Feb 11
Honestly, Y’all might not be ready for Ep8 and Ep9 of the adventures of denny wahlcarthy cause it’s about to go down
seen from Sri Lanka
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Spain
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Maldives
seen from Finland
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Pakistan
seen from United States
seen from Venezuela
seen from Venezuela
seen from China
Honestly, Y’all might not be ready for Ep8 and Ep9 of the adventures of denny wahlcarthy cause it’s about to go down
Illinois Governor DILFs
Jim Edgar, Otto Kerner Jr., James R. Thompson, George Ryan, Louis Lincoln Emmerson, William Ryan, Samuel Shapiro, Len Small, Rod Blagojevich, Dwight H. Green, J.B. Pritzker, Henry Horner, Adlai Stevenson II, Richard B. Ogilvie, Pat Quinn, Bruce Rauner, Dan Walker, Frank Orren Lowden
The tide of World War I changed permanently 100 years ago in July 1918, when General Erich Ludendorff launched...
S1 Ep9: Father Figure
Part 2 of the episode father figure
Warning: A lot of stuff that mentions an affair fling, cheating, denny meeting patrick. ALL OF IT IS FAN FICTION NOT REAL LIFE
Rating: PG-13
See Part One
The street had been renamed “Big Time Rush Avenue” for the weekend as part of a promotional stunt tied to the reboot filming—giant banners of Kendall, James, Carlos, and Logan flapping in the February wind, food trucks blasting old BTR songs, and teenagers taking selfies in front of the temporary “Palm Woods” sign. The actual set for *Memory of a Killer* Episode 3 was cordoned off two blocks over, but the energy had spilled everywhere. William walked in the middle of the group like the world’s most tired chaperone, hands in his coat pockets, occasionally barking at Uncle Josèph (who was trailing fifty feet behind, yelling about how he could “totally be an extra if they needed a big dumb Viking”). Denny was in the front with Beavis—holding hands, her mismatched Converse kicking up slush—while Daria, Iris-Lynne, and Stewart formed a loose triangle behind them.
Denny was mid-rant.
“—and then Uncle Josèph tried to ‘fix’ the dishwasher by hitting it with a hammer. A hammer. Aviva had to call the plumber at 2 a.m. and now we’re banned from using the kitchen sink until Tuesday—”
Beavis was laughing so hard he almost tripped over a curb. “He’s a legend. Absolute chaos god.”
Iris-Lynne was filming the whole thing on her phone for her story. “This is gold. Caption: ‘Denny’s uncle vs. modern appliances: round 47.’”
Daria monotone: “He’s going to die trying to unclog the garbage disposal with a coat hanger one day. I’ll bring popcorn.”
Stewart nodded solemnly. “I’ll bring emotional support tissues.”
They rounded the corner near the barricades just as the production called a ten-minute break. Crew members spilled out, stretching, scrolling phones. And there—wandering alone down the sidewalk in a black puffer jacket, baseball cap pulled low—was Patrick Dempsey. Hands in pockets, eyes on the ground, clearly trying to stay incognito.
Denny didn’t see the black SUV rolling slowly toward the crosswalk.
“—so anyway, Josèph thinks if you yell at appliances loud enough they’ll just work out of fear—”
She glanced up.
The SUV wasn’t stopping fast enough.
Patrick was right in its path.
Denny didn’t think.
She sprinted—braids flying, Converse pounding pavement—launched herself at Patrick like a linebacker, and tackled him sideways onto the snowy grass median.
They hit with a muffled *whump*. Patrick landed on his back; Denny sprawled half across his chest, one arm protectively over his head.
The SUV braked hard, horn blaring once, then crept past.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Iris-Lynne shrieked and burst into tears.
Stewart started hyperventilating.
Daria’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit.”
Beavis whooped, fists in the air. “That’s my girl! Hero mode activated!”
Denny scrambled up first, offering Patrick both hands. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to tackle you like a linebacker—”
Patrick took her hands, letting her pull him to his feet. He brushed snow off his jacket, then really looked at her.
And froze.
The same sharp cheekbones. The same bright, expressive eyes. The smile—small, a little crooked—that mirrored his own in old photos.
He blinked. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “You just saved my life.”
Denny flushed. “No problem. I mean—yeah. Anytime.”
William came jogging up, face pale. “Denny—Jesus—are you okay?”
Patrick’s gaze snapped to William. Recognition hit like a freight train.
“Will?”
William stopped short. Exhaled.
Patrick looked between them—Denny, then William, then back to Denny.
He knew.
“Who is she?” Patrick asked, voice barely above a whisper.
William put a steadying hand on Denny’s shoulder. “This is Denny. Your daughter.”
Denny’s breath caught.
Patrick stared at her—really stared—like he was seeing a ghost made flesh.
“Serena…” he breathed. The name came out like prayer and pain at once. “She left because… she was protecting you. Our daughter.”
Denny’s eyes filled. “You… you didn’t know?”
Patrick shook his head once. Slow. “I didn’t know.”
Then he stepped forward and pulled her into a hug—gentle at first, then tight, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go. Denny stood frozen for half a second—shocked, terrified he’d hate her, reject her—then melted into it. Her arms came up around him. She buried her face in his coat and started crying—quiet, hiccuping sobs.
Iris-Lynne was full-on sobbing now, clutching Stewart’s sleeve. Stewart handed her a wad of fast-food napkins without looking away from the scene.
Beavis wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “That’s… that’s really beautiful, man.”
Patrick finally pulled back, hands on Denny’s shoulders, studying her face like he was memorizing every detail.
William cleared his throat. “She’s been with me since last year. I adopted her officially two weeks ago. She’s… she’s ours now. But she’s always been yours too.”
Patrick looked at William—really looked. “You raised her. You kept her safe.”
William shrugged, eyes shiny. “Someone had to. And you raised me first, remember? When I was thirteen and you were twenty-something and Mom and Dad were gone half the time. You taught me how to be a dad by being one for me.” Patrick laughed—wet, disbelieving—and clapped a hand on William’s shoulder. “You’re a better one than I ever was.”
William snorted. “Learned from the best.”
Stewart—still teary—blurted, “But what about Jillian? When she finds out about the affair—”Daria’s hand clamped over his mouth so fast it made a smack, “Not. Now. Stevenson.”
Stewart mumbled apologies into her palm.
Patrick exhaled, shaky laugh. “We’ll figure that out. Right now…” He looked back at Denny. “I just want to know you.”
Denny wiped her face. “I’d… I’d like that.”
The trailer was bigger than Denny expected—cozy, lived-in. Photos taped to the wall: Patrick on set, Patrick with his kids, Patrick laughing at the beach.
And older ones.
Serena—young, radiant, blue tips catching sunlight—on a beach blanket. Stargazing on a rooftop. Laughing in the rain.
Denny stared at them, throat tight.
Patrick noticed. “I kept them. Never could throw them out.”
Denny’s eyes landed on one photo tucked in the corner: a teenage boy with bleach-blond hair, red T-shirt, oversized green jacket with blue sleeves, grinning like an idiot.
She pointed. “Who’s this guy? He looks like a rejected Saved by the Bell extra.”
Patrick laughed. “That’s William. Summer of ’95. He bleached his hair because he saw me do it for a movie role. Thought it’d make him look cool.”
William—sitting on the couch with the rest of the group—groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “I looked like a banana had a baby with a traffic cone.” Iris-Lynne cackled. “Let me see! Oh my god—William, you were a whole vibe!” Stewart leaned in. “Bro, you look like Zack Morris if Zack Morris lost a bet with a bottle of peroxide.” Daria deadpanned: “I need this framed.” Beavis grinned. “Dude. You look like you’re about to sell anyone a timeshare.”
William facepalmed so hard it echoed. “I hate all of you.”
Patrick chuckled, then turned to Denny. Soft.
“Why’d you change your name, kid?”
Denny looked down at her hands. “In the foster homes… the other kids would sing that song. ‘Daisy Bell.’ ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do…’ They’d make it mean. Like I was some old-timey joke. So I picked Denny. After Donnie Wahlberg and Jenny McCarthy. Felt like mine.”
Daria, Iris-Lynne, and Stewart went quiet.
Iris-Lynne’s lip wobbled. “That’s awful.”
Stewart nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Daria—rare softness in her voice: “You picked a good one. Denny suits you.”
Denny managed a small smile. “Thanks.”
Patrick reached over, squeezed her hand. “Daisy-Belle Dempsey. It’s a beautiful name. But Denny Wahlcarthy? That’s who you are now. And I’m proud to know her.”
Denny’s eyes filled again.
She leaned over and hugged him—quick, fierce. Patrick hugged back.
And for the first time in sixteen years, the pieces of a broken story started clicking into place.
Not perfect.
Not easy.
But real.
And that was enough for today.
S1 Ep1: The Beginning
Warning: Strong Language, Mentions of mistreatment, bullying
Rating: PG-13
Minneapolis, February 2025. The air outside was a knife, -20°F with the windchill, the kind of cold that bites your lungs and makes you question every life choice that brought you to Minnesota. Inside the Minnesota Care Center on Lake Street, it was too hot, smelled like bleach and cafeteria tater-tot hotdish, and the fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects.
Denny Wahlcarthy, sixteen, autistic, and currently the resident punching bag for every bored asshole in the group home, sat cross-legged on her narrow bed sketching Donnie Wahlberg with devil horns and a speech bubble that said “Fuck the haters.” Her blonde hair was dipped in cotton-candy pink and electric blue at the tips, sticking out from under a thrifted red jacket covered in enamel pins (NKOTB, Big Time Rush, One Direction, whatever boy band made her brain feel quiet for five goddamn minutes). Purple plaid skirt, black leggings, mismatched socks (one had tiny tacos, the other had unicorns), black Converse scuffed to hell.
Down the hall, the usual chorus of dickheads was at it again.
“Hey, Rain Man, you gonna flap your way to Harvard or what?”
“Yo, Denny, say something in autistic!”
She didn’t even look up. Just flipped them off with the hand holding the pencil.
Mrs. Chantelle’s voice cut through the hallway like a fire axe. “One more word and every single one of you little shits is scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush until graduation, you hear me?” Mrs. Chantelle was five-foot-nothing, fifty-something, and terrified exactly no one except everyone. The hallway went graveyard quiet.
She appeared in Denny’s doorway a minute later, softer now. “Sweetheart? Can you come to my office?”
Denny shoved her sketchbook into her ratty backpack (also covered in boy-band pins) and followed, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
Mrs. Chantelle closed the office door. “You’re getting adopted.”
Denny froze. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Language, but no. He’s here. He’s… he’s good people, Denny. I vetted him myself.”
Denny’s heart tried to punch out of her ribcage. She’d been in the system since she was six. Nobody picks the autistic teenager with the loud mouth and the special interests and the meltdowns. Nobody.
She walked into the meeting room like she was walking the plank.
William Ryan stood up. Forty-six, brown hair going a little salt-and-pepper, brown eyes that looked like they’d seen some shit but still had light in them. Flannel shirt, Carhartt jacket, the kind of guy who could fix your furnace and also cry at Pixar movies.
Denny took one look at him and knew, the way you just know some things, that this was it.
She dropped her backpack, sprinted and slammed into him with a hug that nearly took him off his feet.
“Hi!” she sang, high and off-key, rocking side to side. “I’m Denny with a Y!”
William laughed, startled but not scared, and hugged her back like he’d been waiting sixteen years to do it. “Hi, Denny with a Y. I’m Will. Your dad, if you want me.”
Mrs. Chantelle quietly shut the door to give them a minute.
An hour later they were in William’s battered Subaru, heat cranked, headed west on I-94. Snow blurred the windshield.
“So,” William said, hands steady at ten and two, “Denny. How’d you get a name that cool?”
Denny kicked her Converse against the dash. “Donnie Wahlberg plus Jenny McCarthy, smash ‘em together, you get Denny Wahlcarthy. My mom was obsessed with them when they dated. She thought it was hilarious.”
William grinned. “That’s metal as fuck.”
“What’s your real name? Like, the boring one on your birth certificate?”
Denny went very still. “Let’s just not talk about it.”
He nodded once. “Copy that.”
They pulled up to a big blue Victorian in St. Louis Park forty minutes later. Christmas lights still up because nobody had the energy to take them down in January, let alone February.
The front door flew open before William even killed the engine.
A woman with wild brown curls in a ponytail and welding goggles pushed up on her head launched herself at the car. “Is this her name Aviva Corcovado, forty-five, mad inventor, grease on her cheek, wearing a T-shirt that said “Trust Me, I’m an Engineer.”
“Holy aesthetic, Batman!” Aviva yelled, yanking Denny into a spinning hug. “You’re like if Billie Eilish and a Lisa Frank trapper keeper had a baby!”
Denny squeaked, overwhelmed but grinning.
Then came the sisters.
Janice, twenty-one, art-school dropout, black lipstick, arms crossed, already radiating “I don’t get paid enough for this” energy. “Great. Another teenager. Just what this house needed.”
Grace, seventeen, pastel goth princess, literally squealed and tackled Denny next. “Oh my God your hair is everything! We’re gonna be best friends, I’m calling it!”
Denny blinked, trying to process the onslaught. “So… you two are Aviva’s from before?”
“Yup,” Grace said, popping the p. “Different dads. Family tree’s a goddamn pretzel.”
Denny looked at William. “You got any secret kids I should know about?”
As if summoned, a blonde blur in ripped fishnets and a leather jacket vaulted over the banister, landed like a cat, and screamed “BOO!” right in Denny’s face.
Denny shrieked and stumbled back into William.
“Julie Ryan-Martinez!” William barked. “We talked about the sneaking!”
Julie, seventeen, safety pins in her ears, blonde hair shaved on one side, grinned like a gremlin. “Hi, new sister! I’m the offspring from Dad’s ill-advised first marriage. Welcome to the circus, bitch!”
Denny, recovering, laughed so hard she snort. “Damn. This family’s a soap opera.”
From the top of the stairs came an ominous rumbling, like a bowling ball with dreams. Then a grown-ass man in a Kansas Chiefs jersey tumbled down the last five steps, landed in a heap, and popped up with a dopey grin.
“Sup, Cotton Candy!” he announced to Denny.
William pinched the bridge of his nose. “Josèph. We literally just talked about not calling people food.”
Uncle Josèph, forty-three, Aviva’s brother, proud holder of two brain cells that rarely spoke to each other, scratched his head. “But her hair looks like the stuff from the state fair!”
Denny touched her pink-and-blue tips and shrugged. “I mean… he’s not wrong.”
William sighed. “Welcome home, kid.”
Denny looked around: at the chaos, the love, the noise, the people who already felt like hers.
She smiled, small and real and a little teary.
The kitchen smelled like garlic bread and Prego sauce thick enough to stand a spoon in. Aviva had made spaghetti, the kind where the noodles were slightly overcooked and the meatballs were half-beef, half-Italian sausage because “that’s how the Corcovados do it, fight me.” Everyone crowded around the big oak table that had seen better decades, except Uncle Josèph, who was banished to a plastic Paw Patrol table in the corner with a plastic Spiderman plate and a sippy cup that definitely had beer in it.
Denny sat between Grace and Julie, twirling spaghetti like a pro while trying not to stare at the grown man eating dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets because he’d already spilled sauce on himself twice during appetizers.
She leaned toward Julie. “Why is uncle josèph at the kiddie table?”
Julie snorted so hard marinara almost came out her nose. “Because last Thanksgiving he flipped an entire bowl of gravy onto the ceiling fan. It rained turkey juice for twenty minutes. Aviva lost her goddamn religion. He’s been demoted ever since.”
Across the table, Josèph raised his sippy cup proudly. “Worth it!”
William, at the head of the table, just sighed the sigh of a man who’d given up on dignity years ago.
Grace kept sneaking Denny extra garlic bread. Janice scrolled TikTok and occasionally muttered “cringe” under her breath every time Denny got excited and flapped her hands. Aviva threatened to invent a phone-eating robot if Janice didn’t put it down.
It was loud, messy, overwhelming, and perfect.
After dinner the adults vanished (Aviva to her basement workshop, Janice to sulk in her room, Grace to FaceTime her girlfriend). Julie and Josèph started an aggressive Mario Kart tournament in the living room that mostly involved screaming and throwing controllers.
Denny followed William to the kitchen. He was already elbow-deep in sudsy water, sleeves rolled up, wedding ring glinting.
“Here,” he said, tossing her a dish towel with tiny tacos on it. “You dry.”
They worked in quiet for a minute, just the clink of plates and the distant sound of Josèph yelling “BLUE SHELL, YOU COWARD!”
William glanced over. “So. Favorite color?”
“Cerulean.”
“Favorite NKOTB member?”
“Donnie, obviously, I’m literally named after him.”
“Favorite planet?”
“Neptune. It’s misunderstood.”
He grinned. “Favorite dinosaur?”
“Spinosaurus, because it had a sail and was probably a dramatic bitch.”
William laughed. “Do you like your room? We can paint it whatever—”
Denny cut him off, voice suddenly small. “Can I go to school?”
He stopped scrubbing a pot. “What?”
“Like… real school. Not the online bullshit they made me do at the group home. I want to go to actual high school. With lockers and cafeteria pizza and people who suck but at least they’re real.”
William set the pot down, turned the water off, looked at her dead-on. “Yeah. Of course you can go to school. We’ll get you registered tomorrow if you want. Whatever you need—IEP meeting, accommodations, noise-canceling headphones, a damn emotional support llama—I’ll make it happen.”
Denny stared at him, eyes wide, then at the taco towel in her hands like it might disappear. She dried her fingers slowly, deliberately, then launched herself at him.
William caught her, wet hands and all, hugging her tight against his soaked flannel shirt.
“Thank you,” she mumbled into his chest, voice cracking on the second syllable.
He rested his chin on top of her cotton-candy hair. “Anytime, kid. Anytime.”
From the living room came a triumphant screech from josèph: “I WIN, YOU DUMB SON OF A—”
“Language!” William and Aviva yelled at the same time.
Denny laughed, shaky and wet and happy into his shirt.
S1 Ep2 Will Be Released On December 8th
I hope y’all enjoyed the premiere of The Adventures Of Denny WahlCarthy! I can’t believe that I’m officially releasing a spin-off of The Kids On The New Block in which it will come back when I have the energy to draw more scenes lol, but yeah I hope y’all enjoy the new series and more craziness
Denny WahlCarthty’s Real name is Daisy Bell Dempsey
Can y’all guess who her birth father is? 👀
Hint is in the tags!
S1 Ep2: First Day Of School
Warning: Cussing, Dumb Uncle Josèph annoying Janice, a sorta Franklin and bash reunion????
Rating: PG-13
Denny was dead to the world, curled on her side in a nest of blankets, arms wrapped around Gerald the chicken plush like he was the only thing keeping the planet spinning. She had on a black long-sleeve tee and the softest pink-and-blue plaid pajama pants known to man. One sock had little avocados, the other had tiny screaming possums.
The door burst open like a SWAT team had lost a bet.
“RISE AND SHINE, COTTON CANDY!” Uncle Josèph bellowed, wearing a full-body bunny onesie (ears and all) and a stainless-steel pasta pot on his head like a knight’s helmet. He banged two wooden spoons together. “IT IS TIME FOR THE LEARNING!”
Denny shot upright, hair exploding in seventeen directions. “What the actual fuck, dude?!”
Julie appeared behind him in an ancient Mötley Crüe shirt and dark-red plaid pants, grabbed Josèph by the bunny hood, and started dragging him backward. “Jesus Christ, Josèph, personal space! She’s autistic, not deaf!”
“LET ME GO, I HAVE TO SOUND THE MORNING REVEILLE!”
Julie slammed the door in his protesting face, then turned to Denny. “Dad already got you registered. You start today. Bus comes in forty-five. I laid out coffee and a Pop-Tart downstairs. Welcome to hell, population: us.”
Denny blinked twice, processed, then flapped her hands so hard Gerald almost achieved liftoff. “Holy shit, okay.”
Forty minutes later she thundered down the stairs looking like a Hot Topic fever dream: black headband with a giant white bow, sleeveless white babydoll dress, cropped black leather jacket, black leggings, left foot in a pink Converse, right foot in a blue one. Backpack pins clinked like wind chimes.
Grace took one look and screamed. Julie just nodded approvingly. “That’s the most you thing I’ve ever seen. Ten out of ten.”
School was chaos in the best way. By third period Denny had claimed locker 218 and turned it into a shrine: Taylor Swift polaroids, NKOTB trading cards from 1990, Big Time Rush posters, an *NSYNC marionette she’d made in the group home, Backstreet Boys, One Direction, the whole boy-band pantheon. She even taped up a tiny disco ball that actually spun when you opened the door.
Julie and Grace found her at lunch blasting “I Knew You Were Trouble” from her phone while organizing her Taylor CDs like a drug dealer showing product.
Grace gasped. “You like Taylor too?!”
Denny whipped out the actual 1989 CD like it was Excalibur. “Bitch, I own the Target deluxe edition with the polaroids.” Grace and Julie lost their entire minds, screaming the bridge in the hallway until a teacher threatened detention.
Meanwhile, back at the blue Victorian William and Aviva were on the couch drinking coffee like it was medicine.
“She’s only been here a week,” Aviva said, voice soft, “and I already forget what the house felt like without her.”
William rubbed the back of his neck. “I keep waiting to fuck this up, but she just… fits.”
Knock knock knock.
William opened the door to Adam Whitelock (tall, polished, wearing a LaRouge-Cola branded hoodie because the man never stopped working) and Olive Ryan-Whitelock (William’s baby sister, police chief, still in half her uniform because she’d come straight from shift). Hugs, backslaps, the usual.
Then the front door exploded open again and Denny, Grace, and Julie tumbled in, laughing and singing the “shame shame shame” part of the Taylor song at full volume. Denny skidded to a stop when she saw the visitors. Olive (42, blonde hair in waves, badge still clipped to her belt) raised an eyebrow. Adam grinned like he’d just won the lottery.
William cleared his throat. “Denny, this is my sister Olive and her husband Adam. Guys, this is Denny.” Denny tilted her head, eyes flicking between the adults, then blurted, “So when are you moving in?” Adam choked on air. “Excuse me?” Olive laughed. “Kid’s got intuition.”
Denny shrugged. “Four suitcases in the trunk of the Tesla, plus Serinity’s Switch games on the porch. I’m smart, not blind.”
Adam looked at William. “I like her already.”
Grace whispered, “Serinity and Jimmy Z are in the car arguing over the aux cord.” Denny’s eyes went comically wide. “There’s more of them?”
“Yes there is!” Serinity said in an anger tone once Jimmy Z got the hold of the Aux Cord and she shoved him causing him to say “OOF”. “I’m serinity and this is my annoying brother Jimmy Z” Serinity said while pointing to Jimmy Z.
“I’m Jimmy Z, Nice to meet ya and I’m afraid of animals.” Jimmy Z Said while having his hand out in which Denny shaked his hand “Um...Nice To Meet You, Too?”
The dining-room table looked like a bomb had gone off in an Olive Garden. Three kinds of pasta, two pots of sauce, garlic bread that was 60% butter, and a suspicious amount of shredded cheese that Aviva swore was “just a light dusting.” Fourteen people now crammed around a table built for eight. Elbows were weapons.
Uncle Josèph sat at the kiddie table again, wearing a Viking-horn helmet made of tinfoil and yelling “SKOL!” every time someone passed him the parmesan. Janice was already vibrating with rage because he’d “accidentally” flung a meatball into her hair five minutes ago.
Jimmy Z (red hair, hoodie that definitely had Cheeto dust in the pocket) was sitting directly across from Denny and had apparently decided she was the most interesting thing since the new Call of Duty dropped.
Jimmy, mouth half-full of spaghetti asks denny “So do you main support or DPS in Overwatch?” Denny, twirling noodles said “Mercy one-trick, fight me.”
“FACTS.” Jimmy said “Okay, rank all five One Direction albums worst to best, go.” Denny Said “Easy, Midnight Memories, FOUR, Up All Night, Made in the A.M., then Take Me Home deserved better.” Jimmy dropped his fork “Holy shit we’re the same person. Do you have the Taylor’s Version vinyls or are you a fake fan?”
Denny smirked “I have all four on vinyl and the CDs and I cried during the Long Live speech change in Jersey, next question.”
Grace was filming the entire interrogation on her phone. Julie kept leaning over to steal Denny’s garlic bread and whisper “marry him” every time Jimmy got more excited in which denny had to remind her that they are cousins
Jimmy, vibrating in excitement “Do you ever get songs stuck in your head for like three weeks straight and—”
Denny suddenly spun in her chair, locked eyes with him, and blurted “Do you have ADHD?”
The entire table went dead quiet except for Josèph, who chose that moment to yell “TO VALHALLA!” and flip a noodle onto Janice’s lap.
Jimmy blinked twice, then grinned like Christmas came early. “Diagnosed at seven, bro. Why, you too?” Denny stuck her hand out across the table, solemn as a blood oath. “Welcome to the club, my guy.”
Jimmy slapped her hand in the most aggressive high-five/shake hybrid known to man. Their forearms knocked over the parmesan. It snowed cheese.
William, watching the whole thing, started laughing so hard he had to put his head on the table. Aviva reached over and rubbed his back like he was choking.
Meanwhile, at the kiddie table:
Josèph poking at Janice “Janice, Janice, Janice, Janice—” Janice, through gritted teeth “I swear to God I will end you.” Josèph said “But if you put spaghetti in the VCR does it play Italian?” Serinity in the living room yelled “IT’S A DVD PLAYER AND IT’S 2025!”
Janice launched a meatball. It hit Josèph square in the tinfoil horn. He gasped like he’d been betrayed by his own people.
Olive the police chief actually had to stand up and blow her whistle (she carried a whistle now, nobody asked why) to restore order while denny and Jimmy were still handshake-locked, grinning like two raccoons who just discovered an open dumpster.
William finally wheezed, wiping his eyes: “This is the best worst dinner of my life.”
Denny looked around (at the cheese blizzard, the meatball crime scene, Josèph now wearing spaghetti like a scarf, Jimmy already asking if she wanted to co-op Stardew Valley after dinner) and felt something settle warm and solid in her chest.
“Yeah,” she said, stealing Julie’s garlic bread right back. “Mine too.”
Later that night, after everyone finally crashed, William and Adam sat on the back porch sharing a beer.
“Remember when we were sixteen and thought forty was ancient?” Adam asked.
William snorted. “Speak for yourself, grandpa.”
Adam was quiet for a minute. “Your kid’s something else, man. I already love her like she’s my own niece.” Upstairs, Denny wearing the chicken onesie Aviva had bought her as a joke that was now her favorite thing on earth had been creeping down for water. She heard Adam’s words and froze on the dark staircase. Her foot missed the next step.
She windmilled, chicken-wing sleeves flapping, and ate shit the last six stairs in a glorious avalanche of plush feathers and teenage limbs.
THUD THUD THUD CRASH.
William and Adam bolted inside. “Denny!” William dropped to his knees beside her. “Are you okay? Talk to me!”
Denny laid there on her back, chicken hood flopped over one eye, and started cackling. “I’m fine, Dad. Gravity just hates me personally. Also That Josèph dude talked about broccoli again.”
William exhaled so hard it fogged in the cold air coming through the open door. He pulled her into a sitting hug anyway. Adam crouched too, grinning. “Welcome to the family, denny.”
Denny leaned into William’s side, smiling so big her cheeks hurt. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I really am.”
S1 Ep3 will be out on Christmas!
Title: The Bloody Meadow | Author: William Ryan | Publisher: Crazy Horse Publishing (2021)