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)
“You’ll get stories upon stories, articles upon articles. More ‘did you knows’ than you’d know what to do with. Did you know you can tell the Google Hub to remind you when your laundry is done? Did you know you can compost wine corks? Did you know that Sex and the City is finally streaming?”
Skylar blinks. “It is? Huh. I guess I haven’t looked for that in a long time. But thanks, Mama Devon, I know what I’ll be bingeing tonight.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m fighting off a laugh as we reach the front counter.
A man with a thick beard, horn-rimmed glasses, and a wry smile is waggling a beige phone receiver. “Let me guess. You’re Ford Devon?”
“Was it the reluctant look in his eyes that gave him away?" Skylar asks, drumming the countertop in an amused rhythm.
“I’d have to say yes,” the man says, then hands off the phone with a good luck, you’re going to need it look.
Deep breath.
Chill out.
Remember your morning yoga meditations—all is well, and I am calm.
I press the receiver to my ear. “Mom, I know that Sex and the City is finally streaming. And I will get to it, I promise.”
Skylar snorts, not at all delicately. It’s like a full-bodied snort, and it’s…kind of cute. Because it’s so…bold.
“Darling, I tried calling you. You didn’t answer. Is everything okay?”
“Everything is always okay. You don’t page me in the middle of hockey games. Why are you paging me now?”
“Of course I don’t page you in the middle of hockey games. I know you’re busy then. But right now, you were supposed to be available for our video chat, so naturally, I was concerned. I also have a lunch in a little bit, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. We probably have to switch back to your cell phone though. Did you know you can’t really do video conferencing on landlines?”
I drop my forehead in my hand. “Yes, Mom, I am aware. I will call you back.”
When I end the call, Skylar shoots me an I’ve got this look. “Want me to show her around?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I say, but I’m crossing my fingers. I hope Mom likes her style. She’s been critical of other designers, but I want a win for Skylar.
“Oh, I heard the warning loud and clear,” she says as we retrace our steps. I hit Mom’s name on the phone, then hand it to Skylar as it rings, mouthing, “good luck.”
When my mother answers on video, Skylar flashes her the same determined smile she gave me when she showed up on my front porch with those kale dog biscuits that Zamboni turned up her snout at.
“You must be Skylar,” Mom says, effortlessly professional, temporarily hiding her dragon self. “So lovely to meet you.”
“And you. Also, I’m so glad you called. Ford was getting far too distracted by the billiards table,” Skylar says.
“Seriously?” I mutter, shooting her a how could you throw me under the bus look.
But Skylar doesn’t even acknowledge me.
“Oh no, I like mid-century, not man cave. He’d better not be looking at moose heads.”
“You have my word, Mrs. Devon. I will never decorate with death…or man cave,” Skylar says.
“Call me Maggie,” Mom says, with a smile just for the designer.
“Maggie,” Skylar echoes. “May I show you the couch I have in mind?”
“Please do,” Mom says, and Skylar guides her through the store to the chocolate brown couch.
“Here you go,” Skylar says, voice bright and hopeful as she spins the phone around, giving Mom a tour of the sofa.
My muscles are tight. I’m bracing for Mom’s reaction.
She’s silent. For a long, long time. So long it makes my skin feel itchy. Time to sell it to her. I grab the phone and flip it back around as I sit on the couch. “It’s comfortable, Mom.”
Her face is stern, and she sighs—the deep, aggrieved sigh only a mother can deliver. “I despise it.”
Skylar blinks. Steps back, out of view of the screen. Says oh quietly, low enough that Mom can’t hear.
Things were going so well, I doubt she saw the smackdown coming.
“Mom, what is wrong with it? It’s…” I cast about for a word, landing only on, “nice.” Because what else is there to say about a couch?
Mom gives me a look like I should know better. “Ford, I detest brown. Did you not tell Skylar?”
“You don’t like brown?”
“Have you ever seen me wear brown?”
“I don’t catalogue the colors of your clothes,” I say, sinking deeper into the couch. All this time spent here has been a waste. I glance at Skylar—she looks shell-shocked.
“I don’t have a single item in brown. Not even boots,” Mom continues.
“I don’t look at your shoes.”
“The only thing I like that’s brown is chocolate,” she adds, punctuating her point.
I roll my eyes. “Message received.”