Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“I . . .” Let’s see, how do I put this? “It’s complicated.”
“Are you there to meet with the team?”
Eh. This is where it gets tricky. “I’m multitasking.”
She furrows her forehead. “What does that mean exactly?”
“This probably isn’t a good time for me to be laying this out for you because I have to give you some background information.”
Mom pulls her cart off to the side and looks around, this way and that—most likely for other shoppers—checking to make sure she’s out of earshot so nothing we say has a chance of getting overheard.
She is not.
“Give me a second, and I’ll go out to the car.”
I nod.
It’s not like we’re normal people in a normal family and can have normal conversations. I have the sort of life where my mother has to walk back outside in the elements, return to her car just to take a simple phone call from her son, so no one hears what we’re discussing.
There are eyes and ears everywhere.
Once my mother is back inside her vehicle—the one I bought her last year for Christmas—she gives me a look that tells me she’s ready to listen and that I should start talking and start talking fast. It’s a look I’ve seen one million times (but we won’t get into that). Let’s just say my mother is the boss of the family, regardless of how famous or wealthy I’ve become.
I am the child.
She is the parent.
Mom stares, waiting.
“So last week when I was in New York City, I was in Central Park minding my own business at one of those food trucks, and this young woman was behind me . . . and she was basically heckling me, and I wasn’t sure how to take it, but she obviously didn’t recognize me because she was giving me shit about ordering chicken.”
Whoa. That was a lot of word vomit.
I’m definitely babbling and giving too much information, but on the other hand, this is need-to-know information so she can give me an educated, honest opinion based on facts.
“Long story short: I ended up seeing her at the elevators of my hotel later that day, and, Mom, I was, like, about to shit my pants or puke or whatever, and she’s just standing there watching me.”
At the mention of puke and shit, my mother cannot mask her surprise. And although she still hasn’t said anything, I’ll go out on a limb and assume she’s thinking, Why didn’t he tell me any of this when he got to the house after his trip?
Her face says it all.
Her mouth moves into a straight line.
I can almost feel the disapproval, and she doesn’t even know the direction this story is going to take yet!
Shit.
“I should mention that while we were standing in line and I was ordering chicken, she told me not to, and that it was a terrible idea, but I did it anyway. She bet me that I would get sick—and I did.”
“She bet you?” my mother asks, expression neutral.
“Bet me that if I got sick over chicken—which I did—I would have to take her to dinner.”
Mom purses her lips. “That sounds cheeky of her.”
It does sound rather cheeky, but Harlow is sassy—not that I’m going to tell that to my mother. I don’t want her getting any preconceived notions about the kind of person Harlow is. Because she’s wonderful, and not at all like anyone I’ve ever met before.
“It sounds worse than it actually was,” I amend. “Since I lost our little bet, I told her I owed her dinner, but we got breakfast instead.”
Mom nods, lips still pursed.
“So I get back to my room and write her a note, and when I tell you I shouldn’t quit my day job because I’m total shit when it comes to writing, I’m not exaggerating.”
I’m trying to lighten the mood, to no avail.
Mom’s silence is an indication that I need to keep speaking. “So I write out this note and call up room service and have it sent to her room. Did I mention we were actually staying at the same hotel?”
“You don’t say,” Mom deadpans. “And she had no idea who you are?”
I can tell by the tone of her voice that she doesn’t believe Harlow had no idea who I was, not for one second.
But it’s her life’s work to be skeptical and protective; she’s been fighting dragons on my behalf since I was young. Always has, always will be until she draws her last breath.
“She had no idea who I was and still has no idea who I am. I mean, she knows my name is Andy . . .” Instinctively I want to defend Harlow—a total stranger—to my mother, but I still have more story to tell, and by the look on my mother’s face, she isn’t going to like the rest of this cute little fairy tale I’m spewing.