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“This should be interesting,” Briggs observes.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” I admit.

We men greet each other with manly nods, some friendly mockery, and a little backslapping. The three of us watch the three of them working together to arrange the chairs in a family group similar to ours, with the cooler front and center.

Their dynamic is so efficient it’s almost scary, and I can’t help but notice that June is always at the center of it.

We wind up in a loose, open circle, with Laurel and June in the middle but next to each other, so they can keep talking. Laurel looks almost relaxed now June’s here.

I like June. Everybody does. She’s honest, kind, and I can see she makes a good friend.

For some reason, I’m pleased that Laurel is making friends. Then I realize why. First, I want her to be happy. Second, if she makes enough, she might stay.

I open a fresh beer and sit back, almost hypnotized by the smooth interactions between June and her men. They make sure she’s got everything she wants, then they handle everything else, the kids, the food, the drinks, with a wordless cooperation I’ve never seen before.

It’s almost supernatural.

“Fascinating,” Ashby says softly next to me, breaking into my train of thought.

“You noticed it too?” I ask.

“It’s like a well-oiled machine. Every part knows what to do when it’s needed, never encroaching on the others. Achieving the desired result in perfect harmony,” he replies, a hint of admiration in his voice.

“How do they do it?” I ask. Don’t they get jealous of the others?

“Observe, listen, and learn,” he tells me.

Briggs is hunkered down, patiently showing Lucy how to toast marshmallows without setting the sticks on fire. From the burnt smell wafting over, it’s not going well.

There’s a regular exchange of good-natured banter between June’s family that mostly surrounds domestic life and child rearing. I know Ashby and Briggs are listening as well as me.

At one point, June teasingly accuses Fletcher of losing both babies’ socks in one afternoon.

Fletcher, with Noah asleep against his chest, a beer in one hand, shrugs helplessly. “They both decided they don’t like socks. They ganged up on me,” he defends himself.

Wayne takes a sip of his beer before pointing out, “You dropped one into a storm drain.”

“I didn’t drop it. Noah did,” Fletcher claims. “Then the wind caught it.”

“The oldest excuse in the book,” Rex says, nudging him mildly in the ribs. “And I should know. I wrote it.”

There’s a lot of laughter and the sort of teasing that only happens between people who know each other really well and like each other’s company.

I see Laurel watching them too.

I notice because I’m watching her.

Again.

Dangerous habit.

Is she thinking the same thing as me and Ashby?

Briggs brings Lucy over to proudly show off her first s’more to Laurel.

“Mine caught on fire,” she explains, holding out the charred blob.

Briggs nods solemnly. “That means it respects you,” he tells her, exchanging a fresh, unincinerated one for the original.