Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
I enjoyed his voice—and what he was saying. Honesty about the hardships of parenthood was always refreshing in a world where everything had to look perfect on social media.
If I saw one more mother with a blinding Colgate smile after spending the day with her four kids and making cinnamon rolls, I was going to call my lawyers and sue someone, because it had to be bullshit.
The radio host chuckled, a sound that didn’t sound entirely genuine. “It’s true. We do struggle at times—of course—but after a little bit of rain comes so much sunshine.”
I let out a hmpf.
“Sometimes,” Peyton replied uncertainly. “Thing is, I don’t understand why we have to glorify raising children. I love my sister beyond words, and we will always be close, but she was by no means easy to take care of. Are children supposed to be? I don’t believe so. What I believe parenthood consists of—at least when the children are young—are sleepless nights, stained clothes, chaos, and occasional headaches. And this doesn’t mean it’s not worth it—the opposite. We love our kids to the point where it’s worth all those sleepless nights and all the anxiety.”
I smiled.
“A toddler smiling and sitting pretty in the cart at the grocery store isn’t proof of good parenting,” Peyton went on. “Same with all the blogs and social media accounts where we get bombarded with pictures of perfection.” Christ. Had he read my mind? “It’s wonderful that we get those memories too, but it’s become a contest to show who’s happiest. Who’s succeeding the most. Meanwhile, the tough moments are hidden away and suppressed. We don’t talk about it, because we’re afraid of being judged.”
I released a breath, unable to describe the emotions that surged forward. But he was saying everything I needed to hear.
“Parenthood isn’t picture-perfect,” Peyton said, “and I don’t want it to be. I’d rather look at my sister now and see the headstrong girl I raised. I can think back on the times I tried to make cookies with her, and we ended up with a flour explosion in the kitchen—not to mention some slammed doors because she was furious when the cookies looked like something that’d been eaten and thrown up.”
I laughed softly.
“But she’s a perfectionist today,” Peyton added with a smile in his voice. “She’s ambitious and creative, and she’s learned from several years of mistakes and projects gone wrong. She’s learned to control her temper a bit too—thankfully—because she’s experienced how quickly she can mess things up by blowing her fuse.”
That was the type of person I wanted to help me with Julia.
“I’m not saying we should hide the progress our children make. I’m just saying we shouldn’t be afraid to showcase the struggles,” Peyton summed up. “Today it’s even worse, too. Ten years ago, I could at least go online without thinking that everyone was perfect and I was the screw-up who failed to take care of my sister.”
There it was. I’d thought similar things before, especially after searching for help online. It could be alienating to read all the success stories.
Peyton worked as a hotel manager, didn’t he? I remembered the host saying something about that in the beginning of the show.
“Boss, we’re here,” Mathis told me.
“A moment.” I pulled out my phone and texted my cousin back in Boston.
I need a favor. Can you have your assistant find a Peyton Scott for me? He works as a hotel manager, presumably in Seattle. 33 years old.
Two
I was down to my last forty-eight hours in Seattle when I learned about Peyton’s workplace. And he wasn’t the manager. He was the front office manager. The radio show host must’ve gotten it wrong, but either way, it made it easier for me to approach Peyton if he was actually at the hotel as opposed to being holed up in an office somewhere.
Ironically, he worked at a hotel we’d once made a bid for. In the end, Hilton had offered more money and given it a much-needed makeover, and I entered the lavish lobby a little past noon.
I wouldn’t have chosen gold and blue for the theme, not with those marble pillars there, but it wasn’t my hotel. In my opinion, you could choose marble or gold, never both. Classy and elegant could quickly take a turn for gaudy.
Four men and women staffed the long check-in counter, and I cocked my head at a fifth who appeared from an office in the back. His suit was tailored to fit his body; it was more than just a uniform. He smiled crookedly at something one of the women said, then nodded and proceeded to touch base with the others.
It had to be Peyton, in which case… Fucking hell, he was a beautiful young man. Striking, truly. Green eyes, hair darker than my own, but untidier, a lovely swimmer’s body… I wondered what he’d look like on his knees, peering up at me with those gorgeous eyes and my come staining his lips.