Page 12 of Pretty Relentless

“So what else is new? You seeing anyone?” he asks quietly, even though we’re the only two in the room.

My brain flashes with an image of Ava, despite the fact we’re not dating. “Uhh, no.”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“The hesitation.”

I scoff and cross my arms over my chest.

“Thereissomeone. I can tell.”

“You can’t tell shit,” I counter. “There’s no one.”

Paul chuckles. “That right there. I can tell because you instantly got defensive. Tell me.”

I feel the weight of his eyes on me as I try to sit calmly, but as the silence goes on, I start to squirm. I consider my options, but in the end, I know he won’t let it slide. He’s like a dog with a bone, determined to pull any dirt out of me he can get. When we were little, he used to tickle me until I cracked. Now, he just waits and stares until I have no other option. I’m sure it’s a technique he’s perfected throughout raising his kids.

Asshole.

“There’s someone I…like.”

“And?” he encourages, wanting more.

“And, that’s it. I would love to ask her out, but I’m pretty sure she will resist.”

“Why?”

I glance around, making sure no one is within earshot. “She’s Annabelle’s teacher.”

“Okay, so?”

I shrug. “It’s not that simple. She’s pretty reserved and doesn’t date much. And I’m certain she wouldn’t date the father of one of her students.”

Paul leans a little closer, placing his elbows on the table. “I don’t know, man. You were always a persistent little thing whenyou were younger. I bet, if you wanted to, you could convince her to give you a shot.”

“This isn’t like talking Mom into giving us more time to stay up and watchBatman, Paul,” I reply with a laugh.

He shrugs as the front door opens. “That’s probably Grandma. The Christmas Eve service should be over by now,” he states, jumping up and going to help her inside. Grandma Zelda may be in her eighties, but she’s still incredibly active and very involved in her church.

“I invited a friend to join us for dessert,” Grandma announces as she slips her coat off and hangs it on the tree beside the door.

Getting up from my seat, I pull out the chair at the end of the table. “How was the service, Grandma?”

“It was lovely, dear. The Christmas services are always my favorite,” she says.

“What can I get you to drink, Grandma?” my sister, Ginger, asks, joining us in the dining room.

“Coffee, please.”

“Is it time for dessert?” Mason, my sister’s fourteen-year-old son, hollers from the living room, where he is playing Uno.

“Sure is!” Grandma replies, smiling as the kids all seem to come running. A knock sounds at the front door. “Oh, that’s probably my church friend, Betty.”

I hear the front door open, but my eyes are zeroing in on the peach pie my mom made for tonight as it’s brought to the antique buffet table where the desserts are placed. If I don’t hurry, it’ll be gone, the pan practically licked clean by the Neanderthal I call my brother.

We’ve always fought over the peach pie.

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