Ruining Hattie, page 2
I frown. “Where’s he going?”
Steph rolls her eyes. “Said his wife is on him to quit. She doesn’t like that he works around half-naked women all day.”
My lips press together. “Happy wife, happy life, huh?”
“It’s bullshit. If a man wants to cheat, he will. Simple as that. Doesn’t matter if he’s around naked women or not.”
I shrug, not entirely agreeing. Desire and proximity together can be a potent cocktail.
“Do you want me to make him an offer he can’t refuse? He’s a decent manager.”
She’s not wrong, and I don’t want to lose him, but if he doesn’t want to be there, what’s the point in trying to convince him otherwise? We’ll just end up back here at some point.
She crosses her legs slowly, and my gaze drags across the movement. Steph has a great set of legs.
I shake my head. “No, let him go. But once you’ve picked someone to fill his position, I want to do the final interview.”
She smirks. “Don’t trust me?”
Tilting my head down, I look at her from under my brows. “You know I do, but I get the final say.”
She nods before filling me in on some more details from the California clubs. I give her a few tasks, and when we’re done, she stands and walks over to the office door, then flips the lock.
Like some Pavlovian response, my dick twitches. Steph saunters to my desk, squeezing herself between where I sit in my chair and the desk.
I don’t fuck the dancers, and truth be told, I shouldn’t fuck Steph either since she works for me. But she understands the deal, and she’s never tried to make it anything more than it is—two adults getting their rocks off when the mood strikes.
“Something I can help you with?” I arch an eyebrow.
“The business stuff is over now. Time for a more pleasurable experience.” She sets her hands on the armrests of my chair and pushes it backward, making room for her to drop onto her knees in front of me.
I groan low in my throat. “What did you have in mind?”
The corners of her lips tilt up. “You’re a smart man.” Steph runs both hands up my thighs until she covers my now hard-as-a-rock dick with her hand. She squeezes my length, eliciting another groan from me.
“Do your worst.”
Always loving a challenge, she smiles up at me while unfastening my belt. As I’m admiring her with my dress pants splayed open and my zipper down, my phone buzzes on my desk with a text. Unable to stop working, I glance at the screen. When I see who’s texted me, my entire body stiffens.
Steph tugs my cock out and is stroking it as I reach for my phone.
1 new message from Mr. Smith
My chest grows tight, and that familiar nausea churns in my stomach. Cursing my impulsive decision weeks prior, I open the message as Steph wraps her lips around the tip of me. I’m not even enjoying her blow job. That’s how fucked up this situation is.
I located the individual. I’ve sent a report to your email along with my invoice. Let me know if you need anything else.
Sitting up straight, I push Steph’s shoulders, and her mouth pops off my cock.
“What the hell, Bastion?” Her lipstick is smeared, and her eyes are narrowed.
“Something’s come up.”
“I’m aware.” She reaches for my dick, but I push her hand away.
“You need to leave, Steph. I have something I have to deal with privately.”
Her cheeks redden, and her jaw clenches. She’s about to argue but seems to think better of it when she takes in my expression. “Fine.”
She stands and tugs her skirt down, trying to muster up some kind of dignity, but that’s hard to do when you just had your mouth wrapped around your boss’s cock and he abruptly called things off. I hate doing that to her or making her feel that way.
“I’ll be in the Nevada clubs next week. I’ll let you know if there’s anything pressing that needs your attention,” she says.
I nod, not bothering to look at her. There’s probably confusion written all over her face, and I can’t blame her. I don’t even understand myself these days. After the door shuts behind her, I stare at my phone’s screen, unsure if I want to go through with this or not.
When I reached out to Mr. Smith and asked him to track down my mother, I genuinely thought he would report back with a death certificate. That she’d passed away from a drug overdose at some point in the twenty-six years since I left her in that filthy apartment. The box would be sealed, and I could move on. Even then, I knew it would bring up a bunch of shit, but I never expected her to be alive.
Where is she? What is she doing? Is she still an addict and living on the streets? Is she in jail? I thought that was the most likely possibility and probably the only way she was still alive—she wouldn’t have the ability to constantly feed her demons like she would out on the street.
I push my hand through my hair, then set down my phone and pull my laptop toward me, clicking on my email. The report is there, just as Mr. Smith said it would be. My heart hammers as I hover the cursor over the email, warning alarms blaring in my head.
Once I click, there’s no going back.
Who the hell am I kidding? There’s already no going back just from the mere fact that I know my mother somehow managed to beat the odds.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist down on the desk beside my computer. I’ve fucking opened Pandora’s box.
Hiring Mr. Smith to track her down was a stupid decision. It was a weak moment. I’d just returned from visiting my sister at Midnight Manor for my niece and nephew’s seventh birthday. Every time I’m around my sister and her family, it feels surreal. She grew up the same way I did—with her father, my pseudofather, running cons on people—and somehow, she’s managed to have a normal relationship and family of her own.
Granted, she missed out on experiencing eleven years with a neglectful addict for a mother, but Ariana’s birth mother ran away from her and Trent early on, so she hasn’t had it easy either.
I hate to admit that I was jealous on the plane home, and that lingered the following weeks. I don’t begrudge my sister’s happiness, she deserves it, but I found myself wishing I could have a slice of it for myself. The past came haunting, and I wondered where my mother ended up, so I called my brother-in-law, Obsidian. He connected me with his brother Kol, who led me to Mr. Smith. I didn’t tell Obsidian who I was looking for, instead saying that I needed to track someone down for business purposes. That way he wouldn’t share my call with Ariana. The last thing I needed was for her to be all over me about this.
Since she’s met Obsidian, she’s become so fucking into discussing feelings it makes me want to pierce my eardrums with a knife most times.
Who am I kidding? There’s no turning back now.
After taking a deep breath, I press on the email, then click on the report attached.
The words “Carla Lynn Sinclair (nee Blake), 57” are printed at the top of the report, and I squeeze my eyes shut to push back the swell of emotion at seeing her full name.
It takes me a couple minutes, but I dig into the report. Interesting. Mommy Dearest lives in Wisconsin now and has been married for seventeen years to a guy named Robert Sinclair, who came into the marriage with a seven-year-old daughter, Hattie.
I’m in a state of disbelief as I read. She’s a religious churchgoer every Sunday and works as a hairdresser at a local salon. She’s had no speeding tickets or arrests since she got married and, by the looks of it, is now a fucking model citizen.
What the actual fuck?
The pit of rage inside of me burns hotter the further I read.
When I was around, she could barely function, but after I leave, she somehow manages to get her fucking shit together? And she doesn’t bother to try to find me?
I grip the edges of my computer and toss it off my desk. It crashes against the wall and falls to the floor. I push back from my desk, my chair pinging off the wall and to the side. My chest heaves as I stare at my computer, cursing it for this oily feeling mixed with rage rushing through my veins.
I thought when I received this report, I’d get some measure of closure at the certainty that my mother had passed away. Instead, I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest of emotions I’m not nearly equipped to deal with.
No matter what, the question remains. What am I going to do about it?
2
HATTIE
“Bye, Hattie. Have a good night.” My coworker Marwa passes my desk.
I smile and wave, watching her meet our other coworker, Tiffany, at the door. Disappointment mixed with envy invades my chest.
Given that it’s Friday night, they’re probably going for dinner and drinks. I’ve been invited many times and turned them down each time, so I have no one but myself to blame for the fact that they no longer ask me to join them.
A few years ago, I moved to this medium-sized town in Wisconsin with my parents after I finished college because my dad got a new job here. I’ve found it hard to make friends. As a kid, it was so much easier than as an adult. Probably because I don’t do what most other twenty-four-year-olds do. I don’t dress in tight outfits and go carousing at the bar. I don’t drink except for maybe a glass of wine at Christmas and Easter, and I spend most of my evenings at church or volunteering somewhere with people from church.
Sure, I was raised by strict parents under the influence of religion, but that’s not why I do it. It’s mostly because I’m afraid. Afraid of what will happen if I let go and experience some of the things I’m curious about. Would one risky decision lead to another and then another until I no longer recognized myself?
It doesn’t matter. I’m never going to be a crazy risk-taker who drinks and parties and sleeps around. Just imagining it, I can see the look of disappointment on my dad’s face, and it feels as if someone dug a knife into my chest, twisting it around.
Ever since my mom passed away when I was six years old, I’ve done everything I can not to cause him any trouble. I’m still haunted by the memory of how distraught he was right after it happened. Even the smallest thing—like burning dinner or me messing up tying my shoes—would put him over the edge. He never ranted or raved. That wasn’t my dad’s style. But I could see the profound frustration and weariness in his eyes, as though this small thing might be what sent him spiraling into the abyss of his grief.
I promised myself I would never be the cause of stress in his life. I would only better the situations. It’s a habit and a mantra I still live by today.
When he married Carla a year after my mom’s death, I was unsure how I felt about the quick relationship, but when I saw the light back in his eyes and how she made him happy, I decided to give her a chance. She’s been a wonderful parent to me, and I think of her as my mother, not my stepmother. Unfortunately, the memories of my mom are blurry at best and seem to fade more with each passing year.
After I shut down my computer, I pack up my things and walk to my car to head over to my parents’ house. I always have dinner with them on Friday nights before I go to the church for a women’s ministry meeting. It’s not exactly how I want to spend my Friday night, but it’s better than sitting in my apartment alone, which is what I’ll be doing by default tomorrow night.
Once I’m on the road, I call my friend, Taylor, from back home.
She picks up on the first ring. “Your ears must be burning. I was just thinking about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” I smile and stop at a red light.
“I was wondering if you’d worked up the nerve to talk to that hottie in your office yet.”
Even though I’m by myself, I feel my cheeks heat. “I should have never told you about him.”
She laughs. “Oh yes, you should’ve. Because I’m going to harass you about it until you do something and your life turns infinitely more interesting.”
She means well, I know she does, but her words are like an arrow hitting a bull’s-eye because she’s not wrong—my life is boring.
“We can’t all go off to college, denounce religion, and sow our wild oats like you did.” The light turns green, and I ease on the gas.
“I know better than to try to get you to give up on church, Hattie, but just because you believe in a higher power doesn’t mean you have to live like a nun. Newsflash, you are not in a convent.”
A laugh escapes me as I pull into the left-hand turn lane. “I’m fully aware of that. And it has nothing to do with my religion anyway, I’m just shy.”
“God, I wish you hadn’t moved so far away. If we were still in the same town, I’d make it happen for you one way or the other.”
“I appreciate that, and I miss you too. Now fill me in on the hot dates you have planned for the weekend.”
Sadly, I live vicariously through Taylor’s stories. She always has something new and exciting going on. When we were growing up, she was just like me. But while I chose to go to a Christian college, she attended a state school, which is where she tells me she got a real education. Since then, we’re practically polar opposites. But just because our beliefs are different doesn’t change the fact that I love her and the kind of person she is to her core.
By the time she’s done telling me about the date she went on earlier this week and the “total fucking hottie” she’s going out with tomorrow night, I’m pulling onto my parents’ street.
“Well, good luck, and let me know how it goes,” I say as I park in their driveway.
“I don’t need luck. I just got a new pair of four-inch heels, and they make my legs look a mile long.”
We both laugh and, for not the first time, I wonder if I had opted to go to the state school, would my life be different? Would I even want it to be like Taylor’s?
“Give me a call Sunday afternoon and tell me all about it.” I don’t have to bother telling her I’ll be busy at church on Sunday morning—she knows.
“Will do. Try to have some fun this weekend, okay?”
I blow out a breath. “Goodbye, Taylor.”
Her laughter rings until she ends the call. Shaking my head, I turn the car off and pull the key from the ignition, tossing it into my purse that sits on the passenger seat.
As I exit the car, my mom pops out onto the porch with a wide smile and a wave. I return both, and when I reach the porch, she pulls me into a tight hug. When I inhale the scent of the perfume she’s worn since she came into my life, a feeling of safety and security wraps around me.
For all my secret ambitions of being a more adventurous person, the truth is I love this feeling right here.
“How was your day?” she asks as she pulls away and runs her palm down my cheek as always.
“It was good. Same old.” Since we moved here, I’ve worked as a bookkeeper and administrator for a manufacturing company in town.
“That’s great, honey.”
She looks more tired and worn down than usual, and I hope she isn’t working too hard. Lately, her hours have increased from building up a large client list over the years. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a talented hair stylist.
“How are you? You look tired. Spending too much time at the salon?” I arch an eyebrow in question. She’s been known to overdo it sometimes when she’s booked up and someone wants her to squeeze them in. She’s never been able to say no.
She gives my shoulder a squeeze and opens the door to the house, motioning for me to go first. “No.”
I give her a look.
She giggles. “I promise. I just don’t have the same kind of stamina I used to. Guess that’s getting old.”
“Fifty-seven is not old.” I shake my head and go inside, setting my purse on the wooden table inside the door.
“Thought I heard your voice. Hey, sweet pea, how are ya?” My dad walks up from the back of the house.
My chest warms at the moniker my dad has called me since I was little.
He uses his cane for extra support, one arm out and ready to pull me in for a hug as soon as he reaches me.
My dad was in a car accident a few years back, and since then, he’s had to walk with a cane. He went through a couple of surgeries and physical therapy but never fully recovered—physically or financially. Which is why I use a chunk of my salary to help pay down the medical debt. They both hate accepting my help, but the truth is, it’s necessary if they want to be able to retire any time in the next decade.
I don’t mind. They spent so much time and effort raising me, and my religion has always taught me to help others. Who better to help than the two people I love most in this world?
“I’m good, Dad, how are you feeling?”
He envelops me in a one-armed hug, and I wrap my arms around him and squeeze. “Feeling good. Don’t worry about me.”
I roll my eyes as I pull away. He knows I’m going to worry about him no matter what he says. Some days he’s in quite a bit of pain. Depending on the weather, his joints may bother him, but today is a sunny June day with no clouds in the sky, so as expected, it seems like a good day for him.
“I’m just about to take the steak off the grill. Why don’t you go help your mom get everything else on the table outside?”
“Will do.” I kiss his cheek and head to the kitchen to bring out the side dishes.
Once we have the garden salad, corn on the cob, asparagus, and scalloped potatoes (my dad’s favorite) on the table, we all sit and join hands.
“You want to do the honors, sweet pea?” my dad asks.
I nod. “Heavenly Father, please bless this food and our bodies. Thank you for these gifts we are about to receive from your bounty. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” my parents say in unison.
We all smile around the table, and I settle in for my usual Friday night—predictable, unexciting, and a little boring. But I chose this life. This is what I want, so I can’t complain.
3
BASTION
Ipull up in front of the address typed on the report and stare at the house. I wasn’t sure what I was going to find, but this perfect slice of Americana wasn’t it.
Steph rolls her eyes. “Said his wife is on him to quit. She doesn’t like that he works around half-naked women all day.”
My lips press together. “Happy wife, happy life, huh?”
“It’s bullshit. If a man wants to cheat, he will. Simple as that. Doesn’t matter if he’s around naked women or not.”
I shrug, not entirely agreeing. Desire and proximity together can be a potent cocktail.
“Do you want me to make him an offer he can’t refuse? He’s a decent manager.”
She’s not wrong, and I don’t want to lose him, but if he doesn’t want to be there, what’s the point in trying to convince him otherwise? We’ll just end up back here at some point.
She crosses her legs slowly, and my gaze drags across the movement. Steph has a great set of legs.
I shake my head. “No, let him go. But once you’ve picked someone to fill his position, I want to do the final interview.”
She smirks. “Don’t trust me?”
Tilting my head down, I look at her from under my brows. “You know I do, but I get the final say.”
She nods before filling me in on some more details from the California clubs. I give her a few tasks, and when we’re done, she stands and walks over to the office door, then flips the lock.
Like some Pavlovian response, my dick twitches. Steph saunters to my desk, squeezing herself between where I sit in my chair and the desk.
I don’t fuck the dancers, and truth be told, I shouldn’t fuck Steph either since she works for me. But she understands the deal, and she’s never tried to make it anything more than it is—two adults getting their rocks off when the mood strikes.
“Something I can help you with?” I arch an eyebrow.
“The business stuff is over now. Time for a more pleasurable experience.” She sets her hands on the armrests of my chair and pushes it backward, making room for her to drop onto her knees in front of me.
I groan low in my throat. “What did you have in mind?”
The corners of her lips tilt up. “You’re a smart man.” Steph runs both hands up my thighs until she covers my now hard-as-a-rock dick with her hand. She squeezes my length, eliciting another groan from me.
“Do your worst.”
Always loving a challenge, she smiles up at me while unfastening my belt. As I’m admiring her with my dress pants splayed open and my zipper down, my phone buzzes on my desk with a text. Unable to stop working, I glance at the screen. When I see who’s texted me, my entire body stiffens.
Steph tugs my cock out and is stroking it as I reach for my phone.
1 new message from Mr. Smith
My chest grows tight, and that familiar nausea churns in my stomach. Cursing my impulsive decision weeks prior, I open the message as Steph wraps her lips around the tip of me. I’m not even enjoying her blow job. That’s how fucked up this situation is.
I located the individual. I’ve sent a report to your email along with my invoice. Let me know if you need anything else.
Sitting up straight, I push Steph’s shoulders, and her mouth pops off my cock.
“What the hell, Bastion?” Her lipstick is smeared, and her eyes are narrowed.
“Something’s come up.”
“I’m aware.” She reaches for my dick, but I push her hand away.
“You need to leave, Steph. I have something I have to deal with privately.”
Her cheeks redden, and her jaw clenches. She’s about to argue but seems to think better of it when she takes in my expression. “Fine.”
She stands and tugs her skirt down, trying to muster up some kind of dignity, but that’s hard to do when you just had your mouth wrapped around your boss’s cock and he abruptly called things off. I hate doing that to her or making her feel that way.
“I’ll be in the Nevada clubs next week. I’ll let you know if there’s anything pressing that needs your attention,” she says.
I nod, not bothering to look at her. There’s probably confusion written all over her face, and I can’t blame her. I don’t even understand myself these days. After the door shuts behind her, I stare at my phone’s screen, unsure if I want to go through with this or not.
When I reached out to Mr. Smith and asked him to track down my mother, I genuinely thought he would report back with a death certificate. That she’d passed away from a drug overdose at some point in the twenty-six years since I left her in that filthy apartment. The box would be sealed, and I could move on. Even then, I knew it would bring up a bunch of shit, but I never expected her to be alive.
Where is she? What is she doing? Is she still an addict and living on the streets? Is she in jail? I thought that was the most likely possibility and probably the only way she was still alive—she wouldn’t have the ability to constantly feed her demons like she would out on the street.
I push my hand through my hair, then set down my phone and pull my laptop toward me, clicking on my email. The report is there, just as Mr. Smith said it would be. My heart hammers as I hover the cursor over the email, warning alarms blaring in my head.
Once I click, there’s no going back.
Who the hell am I kidding? There’s already no going back just from the mere fact that I know my mother somehow managed to beat the odds.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist down on the desk beside my computer. I’ve fucking opened Pandora’s box.
Hiring Mr. Smith to track her down was a stupid decision. It was a weak moment. I’d just returned from visiting my sister at Midnight Manor for my niece and nephew’s seventh birthday. Every time I’m around my sister and her family, it feels surreal. She grew up the same way I did—with her father, my pseudofather, running cons on people—and somehow, she’s managed to have a normal relationship and family of her own.
Granted, she missed out on experiencing eleven years with a neglectful addict for a mother, but Ariana’s birth mother ran away from her and Trent early on, so she hasn’t had it easy either.
I hate to admit that I was jealous on the plane home, and that lingered the following weeks. I don’t begrudge my sister’s happiness, she deserves it, but I found myself wishing I could have a slice of it for myself. The past came haunting, and I wondered where my mother ended up, so I called my brother-in-law, Obsidian. He connected me with his brother Kol, who led me to Mr. Smith. I didn’t tell Obsidian who I was looking for, instead saying that I needed to track someone down for business purposes. That way he wouldn’t share my call with Ariana. The last thing I needed was for her to be all over me about this.
Since she’s met Obsidian, she’s become so fucking into discussing feelings it makes me want to pierce my eardrums with a knife most times.
Who am I kidding? There’s no turning back now.
After taking a deep breath, I press on the email, then click on the report attached.
The words “Carla Lynn Sinclair (nee Blake), 57” are printed at the top of the report, and I squeeze my eyes shut to push back the swell of emotion at seeing her full name.
It takes me a couple minutes, but I dig into the report. Interesting. Mommy Dearest lives in Wisconsin now and has been married for seventeen years to a guy named Robert Sinclair, who came into the marriage with a seven-year-old daughter, Hattie.
I’m in a state of disbelief as I read. She’s a religious churchgoer every Sunday and works as a hairdresser at a local salon. She’s had no speeding tickets or arrests since she got married and, by the looks of it, is now a fucking model citizen.
What the actual fuck?
The pit of rage inside of me burns hotter the further I read.
When I was around, she could barely function, but after I leave, she somehow manages to get her fucking shit together? And she doesn’t bother to try to find me?
I grip the edges of my computer and toss it off my desk. It crashes against the wall and falls to the floor. I push back from my desk, my chair pinging off the wall and to the side. My chest heaves as I stare at my computer, cursing it for this oily feeling mixed with rage rushing through my veins.
I thought when I received this report, I’d get some measure of closure at the certainty that my mother had passed away. Instead, I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest of emotions I’m not nearly equipped to deal with.
No matter what, the question remains. What am I going to do about it?
2
HATTIE
“Bye, Hattie. Have a good night.” My coworker Marwa passes my desk.
I smile and wave, watching her meet our other coworker, Tiffany, at the door. Disappointment mixed with envy invades my chest.
Given that it’s Friday night, they’re probably going for dinner and drinks. I’ve been invited many times and turned them down each time, so I have no one but myself to blame for the fact that they no longer ask me to join them.
A few years ago, I moved to this medium-sized town in Wisconsin with my parents after I finished college because my dad got a new job here. I’ve found it hard to make friends. As a kid, it was so much easier than as an adult. Probably because I don’t do what most other twenty-four-year-olds do. I don’t dress in tight outfits and go carousing at the bar. I don’t drink except for maybe a glass of wine at Christmas and Easter, and I spend most of my evenings at church or volunteering somewhere with people from church.
Sure, I was raised by strict parents under the influence of religion, but that’s not why I do it. It’s mostly because I’m afraid. Afraid of what will happen if I let go and experience some of the things I’m curious about. Would one risky decision lead to another and then another until I no longer recognized myself?
It doesn’t matter. I’m never going to be a crazy risk-taker who drinks and parties and sleeps around. Just imagining it, I can see the look of disappointment on my dad’s face, and it feels as if someone dug a knife into my chest, twisting it around.
Ever since my mom passed away when I was six years old, I’ve done everything I can not to cause him any trouble. I’m still haunted by the memory of how distraught he was right after it happened. Even the smallest thing—like burning dinner or me messing up tying my shoes—would put him over the edge. He never ranted or raved. That wasn’t my dad’s style. But I could see the profound frustration and weariness in his eyes, as though this small thing might be what sent him spiraling into the abyss of his grief.
I promised myself I would never be the cause of stress in his life. I would only better the situations. It’s a habit and a mantra I still live by today.
When he married Carla a year after my mom’s death, I was unsure how I felt about the quick relationship, but when I saw the light back in his eyes and how she made him happy, I decided to give her a chance. She’s been a wonderful parent to me, and I think of her as my mother, not my stepmother. Unfortunately, the memories of my mom are blurry at best and seem to fade more with each passing year.
After I shut down my computer, I pack up my things and walk to my car to head over to my parents’ house. I always have dinner with them on Friday nights before I go to the church for a women’s ministry meeting. It’s not exactly how I want to spend my Friday night, but it’s better than sitting in my apartment alone, which is what I’ll be doing by default tomorrow night.
Once I’m on the road, I call my friend, Taylor, from back home.
She picks up on the first ring. “Your ears must be burning. I was just thinking about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” I smile and stop at a red light.
“I was wondering if you’d worked up the nerve to talk to that hottie in your office yet.”
Even though I’m by myself, I feel my cheeks heat. “I should have never told you about him.”
She laughs. “Oh yes, you should’ve. Because I’m going to harass you about it until you do something and your life turns infinitely more interesting.”
She means well, I know she does, but her words are like an arrow hitting a bull’s-eye because she’s not wrong—my life is boring.
“We can’t all go off to college, denounce religion, and sow our wild oats like you did.” The light turns green, and I ease on the gas.
“I know better than to try to get you to give up on church, Hattie, but just because you believe in a higher power doesn’t mean you have to live like a nun. Newsflash, you are not in a convent.”
A laugh escapes me as I pull into the left-hand turn lane. “I’m fully aware of that. And it has nothing to do with my religion anyway, I’m just shy.”
“God, I wish you hadn’t moved so far away. If we were still in the same town, I’d make it happen for you one way or the other.”
“I appreciate that, and I miss you too. Now fill me in on the hot dates you have planned for the weekend.”
Sadly, I live vicariously through Taylor’s stories. She always has something new and exciting going on. When we were growing up, she was just like me. But while I chose to go to a Christian college, she attended a state school, which is where she tells me she got a real education. Since then, we’re practically polar opposites. But just because our beliefs are different doesn’t change the fact that I love her and the kind of person she is to her core.
By the time she’s done telling me about the date she went on earlier this week and the “total fucking hottie” she’s going out with tomorrow night, I’m pulling onto my parents’ street.
“Well, good luck, and let me know how it goes,” I say as I park in their driveway.
“I don’t need luck. I just got a new pair of four-inch heels, and they make my legs look a mile long.”
We both laugh and, for not the first time, I wonder if I had opted to go to the state school, would my life be different? Would I even want it to be like Taylor’s?
“Give me a call Sunday afternoon and tell me all about it.” I don’t have to bother telling her I’ll be busy at church on Sunday morning—she knows.
“Will do. Try to have some fun this weekend, okay?”
I blow out a breath. “Goodbye, Taylor.”
Her laughter rings until she ends the call. Shaking my head, I turn the car off and pull the key from the ignition, tossing it into my purse that sits on the passenger seat.
As I exit the car, my mom pops out onto the porch with a wide smile and a wave. I return both, and when I reach the porch, she pulls me into a tight hug. When I inhale the scent of the perfume she’s worn since she came into my life, a feeling of safety and security wraps around me.
For all my secret ambitions of being a more adventurous person, the truth is I love this feeling right here.
“How was your day?” she asks as she pulls away and runs her palm down my cheek as always.
“It was good. Same old.” Since we moved here, I’ve worked as a bookkeeper and administrator for a manufacturing company in town.
“That’s great, honey.”
She looks more tired and worn down than usual, and I hope she isn’t working too hard. Lately, her hours have increased from building up a large client list over the years. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a talented hair stylist.
“How are you? You look tired. Spending too much time at the salon?” I arch an eyebrow in question. She’s been known to overdo it sometimes when she’s booked up and someone wants her to squeeze them in. She’s never been able to say no.
She gives my shoulder a squeeze and opens the door to the house, motioning for me to go first. “No.”
I give her a look.
She giggles. “I promise. I just don’t have the same kind of stamina I used to. Guess that’s getting old.”
“Fifty-seven is not old.” I shake my head and go inside, setting my purse on the wooden table inside the door.
“Thought I heard your voice. Hey, sweet pea, how are ya?” My dad walks up from the back of the house.
My chest warms at the moniker my dad has called me since I was little.
He uses his cane for extra support, one arm out and ready to pull me in for a hug as soon as he reaches me.
My dad was in a car accident a few years back, and since then, he’s had to walk with a cane. He went through a couple of surgeries and physical therapy but never fully recovered—physically or financially. Which is why I use a chunk of my salary to help pay down the medical debt. They both hate accepting my help, but the truth is, it’s necessary if they want to be able to retire any time in the next decade.
I don’t mind. They spent so much time and effort raising me, and my religion has always taught me to help others. Who better to help than the two people I love most in this world?
“I’m good, Dad, how are you feeling?”
He envelops me in a one-armed hug, and I wrap my arms around him and squeeze. “Feeling good. Don’t worry about me.”
I roll my eyes as I pull away. He knows I’m going to worry about him no matter what he says. Some days he’s in quite a bit of pain. Depending on the weather, his joints may bother him, but today is a sunny June day with no clouds in the sky, so as expected, it seems like a good day for him.
“I’m just about to take the steak off the grill. Why don’t you go help your mom get everything else on the table outside?”
“Will do.” I kiss his cheek and head to the kitchen to bring out the side dishes.
Once we have the garden salad, corn on the cob, asparagus, and scalloped potatoes (my dad’s favorite) on the table, we all sit and join hands.
“You want to do the honors, sweet pea?” my dad asks.
I nod. “Heavenly Father, please bless this food and our bodies. Thank you for these gifts we are about to receive from your bounty. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” my parents say in unison.
We all smile around the table, and I settle in for my usual Friday night—predictable, unexciting, and a little boring. But I chose this life. This is what I want, so I can’t complain.
3
BASTION
Ipull up in front of the address typed on the report and stare at the house. I wasn’t sure what I was going to find, but this perfect slice of Americana wasn’t it.
