“See!” Ellie shrieked, gesturing to me with her Popsicle, off which flew a massive chunk of purple ice that plopped on the shag (yes, shag) carpet a foot away from Brock’s motorcycle boots. “Uncle Slim’s girlfriend wants to watch Tangled!”

I didn’t exactly say that but then again, she was probably five and five-year-old girls heard what they wanted to hear. In fact, lots of fifty-five-year-old girls heard what they wanted to hear.

Fern rushed to the ice on the floor with her dishtowel while Laura scolded, “Ellie! Careful with that Popsicle.”

“Do we have to watch Tangled? Do we? Do we?” Dylan (or Grady) whined.

“Dylan, pipe down. We’re not watching anything. We’re going home and getting cleaned up for bed.”

“I don’t wanna go to bed!” Dylan and Ellie shouted in unison.

At this point, the front door opened and a tall, beer-gutted older man with dark hair shot with not a small amount of silver and silvery-gray eyes strolled in shouting, “Jesus H. Christ! What’s the commotion?”

“Grandpa!” Ellie and Dylan screamed, Ellie tossing the Popsicle aside only for it to land with a plop on Brock’s couch in her haste to scramble off said couch and race Dylan to hug the older gentleman’s legs. But when they did this, with the velocity and force they hit him, he went back two paces before they successfully latched on. Luckily, disaster was averted and he kept his feet.

I was rooted to the spot, looking at a man whose somewhat withered good looks stated firmly he was Brock’s father as I felt the slap of attitude hit the room and heard Brock mutter under his breath, “Fuck.”

For once, the mood in the room didn’t come from Brock. When my head woodenly turned in the direction from whence it emanated I saw it was coming from Fern.

“Tell me he is not here,” she hissed.

Uh-oh.

“Mom—” Brock started.

“Slim, tell me… he… is not… here,” she somewhat repeated with scary mini-pauses and equally scary emphasis.

Brock’s arm gave me a squeeze.

My head tipped dazedly back to look up to him and when I caught his eyes, he immediately informed me, “This is why I’m never fuckin’ home.”

Well, that answered one question. If Brock was never home he didn’t need a fabulous pad.

“Heya, Laurie, honey. Heya, Slim. Heya, Grady,” Brock’s father greeted with smiles.

“Hey, Grandpa,” Grady returned.

“Hey there, Dad,” Laura said hesitantly, her manner watchful.

Brock’s father’s look became cautious when he muttered, “Hey, Fern.”

“Cob,” she bit off, clearly deciding not to go with the option of leaping forward and scratching out his eyes as this would scar her grandchildren for life, but I could tell she was hanging on to that control by a thread.