Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“Yeah, she’d like that.”
“She’s good people.” To most kids, moms are a given. They just assume their moms will love and take care of them. Nurture them. Band-Aids and school lunches and all that. Some of us know better. “Don’t ever take her for granted.”
“You hear from your mom lately?”
I’ve talked to him about Shelley before, but the question still hits me sideways. Thinking about her puts me in a constant state of whiplash. She sure isn’t baking any cherry pies.
“She keeps texting, wanting to get together and reconnect. Make amends, or whatever. I told her I’d think about it, but every time she suggests a time and place to meet, I make up some excuse.”
“What are you going to do? Do you want to see her?”
I shrug, scooping a handful of water to douse my hair. Even though it’s not over our heads yet, the sun is already at baking temperature. “I don’t know how many times I can let her make me the sucker before I haven’t got any dignity left.”
Riley drags his hands through the water, aimless. “I know it’s not exactly the same situation with us. Mine got sick. She didn’t leave. But I’d give anything to see her again, to talk to her.”
His heart’s in the right place, but I wish he hadn’t said that. “Yeah, it’s really not the same.” Because missing his mother doesn’t make him feel like an idiot.
He places both hands on his board and gives me a serious look. “I guess what I’m saying is, if your mom died tomorrow, would you regret not speaking to her one more time?”
Riley’s words burrow into my brain like a worm eating through an apple. The question festers for hours, days. Until finally, a week later, I’m sitting in a diner in Charleston, placing bets against myself after fifteen minutes whether Shelley is going to stand me up. The pitying eyes of my server aren’t giving me great odds as she refills my coffee mug.
“You want anything to eat?” asks the waitress, a middle-aged woman with overgrown roots and too many bracelets.
“No, thanks.”
“The pie came in fresh this morning.”
Enough with the damn pies. “Nope. I’m good.”
Thirty minutes. This is why I didn’t tell anyone, least of all Cooper. He would’ve told me this would happen. After he kicked my ass and took my keys to spare me one more humiliation.
I have no idea when I became the trusting one. The dupe.
I’m about to throw a few bucks on the table just as Shelley drops into the booth and settles across the table from me. Blown in like a gust of wind.
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry.” She pulls her purse off her shoulder and picks up a laminated menu to fan the heat-and-asphalt smell out of her dyed blonde hair. Her energy is hectic and frazzled, always in motion. “One of the girls was late coming back from lunch because she had to pick her kid up, and I couldn’t leave on my break until she got back.”
“You’re late.”
She stills. Presses her lips together with a contrite tilt of her head. “I’m sorry. But I’m here now.”
Now. This impermanent state between wasn’t and won’t be.
“What’ll you have?” The waitress is back, this time with an accusatory curtness to her tone. This woman’s growing on me.
“Coffee, please,” Shelley tells her.
The woman walks off with a grimace.
“I’m glad you called me back,” Shelley tells me as she keeps fanning herself with the menu. I’ve never been able to put my finger on it before, but I just figured it out. Her frenetic nature gives me anxiety. Always has. The perpetual motion is so chaotic. Like bees in a glass box. “I’ve missed you.”
I purse my lips for a second. Then I let out a tired breath.
“Yeah, you know what, before we go another ten rounds on this, let me say: You’re a bad mom, Shelley. And it’s pretty shady how you’re pitting Cooper and I against each other.” She opens her mouth to object. I stop her with a look. “No, that’s exactly what you’re doing. You came to me with all your pleas and apologies because you know Cooper won’t hear it. You take advantage of the fact that I’m the soft one, but you don’t care what that does to your sons. If he knew I was here—I don’t know, he might change the locks on me. I’m not kidding.”
“That isn’t what I want.” Any pretense of a sunny disposition fades from her face. “Brothers shouldn’t fight.”
“No, they shouldn’t. And you shouldn’t be putting me in this position. And you know what else? Would it have killed you to bake a pie every now and then?”
She blinks. “Huh?”
“I’m just saying,” I mutter. “Other moms bake pies for their kids.”
She’s quiet for a while after the waitress brings her coffee. Staring at the table and folding her napkin into smaller and smaller shapes. She looks different, I can’t help but acknowledge. Her eyes are clear. Skin is healthy. Getting sober is a hell of a drug.