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I shrug. “They wanted a lesson in social media, so I taught them about Instagram and TikTok algorithms.”
“And they understood?”
I frown at the skepticism in her voice. People always discount senior citizens. Don’t get me wrong. There were some challenges in the group, especially that Mrs. Finkle. She was sooo not getting TikTok in general—but who does?
“Yes. You know there is an aeronautical engineer in the group? And a few teachers?”
There is a long beat of silence and I realize that my voice had risen enough to capture attention from other tables.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
I nod as we eat in silence for a few moments. I don’t have a quick temper, but when someone gets it going, it’s hard to get back in a good mood.
“Are you doing okay, Avery?”
I glance up and see the concern in her gaze. This is different from the condescending worry. This is worse. It’s her Mama Worry. She already has too much on her plate these days. She doesn’t need me to be added to the meal of obligations.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“You know you can talk to me about it, right?”
I blink against the burning of unshed tears. “Yeah.”
As much as my family irritates me, I really appreciate their support. Granny Pam moved in with us when Mom opened her dance studio. I was little and she was my whole world. Losing her sort of messed with my mojo, but I’m getting it back. Well, I would if I could get more than a couple hours of sleep.
“Good. As long as you know I will always have a box of Froot Loops in my pantry for you.”
I smile, warmth filling me. “You’re the best.”
“I know. Sammy told me this morning.”
“But not your gravy.”
She rolls her eyes and chuckles. “No. Not my gravy. Although, I swear he could get it any day of the week. Both the kids can get Mason to do just about anything for them.”
I smile and listen to her talk about the latest schemes Sammy has dreamt up, and how Callie seems to have learned to relax a little. And I am thrilled for her and the kids. They deserve it.
But now that they are settled, I feel unsettled. I know that I will have more time to think about myself, about my worries, and I really don’t want to do that. Not right now.
And so, in true Avery fashion, I push those thoughts aside and dig into my food.
* * *
It’s justafter one in the morning, and I can’t sleep. It’s not that the house is new to me. I’ve been here three weeks, and I’ve never felt a connection to a house like I do to this one. If I could afford it, I would talk Estella into selling it to me. I love Juniper and love being closer to Fritz and Liv, although I miss Cora and her menagerie. However, those kids are getting too old to hang out with their cool aunt.
I’m the cool aunt, if you were wondering.
With my sister-in-law expecting and Liv and her two little ones, I can help out. It’s what I do to make up for being kind of a diva. Okay, a weird, quirky diva who wears PJs all day long and eats cereal for most of my meals.
I’d hoped staying in an actual house and not a hotel for once would help me with my insomnia. It hasn’t. I’ve had trouble sleeping since around the time I turned fifteen. I get bouts of it for a few weeks at a time, but then it goes away. This time, though, it’s lingered.
For the past few months, I’ve been traveling. I can work from anywhere since I do most of my consulting online, so when Granny Pam told me to see the world, I did. Well, a little bit. I spent fall in New York City with my sister Gerry because everyone should experience walking in Central Park at least once while the leaves are golden. There was the trip to California for a convention, then there was the girls’ trip to Vegas with my sisters.
So, now I’m settled down in a house, and my inability to sleep seems to have gotten worse.
I make my way downstairs for my after-midnight feeding. Usually, the house is still, with regular creaks and groans of a house built in the late 1800s. Now, ther’s another sound that sounds suspiciously like someone trying to open the front door.
What the freakity freak? I creep down the stairs, and the doorknob to the front door jiggles, then I hear a low masculine curse.
