Page 55 of The Last Good Man

“I don’t believe you,” he says.

She makes a swift gesture, her gaze tilted down.

“Who wants you to settle down, little devil?” she murmurs. “Not me, for sure. I’m not ready to become a grandmother. I still have a teen in my house. And you’re not that far off.”

An amused chuckle peels off my brother’s lips.

Her eyes meet mine.

“Are you going to tell me about Angelina?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

I study her face before sagging back in my seat with my arms foldedon my chest.

“You made me curious.”

“She’s a girl.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty.”

“And you say I know her.”

“You saw her for sure. Maybe she didn’t catch your eye. She looks different now.”

“She cute?” my brother interferes.

“Shut up,” she saysnolonger in the mood for his comments.

“She’s marriage material,” my brother goes on, unfazed. “And that’s her ploy to make you interested in her,” he adds.

He’s probably right.

I don’t remember a girl named Angelina. I last walked into a flower shop when I was fourteen.

After that, whenever I brought flowers to my mother or my sister, I had people pick them up, and I delivered them.

“Forget about it,” she says, pushing out of her chair.

She collects her plate and utensils before moving to the sink and turning the water on.

“Any chance she’s heard of me?” I toss at her, irony lacing my voice.

If it’s a ploy, this Angelina woman might not even know she’s the topic of our conversations.

Keeping my stare on my mother’s back, I wait for her to speak.

She softly shrugs and finishes washing her plate before turning the water off, patting her hands dry with a towel, and swiveling to me.

“You think I made her up?”

“No. I’mjustcurious what made you bring it up in the conversation.”

Her eyes drill into mine, and I hold her gaze, knowingfull wellshe’s picked up on something in my behavior.

That’s why she started talking about women and girls and whatnot.

---