Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
I blink, forcing my eyes to focus and my brain to work. I swear I can hear the gears creaking and groaning inside my head, but thoughts form into logical, though short, sentences. “I’m fine. It’s early.”
Mom laughs brightly. “It’s ten o’clock. Half the morning’s already gone. Why, I’ve already had coffee and pruned the flower beds with Sasha. Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
“I’m awake. Now.” The accusation lacks vitriol because I can’t seem to muster any with how tired I am. “Went to bed at four.”
That’s true, though I don’t feel like I got six hours of sleep. Maybe the dancing and yelling yesterday got to me more than I thought? Or the go, go, go of helping all day? Either way, I feel like I ran a marathon carrying a twenty-pound weight with zero fuel.
I bet a raccoon weighs twenty pounds, I think nonsensically.
“Ooh, what were you doing? Visiting some hot, new club . . . or on a date . . . or hanging out with Taya?” Mom’s ideas of what one can do at four in the morning are pretty sedate, but not nearly as boring as the truth.
“I was working,” I confess.
She makes a clucking sound I know well. “Honey, you’re always working. Don’t overdo it. You’re young. You should be out having fun!”
My sigh is underwritten with a groaning noise as I sit up in bed and rearrange the pillows and blankets so I can stay conscious enough to have this conversation. “I know, Mom. And I was having fun. Carson and I were overseeing a music festival. I even danced.”
I don’t realize what I’ve said until Mom repeats it back to me. “Music festival? Carson? Who’s that?”
Crap.
Mom’s good at reading between the lines. She has to be as the mother of five kids, though it was usually one of my brothers trying to pull something over on her. Not me. But there’s no ‘between the lines’ reading needed at all. I threw her that bone, easy and overhanded.
“A client,” I answer simply, though he’s so much more than that. “Did you say you were pruning the roses with Sasha? How’re they coming in?”
Mom isn’t fooled for an instant. “Hydrangeas, and fine. Now tell me more about this Carson.”
Damn it all, she knows me too well.
“Is that who’s been keeping you so busy that you haven’t called in weeks?” she continues.
Great, a little guilt trip with my morning wake-up call. I definitely didn’t order that.
Though I don’t often share too much with them about my job, the good thing is, I can tell my parents anything, even my work details. They are beyond well-versed in keeping things quiet. I could tell them something completely crazy, and they’d nod politely and tell me to be careful and do a good job.
I remember one time I told Mom about a client I was helping get into rehab and managing the image spins that go along with that. He’d wanted one last wild bash before getting sober, and I’d had to sit there with a doctor while he cut out his lines of cocaine. I didn’t help him with the drugs, but he was higher than a kite while we figured out how to frame his issues to explain his addiction. It was sad, but he was also hilarious, and along with our work, we’d talked about everything from saving the Amazon rainforest to what makes the best tasting toast.
Avocado and honey was our decision as the winning combination.
But even with all that juicy gossip, Mom and Dad never said a word to anybody. They’d supported me, listened as I worked through processing my feelings, and held me when I cried happy tears as my client emerged from rehab a changed man. All that, and they never so much as whispered or gave me a side-eye.
Though their opinion was that the best toast is cinnamon toast made with fresh, fluffy white bread, cheap margarine, and pre-mixed cinnamon and sugar. Mom even told a story about it being a fancy treat when she was a kid. Dad had laughed and said he’d never had it until Mom made him some after they first got married.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been busy.” The apology is easy because I know Mom is just giving me a hard time. Mostly. She does worry when one of us kids doesn’t check in regularly, which is probably what prompted this Sunday morning call.
“Mmkay, get to the good stuff.” She smells blood in the water. Or at least some good tea.
“Carson is the CMO of Americana Land, the amusement park. He had an . . . incident, and we’ve been fixing it creatively.” I go on to tell her the bare bones about what happened with Abby Burks and then how we’ve been tackling the issue from all sides, including the Freedom Fest. “It was a day-long event capped off with a young, hot, up and coming star.”