag our quiet lives into a petty family war we never asked for.
