Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
When she reaches me, she pushes her shades into her thick mane of auburn hair, clutches my shoulder, and declares, like it’s a battle cry, “I want you to know I’m going to boycott Games People Play when it opens later this month.”
My brow furrows as I try to put two and two together. When it hits me, I wince. “Wait. Is that the name of Landon’s shop?”
“Yes,” she says, aggrieved, as she links arms with me and we head to Happy Cow, a few blocks away. “I’m on his newsletter list. I subscribe so you don’t have to.”
“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best,” I say, and really, she is.
“And even though I need a new stash of party games for game night, I will find another board game shop. I refuse to go to his store.”
“They do sell them online,” I say.
“Please. It’s much more fun to find a local competitor to that cad—and mark my words, I will,” she says as we reach the restaurant. Its white wood exterior and green awning, adorned with an illustration of a cow drinking what appears to be lemonade, is always inviting. A chalkboard menu out front advertises today’s specials—a mushroom burger and a lentil salad. Yum.
“You don’t have to keep doing penance,” I point out as we head inside.
“It’s not penance. It’s parenting,” she says, then turns to the hostess stand and tells a woman with a nose ring and a Happy Cow apron that we’d love a table for two, ideally by the open window.
“Right this way,” the woman says as she whisks us to a bright white table that looks like it’s an antique that’s been repainted.
“Do you know where this is from, Dahlia?” I ask, reading the hostess’s name tag. “Or can you ask the manager?”
She pauses, then shrugs. “Sure.”
My mom arches a knowing brow when Dahlia takes off. “Really?”
“How will I know where to find the best deals if I’m not constantly on the hunt? Also, you’re one to talk.”
“You’ve always been my daughter,” she says, resigned but proud—since, well, I am a lot like her. She’s semi-retired from her work as an antiques dealer, but she can’t resist still dabbling in it. I suppose I get my ambition from her.
She runs her fingers along the wood of the table. “And yes, this is a nice one. You have a good eye, Skylar.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, appreciating the compliment, like I’ve always appreciated her support—and my dad’s too.
After we order, she returns to the Landon topic, giving me a very sorry look. I’ve seen it a lot since he broke things off. “I should never have encouraged you to take your time with him,” she says, frowning. “I really thought he was a great guy.”
“Don’t feel bad. So did I,” I say, wishing she’d stop beating herself up for having been a cheerleader of both the relationship and the there’s-no-rush-with-romance approach she advocated for me in my twenties. And that I, admittedly, followed.
“I know, but it’s a mother’s job to see the potential pitfalls,” she says, then rolls her eyes. “I mean, I can’t depend on your father for that. He wears rose-colored glasses.”
“He does,” I say, my voice warm with affection for him. “But Mom, it’s fine. Landon broke up with me more than a year ago, and it’s not your fault I wasted five years on him.”
She winces. “Ouch.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quickly, realizing how harsh that sounds when I replay my words.
“I know, sweetie,” she says, smoothing her napkin over her lap. “I just wanted you to have what your dad and I have, so I told you to take your time with him. I thought he was the right guy.”
So did I.
Not only was my longtime ex charming, but he dreamed big. The idea of opening a board game shop seemed like the height of kitschy charm to me. We both loved playing board games, so when he announced plans to open a shop, I did nothing but encourage him—to create a business plan, to go for it, to find a spot, to nab a loan.
And Landon was into it, making promises—we’ll move into a new place after the store opens, we’ll get engaged once it’s up and running, we’ll get married the year after.
But he could never move ahead. Everything was always just around the corner.
If I ever called him out on it, he’d tug me onto our comfy couch, nuzzle my neck, and say, “Babe, I’m getting there. Just support me and play CATAN with me. When you push, it stresses me out.”
I’d wanted to support him. It’d seemed like the right thing to do. So I paid most of the bills while he worked as a bartender by night and a dreamer by day.
One day, he met someone else. Packed up. Told me he was going to open the store—with her.