Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
I find my mom leaning against the kitchen counter, squinting down at a calendar she pulled off the wall. I have no idea what she is looking up or marking down, but she has a pen in her hand and casually taps it on her chin.
“Want to talk about anything, Mom?” I ask cheerily, fishing. “Seems like you’ve got something on your mind, maybe? I’ve got a couple of ears I can put to use.”
“Can’t for the life of me remember …” she mutters in thought.
She’s in her own world right now. “Is it about Dad?” I ask.
“What was that thing …?” she continues mumbling to herself as she surveys the calendar. “Just thinking about it earlier …”
“Dad just started his second job last week, right? You feeling lonely? Wait … is it his third?”
“Your Nan said something about you saving someone’s life?” she asks, still tapping her chin with the pen.
I latch on to my mom’s question at once. Any sign at all of her paying attention is good. “Yeah. It all happened very fast. I was … well, there was this stack of, uh, picture frames, very tall stack …” I feel like I’m already losing her. “Anyway, I pushed a guy out of the way. Y’know, so the stack didn’t fall on him. Maybe ‘saved his life’ is a bit overdramatic.” I chuckle to myself. “You wouldn’t believe who it was, either, of all people … Noah Reed.”
Her pen tapping stops.
She turns to me, surprised. “The Reed boy, did you say?”
“Yep, the one and only. Noah. Remember him?”
That’s when her glassy, half-opened eyes drop to my arm, just now noticing. “Oh, honey, what happened?”
“Just a little booboo from the incident, no big deal.” I put on a smile. “Hey, your son’s a hero! How cool is that?”
“It looks really bad. That’s a lot of … bandage.” She touches it. I try not to grimace too much; the wound is still sensitive. Her eyes fill up with tears. “Oh, I’m so sorry you hurt yourself, baby. You … You should be more careful. It’s so dangerous out there.”
“It looks a lot worse than it is.”
“And you got this by …” She stares at my arm. “Noah Reed …”
I take hold of her hands now that I have her attention. “Want to go to the festival? Just for a little bit? I think it’ll be a lot of—”
My phone rings out from my pocket, startling us both.
As if in response, my mom pulls her hands from my grip. “You better get that,” she says. “Could be important.”
“Sure,” I say over my ringing phone, “but do you want to go to the festival after I take this? You look fine the way you are. You can go just like that. Just pop on some shoes and—”
“Better get that,” she repeats, nodding at my phone.
I suppress a sigh of frustration. I’m so close to getting her out of the house. But I go ahead and oblige her, pulling my phone out of my pocket and giving it a look.
To my surprise, it’s Nadine Strong.
This may not be a good thing.
The last time she called me was this past December, and it was to set me up on a blind date. She had the “perfect young man” she was dying for me to meet. Obviously, it did not work out. Though I might say I did get two new friends out of the whole debacle, one of whom happens to be a vet tech who was partly responsible for saving my dog Porridge’s life many years ago.
I look up from my phone to tell my mom, “It’s Mayor Strong,” but find her already gone. I hear the distant sound of her bedroom door shutting. I don’t suspect she went in there to change for the festival; I think she’s hiding from me and my pesky optimism.
I frown, disappointed, then quickly change my tune and bring the phone to my ear. “Hey there, Nadine!”
“Cole, ya crazy daredevil, I just heard everything. Are you alright?”
She insisted once that we never dare use formalities with each other and always stay on a first-name basis. “Aww, thanks for your concern, but I’m just fine, really.”
“You just ‘bout found yourself under a heap of carpentry, ain’t none of that sounds ‘just fine’ to me. How’s the reporter fella? The one who almost got buried? His name escapes me.”
I peer out the window nearby, spotting my Nan in the garden, Porridge frolicking around in the yard behind her. “Noah Reed,” I tell her.
“Noah, right, I was way off. Why’d I think it was Marty …?”
“I think he’s okay. I haven’t actually, uh, been able to see him since the incident.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s lovely and thankful for havin’ his life and limbs, good for him. Hey, listen, baby, I’ve got an idea, a crazy idea, and I wanted to run it past you.”