Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“We’re still doing charity work, of course.” He shakes his head. “Your mother was the best fundraiser I ever knew. She could convince anyone to donate to anything.”
My heart swells at the mention of her.
“Hey, Mom,” Carter says with Dylan on his heels.
I wait for them to reach us, giving them a look to remember their manners.
“Kids, I’d like you to meet Billy Madrid,” I say. “He was the high school principal when I was in school, and he was in a club with your grandma.”
“Your grandma was an amazing lady,” Billy says, shaking both their hands. “And this mama of yours is pretty special.”
“We love her,” Carter says, smiling up at me.
“I bet you do,” Billy says. “I tell you what, Gabby, finish your shopping. The club meets every Friday at Betty Lou’s for fish and Tuesdays for our weekly meeting at the community building at the park. We’d love for you to come by.”
“I’ll try.”
He grins. “It was nice meeting you, boys.”
“You too,” Dylan says, watching him walk away.
Carter wastes no time in bringing me back to the activity at hand. “So hear us out. We get one cereal that’s healthy and one cereal full of sugar. Then we go one bowl healthy stuff, one bowl good stuff.”
“Fine,” I say, giving in entirely too easily. It doesn’t bode well for the rest of the shopping excursion. “Hey, guys. I forgot to get orange juice. Will you run back and get a jug of it, please?”
“Pulp or no pulp?” Dylan asks.
“Some pulp but not to where it’s chunky.”
They take off to the back of the store with Dylan lecturing Carter on not interrupting people, something I find ironic.
I pause next to the discounted spice bin to check my email. But as I bring it up, a text comes through.
Della: Are you ready for tonight?
Me: I can’t wait.
Della: I’ll pick you up around eight?
Me: I’m usually in bed at eight. Ha! If I fall asleep, prop me up and put a drink in my hand.
Della:
“Whoa,” I say as the cart rattles. An armful of items is deposited with our other items. “That was more than orange juice.”
“But it was healthy,” Carter says. “String cheese. Yogurt with strawberries.”
“Bagels,” Dylan says, wincing. “But the cream cheese was dairy. Ish.”
I sigh and push on. “You guys have absolutely no idea how much food costs these days. If you keep eating like this, I’m going to have to get an actual job.” I laugh at myself. “Come on, guys. That was funny.”
“Total Mom joke,” Carter says, making Dylan laugh.
“You laugh at a seven-year-old but not me? Cool.”
Carter sprints ahead of us and comes back with a box of doughnuts.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “We have bagels and cream cheese, thanks to Dylan. We don’t need this much food. It’ll go to waste.” I think. With the way they’ve been eating, maybe not.
“These aren’t for us,” Carter says.
Dylan looks at me, his brows pulled together.
“Then who are they for?” I ask.
“Jay.”
I slow my walk. Did he say Jay? Surely not. “Excuse me?”
“These are for Jay,” he says again.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings.
“Why would we get doughnuts for Jay?” I ask, confused.
“Are we talking about our neighbor?” Dylan asks.
I shrug. “I think so.”
“Yes, silly. Our neighbor, Jay. How many other Jays do you know?” Carter asks.
I scratch my forehead. “So why are we getting Jay doughnuts?”
“Because,” Carter says, as if we’re too slow and need to catch up, “he’s been sad. So we need to get him a treat. Because that’s being nice, and we should be nice to our neighbors. That’s what you always say. Treat your neighbors like you want to be treated. If I was sad, I’d want doughnuts.”
That was before our neighbor was an infuriating, confusing, gorgeous man that I’d like to forget exists at this point.
Dylan looks at me. “Ball is in your court.”
I start to speak but stop. I have so many questions that I don’t know where to start.
“We haven’t seen Jay since last weekend,” Dylan says. “How do you know he’s sad?”
Well, I saw him Monday in the basement, but that’s neither here nor there.
“Maybe you haven’t seen him, but I have,” Carter says, bouncing from one foot to the other. “I saw him yesterday.”
“Where?” I ask.
“I went to his house. My ball needed air again, and I was gonna ask to use his pumper. But he was all cranky again, so I didn’t ask.”
I force a swallow. “Didn’t I ask you to leave him alone?”
“Yes, you did. But he’s my friend. And he’s having adult problems and is sad. So I have to see him. That’s what you do. You taught me that.”
I never thought I would regret teaching my child manners. But here we are.
“Why do you think he’s having adult problems?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can manage while my brain is working overtime.