Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
I need to get this hotel finished and get back to New York before I’m a complete fucking disaster.
Finally done hiding for the morning—since, you know, she should be gone by now—I turn the knob fully and step outside into an empty hallway.
The door locks easily, and the spare key I put in the potted plant by the stairwell yesterday is still there.
I know because I check.
Obsessive-compulsive. Add that to the list of my Louisiana-enhanced qualities too.
Making my way down the stairwell and across the lobby, I push open the front door to a bright and sunny January day. It’s warm for winter, but still chilly to say the least.
Silver lining—I shouldn’t have any trouble keeping my suit jacket on over my half-wrinkled shirt.
A little homesick and a lot more confused than I’ve ever felt, I take out my phone and call the one person who will make everything feel better.
My mom.
She answers on the second ring and does a remarkably good job of acting like I haven’t woken her up.
“Trent,” she greets. “It’s so good to hear from you.” Her speech is slightly slower than it used to be, and every once in a while, it sounds a little like her words are slurred. But compared to the deterioration of her motor skills, the change is almost imperceptible.
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry I haven’t called more—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she interrupts. “You’re busy down there. The last thing you need to be worrying about is calling boring ole me. Everything’s the same.”
I laugh and shake my head. If only I could say something similar.
“Well, nothing is the same here,” I admit.
“But it’s good, right?” she asks. “I know it must be. Everything is good in New Orleans.”
Yeah. Not so much.
I’m considering whether or not to delve into any of the details when I spot Greer up ahead, kneeling down next to a homeless woman and unwinding the scarf from around her neck.
She speaks softly to the woman before taking her hand and nodding. She winds the scarf around the woman’s neck and then stands, pointing to the coffee shop we evidently both love to frequent.
“Trent?” my mom calls for my attention.
I watch as Greer heads inside Easy Roast, but I force myself to put most of my focus back on my mom.
“Sorry, Mom. I got distracted.”
“Ah, a pretty girl, perhaps?” she coos, and I laugh.
“First of all, you’d better hope it’s a pretty woman if you don’t want to read about your son in the paper.”
“And second of all?” she prompts, way too much wisdom in her sixty-five years.
“Yes, it was a pretty woman. At least, kind of.”
Her laugh is a little shaky, but it makes me smile. If all I get out of all this crap is making my mom’s day a little brighter, it’ll be worth it. “Well, that sounds interesting and cryptic. I can’t wait to find out the rest.”
“Someday,” I deflect.
She harrumphs.
“Just think of it like General Hospital,” I tease. “The story will conclude sometime in the next decade.”
She laughs. “If then. I think the actors who play Sonny and Carly are going to die before their whole sordid tale is done.”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Mom. I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I smile.
“It’s Jason who really matters anyway,” she adds.
I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. “Listen, Mom, I’ve gotta go. I’m running late this morning, and—”
“And a pretty woman needs your attention. Say no more.”
“Mom, that’s not it. I need coffee.”
“And a pretty woman,” she teases. “Yes, son. Reading you loud and clear.”
“No. You’re not reading me at all. There’s nothing going on with the woman.”
“Yet,” she says knowingly. “Of course, I get it. Love you, honey.”
God, I don’t want to get her hopes up over something that’s not even real.
“No, Mom, there’s nothing… Mom? Mom?”
I’m yelling into my phone for my mommy—who’s already hung up on me, by the way—when Greer comes out of Easy Roast holding two coffees and a bag and sees me.
It’s an intense moment—one that feels like we’d both rather duck and run—but we make brief eye contact before attempting to give each other a smile.
Weird, pseudo-transaction complete, I head for the coffee shop, tucking my head to give her the space to do as she intended without an audience.
Once I’m inside and she’s convinced she’s off my radar, I go back to watching her as she crosses the street and kneels down to talk to the woman once again.
She hands her a coffee and the bag before heading down the street toward the hotel.
And just like that, everything I thought I knew about Greer Hudson sinks a little further.
Down low, to the bottom of a barrel filled with all sorts of other things I never expected.
Greer
Saturday night, I had a dream that I saw Trent Turner’s penis and it was glorious.