“Morning, Rhonda.” I head to the elevator, sunglasses still covering my eyes. I find it helps with avoiding eye contact and uncomfortable small talk.
I fucking loathe small talk.
I arrive at my corner office with the generic mahogany desk and the stiff leather chair and the company-issued iMac and tug the wooden blinds shut.
I’m not here by choice.
My father requires that I show my face a minimum of twenty hours a week so he can write off my “internship” on his corporate taxes, but on the plus side, I earn a handful of college credits for literally doing nothing, so it’s not the worst thing in the world.
Double checking the lock on the door, I return to my assigned seat and pull up a private browser on my phone. I’ve been on the hunt this week for a Sheridan-looking cam girl, but every site I’ve found has been a dead-end.
I tap on the image of a full-lipped blonde with natural tear-drop tits when a message pops up on my screen.
ROSE GIRL—Your shirt is ready. It’s at the Budget Cleaners on Broadway. I already paid. You can pick up whenever. Thanks again for letting me borrow it.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
ME—I was hoping for an in-person delivery.
ROSE GIRL—Sorry to disappoint you. Been a busy week. Take care!
I chuff, rotating in my chair, knee bouncing as I ponder my next move. A rush of adrenaline passes through me, the way it used to when I’d storm out onto the football field before a big playoff game. Sheer determination. Plays mapping out in my head in real time.
ME—My brother’s band is in town Saturday. I have an extra ticket.
ROSE GIRL—How fun for you!
ME—Come with me.
ROSE GIRL—I told you the other day, I have plans.
ME—And I told you I don’t believe you. Be ready to go by 7. I’ll pick you up.
ROSE GIRL—Not lying. I do have plans. Family outing.
I exhale through clenched teeth.
ME—Surely you can work it out so you’re back in time for the show? I’d hate for you to miss out …
ME— Show is sold out.
ME—People are scalping tix for $3000.
ME— Front. Center. Backstage.
It’s not my style to shoot off this many texts in a row without getting a response, but this is for emphasis. I’ll blow up her fucking phone if it means getting her to say yes. Besides, I don’t know a single fucking soul who wouldn’t suck a train of dicks for a MUNRO ticket. They’re the hottest band in the world, their fans are insane, and their tours sell out within hours.
ROSE GIRL—Sounds amazing. But I told you, I can’t. Thanks anyway.
ME—Can’t or don’t want to?
I wait.
And wait.
Five minutes turn into fifteen. Fifteen turn into twenty. Twenty turns into a fucking hour.
She did not just ghost me …
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t do something this desperate, but I compose another text to her, this time taking a softer approach.
ME—I know I’m coming on strong. I’ve been called intense a time or two, and I’ll fucking own that until my dying day. But I’ve been curious about you for as long as I can remember, and then you just walked into my life out of nowhere the other day … and now I can’t get you out of my damn head.
ME—So yes, Sheridan. I’m curious about you. I want to get to know you.
ME—Seven o’clock Saturday. I can pick you up wherever you want. And I’ll make sure you get home safely. Let’s shed these heavy fucking last names for one night and just have fun. That’s all I’m asking of you.
She leaves me on ‘read.’
I’m a manipulative bastard, and I deserve it—just as my mother’s memory deserves justice.
This isn’t going to be easy, but it’s going to be so fucking worth it in the end.
Chapter Ten
Sheridan
* * *
“I think we should keep her overnight for observation,” Mama’s doctor says Saturday night.
We’d just topped off an afternoon of school shopping with dinner at Magnolia Lake when she collapsed on our way back to the car. It happened so fast—the color drained from her face, her hands trembled, and her knees gave out and her lower body quit working. Another Guillain-Barre episode, they’re thinking.
Luckily, my father caught her before she hit the concrete parking lot. It could’ve been much worse.
Things can always be much worse …
“We can run some more tests tomorrow,” Dr. Smithson adds. “I suspect it’s another flare, which we can treat with IVIG therapy while she’s here, but until we get bloodwork back and run some scans, we won’t know for sure.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Dad shakes her hand, and I give my mom a jug of ice water from her bedside tray.
“Don’t scare me like that, Mama.” I brush a messy strand of silver-blonde hair from her forehead. “You said you weren’t getting sick on us again …”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Guess I was in denial.” She exhales as she attempts to sit up, wires running beneath her gown and machines beeping. It’s a familiar scene. One that always serves to shock the appreciation of life back into me just when I need it.
Into all of us …
It’s so easy to take one another for granted, so forget how fragile we all truly are.
“Love you,” I whisper, leaning close.
I wish I could’ve known her before she was sick. She was a cheerleader in high school, I’ve been told. Had the loudest voice on the team. And she ran track, holding the Missouri state record for the girls’ 100 meter sprint until recently. Before her nerves started failing her, she’d take afternoon walks around the block, collecting pretty leaves and wildflowers and pressing them between the pages of her books. And when her short-term memory was still in working order before all the meds, she would crochet the most beautiful baby blankets with matching hats and donate them to the local NICU.
She’s a beautiful soul and she doesn’t deserve this.
“Love you too, baby girl,” she whispers before turning to my father. “You two should go home, get some rest. Pretty sure visiting hours are almost over anyway.”
Exhaustion colors my father’s face with gray lines and deep shadows. We exchange looks. I lift my brows, leaving the decision to him. I’m too tired to decide.
“We’ll be back first thing in the morning. Get some rest now.” He bends over her and kisses her forehead. Then he turns to me. “Kiddo? You ready?”
We’re halfway to the elevator when my phone buzzes in my purse. I haven’t checked it in hours because I’ve been by Mama’s side. I opt to wait until the car ride home to see who it is. It’ll give me something to do besides stare at oncoming headlights for the next fifteen minutes.
When we leave the parking lot, Dad messes with the radio, tuning it to a classic country station. He always listens to country when he doesn’t want to think because he can’t help but hum along. When you’re too busy humming, you’re too busy to worry, he always says. And it reminds him of summers at his grandparents’ farm as a kid. Happier times.
Dragging my phone from my bag, I pull up my messages … and my stomach flips.