Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I let out a laugh at the thought of Ransom actually stalking anyone, then took my phone and went to continue my quest to open a bottle of wine. Although, like it seemed to always do, just hearing from him and going back and forth made things seem better.
“Oh, the power you wield over me, Ransom Carver,” I mumbled to myself.
Ransom: Have you thought about hairless cats?
Me: No, but I know because I had to research it for a book once that hairless cats are not an answer for those with cat allergies. It’s not just the air people are allergic to. The allergens are still found in their saliva, skin, and dander.
Ransom: Damn. What about birds? You could get birds.
I pulled out the cork, then set it down beside the bottle.
Me: Why would I get birds?
Taking down a glass, I filled it up, then carried the wine and my phone over to the sofa.
Ransom: I’m working on my mental image of you. Bringing it back to where it was, but it’s a struggle. I thought if you got a bird obsession and started wearing a stained terry-cloth robe, it might help.
Giggling, I took a drink, then set my glass down so I could respond.
Me: I hate to let you down, but I won’t be doing either of those things. Birds actually terrify me.
I hit Send, then caught a glimpse of myself grinning in the mirror across the room. There were butterflies in my stomach too, I realized.
Ransom: Could you just lie to me about it then? You had no problem lying about your career and relationship status.
Me: Hey! We talked about why I did those things.
I knew he was teasing, but this was fun.
Ransom: Speaking of relationship status, how are things with editor douchebag?
The high I’d been on sank instantly at the reminder of Arden.
Me: He left. As in left the country. Just upped and poofed.
Ransom: What, is he in trouble with the mob?
Normally, I’d roll my eyes, but this had run through my mind today. That and drugs. Both seemed so bizarre, but I was grasping for something that made sense.
Me: I honestly don’t know.
My cell phone rang.
I never answered calls from numbers I didn’t know. It was always instantly sent to voicemail and ignored.
I also never answered calls from my mother. When I said that there was no communication between us, I meant that I had shut her out of my life the last time she called me, asking for money.
Four years in college, and she’d never called. I had to call her, and after the first year of trying to occasionally contact her, only to get her voicemail, I stopped. It took almost a year before she called me. It was a short conversation, where she asked me if I was still eating too much—which wasn’t something I’d ever really done—and if I had a boyfriend. Then she told me about herself before ending the call.
Another year passed before she called me right before Christmas to make sure I knew she wouldn’t be home for it. She didn’t want me “showing up” at her place, “expecting anything.” And she and Dick went on a cruise that he’d won from a radio call-in contest.
I hadn’t been home for the holidays since I’d left. Jellie’s family always invited me to their home, included me in their festivities, and for the first time in my life, I’d experienced the holidays.
The most my mom had ever done when I was growing up was to heat up canned chili and make hot dogs for dinner. I thought, once, there was a small tabletop tree she’d put on the coffee table, but I’d been young. It was a very vague memory.
She didn’t inquire about or show up to my graduation from college. There was no I’m proud of you phone call or congratulations. But I hadn’t expected it from her.
Once I moved to New York for my job, it was two years before she called me. She asked me a few questions about life, then asked me for money. Dick had run off with some other woman, and the rent on the trailer was due. She’d had a car accident and hurt her back, so she wasn’t able to work full-time anymore due to the pain.
I sent her the money.
The next month, it happened again.
When the third month rolled around, she needed money for all her bills and groceries. Like an idiot, I sent it to her.
Then, three days later, I got a call. She’d been arrested when cops showed up to bust a meth lab in the trailer park I’d grown up in. My mother had been inside and using.
Maybe it made me a bad daughter, but I didn’t go back there. I didn’t go try and bail her out. She’d drunk too much most of my childhood, but drugs hadn’t been a part of it.