Page 44 of Bossy Grump's Secret

“What? No! You’re getting weaker. Ha!” she yells in triumph. “By the next time I get, you’ll be on the floor, sucker!”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Lays,” I say as I tussle her hair.

My parents follow closely behind, no doubt envying our closeness. There’s no deficiency in our relationship with the parents; it’s just…that’s how our relationship is. That standard: nothing too extravagant, nothing too distant. Plus, Layla is here. There’s no other person my attention belongs to.

My father is a billionaire who shares that wealth with my mom, I do not understand why neither can agree they need a cook. Maybe it's because Mom is a professional chef, and Dad, personally, just loves cooking. They have been preparing every meal since I knew them unless they weren't around, and Aunt Sylvia had to do it. Then, we came of age. I didn't mind, though. Cooking was one thing that bonded us together as a family. The kitchen bonded the parents, and the dinner table extended the bond to the children.

“So," Dad clears his throat first. Even though it happens every time, it's always mildly uncomfortable when a parent induces talk at the table. "Dylan, how were your last seven months of turmoil?" Everyone laughs.

"Yeah, I'm pleased to sacrifice my life for your humor, but it is fine." I take a bite of my steak.

My parents must have cooked for God before they came to earth.

"You're lucky I didn't meet you before you returned." Layla gives me a side-eye. "I'd have made acquaintance with Ava, and both of us would torture you." That got a few laughs, too, around the table.

“Yes. Ava. How is she?” Mom asks me. I know she’s just trying to be supportive. I remember when I initially told her about Ava. She tells me that a person who would readily entangle herself with a superior would soon ask for a favor that would force the superior to compromise. "That's the only appeal,” she says, overlooking the fact that her son is a six foot, two inches tall, muscular mass of Belfrost awesomeness.

“Ava," I repeat, taking a forkful of potatoes into my mouth, stuffing in more when it doesn’t seem enough to fill my mouth adequately.

"Um…is there something you want to tell us?" Dad looks at my overstuffed mouth with concern.

"I'm eating," I say through the fullness and waste time chewing and swallowing.

“Yup. He sure has something to say," Layla laughs. I will tell them; the sooner, the better, which would most likely be now.

I take a hard swallow and force the mashed chunks down my throat, regretting why I took so much, That was an exercise in futility.

"So. We are talking about my life in…."

"Ava." My sister has abandoned her food and is looking at me with the smuggest look I know her to have. "We are talking about Ava."

“Oh, yeah. Um…about Ava. Remember, we broke up?” Everyone shakes their heads.

“You were dating?” Mom voices her interest.

"Entanglement… situations…whatever. We split up."

“Huh? What happened? Was it you?” Dad asks.

I clear my throat. "It was her."

"You're too good-looking for that!" Dad rages comically, getting everyone at the table to laugh.

“She’s pregnant.” I silence the laughter with those two words. Mom turns into a ghost while Dad’s smile nearly bursts his face open, and Layla is just…stunned. “And she didn’t want to keep it.” I continued," After sneaking into her room, I discovered the test strip and an abortion appointment. Something about not wanting to ruin my career... she still thinks I'm just staff."

“Good. Keep it that way,” Mom huffs.

“I’m proud of you, son. How many times did it take? Did you also do it in the…? ”

"Harold!" Mom silences him before he tries to cringe at everyone further.

That went well. I guess the official age to get a girl pregnant is twenty-six.

After dinner, I go straight up into my room to cool off. That was too tense; it felt surreal when they quickly let me off the hook. I still sense Mom’s queasiness about it, but brush it off. Mothers are queasy about everything. I try to deal with the awkwardness of the situation as much as possible, not to imagine running into Dad alone in any part of the house. I’m not ready for “the talk”.

I switch on my PlayStation and load up “Call of Duty: Warzone”. It's breathtaking to see this again after so many months. I have a PlayStation like this in my room at the hotel. Still, I haven't had the time to sleep properly, much less turn on a screen and remain glued to it for the minimum of two hours such games require to fully enjoy their immersive capabilities.

Just as I’m about to reconfigure the settings to suit my taste after a long while, Layla must ace tampered with them. The culprit saunters into my room like she owns the place.

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