Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
The noise she makes is indignant. “Okay, fine. So, not sex, at least not that you’ll talk to me about,” she says, tapping her nails as she considers an alternate reason for why I’d want to celebrate.
“You haven’t changed your hair,” she muses, looking me over, and I have to smile, because in her mind that really would be reason to celebrate.
“New job!” she says, tapping the bar in victory at her guess. “I know it.”
“Ding ding ding,” I say, smiling and raising a glass.
She clinks hers to mine, grinning. “A mother always knows. And let me just say, it’s about damn time. I can tell you now that you’re moving on, you were turning into a downright fuddy-duddy working at the same company for years on end. I was half expecting you to start wearing shoulder pads and talking about a stock portfolio.”
She’s busy giving a dramatic shudder, so she misses the fact that my smile has frozen on my face.
“Actually,” I say slowly, setting my glass aside. “The new job is with the same company. A promotion. A big one,” I can’t help adding.
“Oh! Oh!”
She looks . . . disappointed. She tries to hide it, but it’s there, and it stings.
“Well, if that’s what you want, that’s great,” she says, taking a bite of her taco.
“It is,” I say, a touch testily. “It’s a big deal, actually.”
“Of course it is.” She wipes her mouth and smiles. “You’re making more money, right? That’s never a bad thing.”
Not for you. The thought is a little bitchy, but I can’t help it. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she realizes a silver lining of having a fuddy-duddy daughter: more money for her to “borrow.”
Testing the theory, I grab a tortilla chip, dunk it in salsa, and ask casually, “Hey, I’ve been so wrapped up in my own stuff, I never even asked: How’s that VA class going?”
“Oh, that.” She waves her hand. “Turns out it wasn’t for me.”
“But you were so excited about it!”
“I guess a break from straightening treatments and trimming split ends sounded pretty great, but I realized pretty quickly that a life spent behind a computer screen all day is no life at all. No offense.”
“No, yeah, of course not. Why would I take offense at that? It’s not like you just described my life or anything.”
“Oh, sweetie. I didn’t mean it like that! It’s just not for me. I’ve realized I need to do something that allows me to move around, talk to people face-to-face and really help them, you know?”
I nod in resignation, because I know a lead-up when I hear one.
“Do you think I’d make a good physical therapist?” she continues. “All my clients say I’m so easy to talk to, so I think my sympathy could be a real asset. And I’ve always been such a big proponent of staying physically active. Last night I was grabbing a bite out at a bar, and this guy next to me—really good looking—was telling me that he used to be a bartender and made great money, but that the hours sucked, so he went to school to be a PT, and now his quality of life is way better.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Do not ask how much the school is.
I stay strong. I don’t ask. But she tells me anyway.
“It’s just that the program is so expensive, you know? But a really good investment, especially when you think of all the good I could do . . .”
“Mom . . .”
“Oh, honey, no, that wasn’t a hint,” she says with a scandalized laugh, as though the very thought of me loaning her money is ludicrous. “Just venting a little is all. I’ll figure out a way to pay for it, it’ll just take some sacrifices is all.”
I blow out a breath. “I want to support you. I really do, I just . . .”
“You’re tired of throwing money away when I don’t stick with anything?”
I flinch, but she sets a hand on my knee, squeezes. “Don’t. You’re absolutely right, and I’m proud of you for standing up to me.”
I’m a little stunned, because my mom doesn’t get real like that. Not very often, and not about money, and her own shortcomings, but before I can reply, she’s right back to her usual Annette self.
“So.” She leans in. “You won’t give me the deets on the sex. But will you at least tell your old mom about the guy who’s given you that glow? I know that look, and no job, no matter how great the paycheck, can cause it.”
I have to smile a little at that, because for all her quirks, and she has plenty, she can read me the way only a mom can.
And I smile too, because thinking about Thomas does that.