Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“Of course, honey,” she says, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “I’m happy to help. Truly. Besides, this is what friends are for.” She stands, collecting her empty plate. “Now, eat up. My nona sets a brisk pace. She will not be slowing her roll through the garden to accommodate low blood sugar.”
I laugh as I break off a piece of the bread. “Understood.” I take a bite, moaning at the rush of sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, and mystery spice. “Oh my God, that’s incredible. I’d forgotten how good bread can taste first thing in the morning. Kai’s gluten-free, so we hardly ever have bread on the bus.” I stuff another bite in, moaning like a porn star. “Sorry. God, it’s just so good.”
“Don’t you dare apologize for moaning over my bread,” Charlotte says with a wink. “You keep at it. One bite at a time. I’m going to run shower. Feel free to grab another slice if you want more. I made an extra loaf. Help yourself to anything you want from the fridge or pantry, too.”
I do grab an extra slice.
And a hunk of aged English cheddar from the fridge.
And an apple from the bowl on the island.
And another cup of coffee and a banana for the road.
I’m suddenly hungry in a way I haven’t been in ages. Maybe since I was that seventeen-year-old girl, Kai said he thought looked so “ethereal” when she was just a little too skinny…
I’d almost forgotten about that—at least consciously—but as I tuck the banana into my purse, the memory resurfaces.
I shiver, wondering how many other things that I’ve assumed were just “the way I am” or “what I like” are actually seeds planted by my controlling ex back when I was too young to have an ounce of psychic protection against him. I don’t know. But I suddenly decide that I like myself with more meat on my bones. The kind that I can maybe turn into muscle with some weights and time at the gym.
Aside from a brisk walk most days, I’ve never worked out, but it feels like time to start. It’s not like I’m in horrible shape. I dance, sing, and run up and down a stage for hours at a time on the regular when we’re on tour. And we’ve been on tour for most of the past five years. That tour bus full of men, where I only had peace tucked away in my sleeping pod with the curtain drawn, had basically become home.
But now…
Now, I get to make a new home, a new life, in addition to a new me.
It’s exciting.
And terrifying.
And daunting and invigorating and inspiring and…dizzying.
But the journey of a million miles starts with a single step, so…
I step. Out the door, following Charlotte to her SUV to go join her nona for a day at the botanical garden.
The rest of Saturday unfolds with gentle ease that’s a balm to my over-stimulated nervous system.
Charlotte’s grandmother is another #olderwomangoals inspiration, a gorgeous, silver-haired octogenarian dressed in head-to-toe shades of gray, who manages to make monochromatic dressing seem classic and edgy at the same time.
She tells stories about dating an obscure European prince as a younger woman before she married Charlotte’s grandfather and encourages me to sow my wild oats now that I’m single.
“Enjoy yourself, sweetheart,” she says over tea at the café near the Japanese garden. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves as much as anything else. There’s something I wish I’d understood when I was younger. Not that I regret the law degree or having any of my three babies, I just wish I’d made more time to enjoy the gifts of the flesh before the flesh became so…temperamental.”
“You know they have estrogen cream to help with that now, Nona,” Charlotte says seriously, hiding her grin behind her teacup.
Nona arches an imperious brow. “Oh, hush, Charlotte. I refuse to let you embarrass me this time.”
“But why?” Charlotte says sweetly. “When it’s so much for both of us.”
“Fun for you, maybe.” Nona lifts her chin. “Besides, I know all about estrogen cream. And testosterone cream, for that matter. My doctor put me on some to help prevent muscle loss. But Hugo and I have found it has…other benefits.”
Charlotte beams. “Hell yes, Nona. Get you some.”
“Oh, stop. Beatrice will think we’re both hussies.” Nona wiggles her fingers Charlotte’s way, while I fight a smile.
“Never, Miss Valerie,” I assure her. “I think you’re both awesome. And if you’re hussies, I want to be one, too.”
They laugh, and the conversation turns to other things—Charlotte’s party planning for the film festival and Nona’s fundraising for her crew’s Mardi Gras float.
But my thoughts keep drifting back to Hussyville…
That night, back at Charlotte’s house, I sit cross-legged on the guest bed with my guitar across my lap. The window is cracked, letting in the sound of crickets, distant traffic, and a crisp autumn breeze that feels delicious on my skin.