Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
And a trash bin I clutched for dear life in a backstage hallway.
The guy in that hall was a good listener. Hot and obscured in shadow like a creep selling counterfeit merch, but a good listener.
I wish I hadn’t bitten his head off and trashed his idol.
Now I’m sitting with my mom at the table eating a lovely meal I did not plan on. I feel worse with every bite. Especially while my mom goes on chirping with laughter telling me all about her day. Bella and the garden. A “longer-than-sin” call with Nadine about some sort of town ordinance and a funny thing that happened at her restaurant in Fairview. Discussing plans with Cassie to expand Lance Goodwin Designs. It goes on and on, and I’m totally lost in the weeds of her stories, blinking blankly as I eat.
“Mom,” I finally stop her. “Aren’t you mad at me? I was out all day. I said I’d be back by two.”
She doesn’t look me in the eyes at first, cutting her meat off the bone. Then she stops and lifts a warm smile at me. “Sweetie, I believe I said you’d be back by two. That’s hardly a contract. You’d just come home and I was all over you. You deserve time to breathe after the spring semester you had. You’re sorry?” She chuckles. “I’m the one who oughta apologize for leapin’ on you like a cat the second you showed up. I barely asked how your semester went! You’re so funny, acting like I’m some mom-ster. What’d you expect me to do? Scream at you for going into town and catching up with friends and being a dang human being?” She pops a bite of potato into her mouth. “You don’t need me reminding you this place is your home, sweetheart. You’re the boss of your life.”
There’s almost something worse about her sweetness, the way a venus flytrap is cute and harmless until it snaps shut.
I’m not the boss of anything, let alone my life.
That’s what I’d say had I the guts, my kneejerk response.
Maybe she did get upset and just isn’t saying. Then she took the time to think it over. Her chats with Nadine and Cassie were all to do with me, her son with a mind of his own, who got as far away as he could with his choice in college and still ended up just a stone’s throw north of here. She’s trying to disarm me with her honeyed words and lemon-herb chicken she knows I love, tasty home-cooking, the creature comforts in a house big enough for a family of twenty, letting me reattach to all my friends, allowing me this continued fruitless indulgence of my totally superficial employment at T&S’s … All these things she’s sure I won’t find out there in the world. All these things, right here in Spruce.
And despite all the aggressive little demons inside me itching to rebel, to trust none of it, to fight for my right to a month-and-a-half road trip … I can’t help but realize none of that is wrong. This is my home. My parents would listen to me if I expressed my inner concerns about feeling trapped. I love my family and friends here.
Is being in Spruce really the problem?
Or is it me?
“Only if you want,” she’s telling me after we finish up and I’ve gone and done all the dishes out of sheer guilt. “Your father may still be in the office, if he hasn’t gone out to visit the Strong ranch and check that funky tractor of theirs. You’ll probably catch him later when he’s back home eating his own plate. Go on, sweetie, go on and look for yourself. I have a few calls to make.”
That’s how I end up at our newly renovated office: a separate building on our property which, not long ago, was the guesthouse my grandfather stayed in before he passed. I’m still wearing his wristwatch, even at this moment, when I ascend the steps of the porch and enter the house. It smells the same. Oak and cinnamon. A pinch of old musk that reveals its age, somehow welcoming the senses rather than repelling them. Old wooden paneling on the walls. Framed pictures everywhere. The living room is full of filing cabinets, a printer and Xerox machine, display case with awards, cute floor lamp, a large rug with a winged cow on it—our old logo.
I float down the hall and find my office right away, the guest bedroom no one ever used. The room is surprisingly inviting, its windows the largest, catching all the best sunlight. Where the bed used to be now sits a modern-looking desk, not the ancient clunky office one I expected. A shelf by the window keeps an assortment of my childhood plushies in a row, telling me not only do my parents listen, but they indulge me in my cute, cuddly tastes.