Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
And only the strongest survive.
I say hello, then we make small talk as we settle into our regular table and peruse the menu. It’s pointless—Dad orders the same thing every time. Two poached eggs, no butter. Toast dry. Mom orders the fruit bowl and claims it fills her up.
I opt for French toast because Marie used to say life’s too short to pass up a good French toast. She was right—life is too short.
“And how’s everything going at work?” my mom asks after the server leaves, then prattles on before I can answer. “I’m so glad you have a good job. Let me tell you—all my friends’ kids are struggling these days, living at home. Barely doing their own laundry. But look at you. You’ve got it all figured out. It’s like the accident didn’t even slow you down.”
Yes, Mom. I almost died and I didn’t miss a beat. That’s exactly what happened.
“Well, she’s not a director yet,” my dad points out since nothing is good enough for him. Nothing ever has been.
My gut churns. “I’m applying for a promotion though.”
“And she’ll get it, Russ,” my mom says, patting his hand.
“Nothing’s in the bag till it’s in the bag,” he says, since he’s always right.
“That’s why I’m devoting every bit of energy toward it,” I point out, doing my best to hold my own.
“Good. Everyone your age is obsessed with work-life balance,” he says. “But that’s bullshit. You have to work hard. End of story.”
It’s always been the end of the story with him.
“Now, Russ,” Mom says, chiding him. “You don’t have to work all the time these days.” But she stage-whispers to me, “But when your father works, I have plenty of time for my book club. And my yoga. And my volunteer work.”
She’s the one who has the work-life balance figured out, but maybe it’s simply that she’s balanced being married to a workaholic hard-ass by savoring every second when he’s at the office. Heck, his eighty-hour weeks are probably why they’re still married.
Dad downs some coffee, then turns to me, expression still gruff. “And how’s everything in the romance department, honey?” That’s his pet name for me. The one he uses when he downshifts to what he must think is his softer side. “If you let us set you up with a good guy, maybe you’d finally meet a good guy.”
It’s said upbeat, like he’s oh so helpful, rather than delivering a dig.
“But then I wouldn’t have time for work,” I say, slinging his words right back at him since two can play at his game.
“Good point,” he says, cracking a rare smile.
Yes, this is when I make him the happiest—when I prove I’m devoted to the desk.
Josie knocks on my door Sunday evening with the world’s loudest bang. I swing it open to find her brandishing a grocery bag. “I’ve got boxed wine, lime chili-pepper tortilla chips, and instructions to take you to Maeve’s favorite bowling alley instead of here,” she says with a please say yes to the change of plans grin.
I groan, gesturing to my leggings and a hoodie. “I have to go out? A girls’ night in is supposed to be, you know, inside. I was going to wallow before we strategize.”
“I can see if the bowling alley allows wallowing and bowling?” Josie asks playfully.
I sigh, then acquiesce. “Let me change into jeans. But what should we do about the boxed wine and chips?”
“Dude, they’re portable.”
“Another reason why I love wine.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at Spare Time Alley in the Mission, not far from Fable’s place.
Maeve and Fable have already claimed a lane. Maeve is wearing a 60s-style outfit—a pink button-down bowling shirt and capri pants. Her golden-brown hair is curled at the ends, a retro do, while Fable’s wearing a letterman jacket. Briefly, I imagine Marie walking in here with me. She’d wear a black leather jacket and matching pants, declare it her bowling garb, then promptly forget the game because she’d want to hear all the details of everyone’s week first. She’d fit in perfectly. I know that. It’s a lovely picture, the five of us, and one of the first ones that doesn’t choke me up.
But I can’t live in my head.
“Hello! Did anyone think to tell me there was a dress code?” I glance disapprovingly at my very casual clothes.
Fable plucks at the coat. “I just grabbed this from work.” It’s a Renegades jacket.
“Did the team owner give it to you?” Maeve asks her, arching a playful brow.
Fable rolls her eyes. “No.” It’s said like it has ten syllables.
I laugh. Maeve has never let go of the idea that the team owner has a crush on Fable. Not even now that Fable’s started seeing a new guy—a stockbroker named Brady who’s friendly and fun, Fable has said.
“Someday, you’ll admit the truth,” Maeve tells her, then looks to me. “And there’s no dress code. The style is be yourself. And you look cute in a lavender hoodie. You hardly ever wear colors besides blue, black, or gray. But you should. They suit you.”