Page 40 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

“That’s not very nice.” Ryder frowned.

Myrtle shrugged. “I didn’t make it this far in life by being nice.”

“I can’t see that. I’m old,” Horace said, peering at his phone over Charles’s shoulder. “Screen cast it.”

“Do you need help?” I asked then suddenly wondered if I actually knew how to do it.

“I got it.” Frances hustled over. “I used to work at Microsoft.” She tapped the phone.

Ryder covered his eyes, as there on the screen was my grandmother shooting beer out of her vag.

“This is an amazing third date,” I said to Ryder, kissing him.

“What, no!” he sputtered.

“This was your date?” The senior citizens turned on him.

“We went over this, Ryder,” one elderly man insisted. “Over and over about how to impress a lady.”

“Your instruction sucked, Joe.”

Mildred swatted Ryder with her cane. “What are you still doing here?”

“I just got here,” Ryder protested. “We’re eating lunch.”

“Lunch, my ass. You and you girlfriend need to go out on the town. You kids can’t waste your Saturday on us old geezers.”

“Get a life, Ryder!” one lady yelled affectionately.

“Or just fuck her in the back of your truck!” Edna called.

I laughed at him as his face reddened.

He was still trying to fend off advice-giving seniors as I pulled on my coat.

There was a bony hand on my arm. Myrtle peered up at me critically. “Ryder is very dear to all of us. He’s a good boy. Don’t you dare break his heart.”

“Usually I stay several hours,”Ryder confessed. “I feel bad leaving early.”

“You’ll have to make it up to them next weekend and tell them all about our date.”

“Not a date,” he corrected, putting the truck in gear and flipping on the radio. Christmas music played. “Oh, I love this song!” he said happily, turning up the radio.

I couldn’t stop the smile.

“What?” He glanced at me sheepishly. “It’s Christmas. Who doesn’t like Christmas?”

“I love Christmas,” I told him. “And I love that you love it.”

Ryder whistled along to Bing Crosby as he pulled onto the main road. “I guess I’ll take you home.”

“We just watched my grandmother shooting beer out of her cunt and hitting a target. I’m maxed out on family time.”

“You like your family. I can tell,” he said, slipping on his sunglasses as the sun reflected off the freshly fallen snow.

He drove slowly down the winding road through the snow-covered forest back toward town.

“What do you usually do on Saturday?” I asked him, hoping it included snuggling naked under a blanket.

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