Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“Stop,” Mom said flatly.
“I can’t be the Penguin, I can’t be Charlie Chaplin—”
She didn’t look up from her iPad sudoku to interrupt me. “You can’t be Charlie Chaplin because he didn’t need the cane to walk. You almost went headfirst down the stairs.”
The only reply I could produce was, “Pfft.” I sat at the table and leaned my potentially permanent walking aid against the chair beside mine.
“It isn’t that I don’t love having my children at home with me,” Mom began with more patience than she should be showing a houseguest eight weeks into his stay. “But have you thought about your next steps?”
“Oh, believe me. I think about steps. Steps from the bed to the bathroom, steps from the desk to—”
“You know what I mean.”
I sighed. “Have I thought about how I’m going to transition back into my normal life?”
“Your normal life might not be a possibility,” she reminded me gently.
She was right, and that sucked. I wouldn’t be running any marathons any time soon. Rock climbing was right out. And who wanted to party with a guy who’d have to keep saying, “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up?”
“I know things are going to change for a while.” I emphasized the last part of the sentence. I wasn’t quite ready to accept that a bear shredding the muscles of my calf might have permanent consequences. “And I’ll get out of your hair, if you need me to.”
The hair in question was the same dark shade as mine, and artfully done despite the early hour. Mom didn’t have to make herself look perfect to hang around the house all day, but years of being a socialite in the upper echelons had made it a habit harder to break than her smoking. She opened the gold case beside her barely finished plate of poached eggs and slipped a cigarette out—Dunhills, but she thought showing the brand packaging was tacky—and fitted it into her antique cigarette holder.
Mom hadn’t come from money, but she’d gotten good at pretending she was “well-bred.” Eventually, parts of the act had become her actual personality.
“You’re not in my hair. Do you honestly think I couldn’t find somewhere to hide from you in this house?” She gestured expansively around us. “It’s not me I’m worried about. You injured your leg. You didn’t die.”
“I could have.” Within forty-eight hours of the initial incident, I’d been in surgery again, for a blood clot that had been more painful than what the bear did and way more life threatening.
“But you didn’t.” Mom was having none of my bullshit. “You’re not going to entomb yourself alive in my house.”
“No, I’m going to have my good friend Fortunato do that for me.” I sat back as one of the kitchen staff assembled my plate from the sideboard; I wasn’t great at carrying stuff and walking, yet.
“Fortunato was the one who got walled up,” Mom corrected. “I’m serious. You have friends. You have a life. You were always so busy; I couldn’t get you on the phone.”
“I’m still busy. I was working until three this morning,” I pointed out.
“I don’t care about the work. I care about the fact that you’re a forty-year-old man—”
“Thirty-nine for three more months. Watch your mouth.”
“Hush. If you’d asked me at this time last year what I wanted for you, I’d have said I wanted you to settle down. But if this is how you’re choosing to do it, Howard Hughes, I’m not sure I approve of the outcome.” She took a drag off her cigarette.
“I guess that shows that you’ll never be truly happy. I pity you.” I glanced up at the servant who set my plate in front of me. “Thank you.”
“How long has it been since you talked to Scott?” Mom asked, and I couldn’t help my wince. She jabbed her cigarette in the air toward me. “Aha. I knew it. I knew you’ve been isolating yourself.”
“I don’t think Scott wants to talk to me.” That wasn’t entirely true. We hadn’t talked, but we’d exchanged a few texts. Not with the frequency or volume we used to.
I’d been talking to his sister more than I’d been talking to him.
“Things have been strained since I ruined his wedding,” I went on.
“You didn’t ruin his wedding. His fiancée ruined his wedding.” Mom clucked her tongue and shook her head. “And a bear. The thought of endangering your guests—”
I held up my hand to silence her. “Okay. This has gone on long enough. I have to come clean.”
Mom’s head turned slightly, a clear sign she was ready for whatever my latest absurd bullshit had wrought.
“Scott is probably not mad at me about the ruined wedding.” I took a deep breath. “He’s probably very angry that I slept with his sister.”
“Matthew Leonard Elliott Ashe!” She pinched the bridge of her nose.