Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Fortunately Aunt Bette was more tenacious than the pneumonia, but things were looking dicey for a while.
“Your dinner’s ready,” I tell her as I lead her into the next room. “Fletcher’s Deli. You’re lucky. Got the last of the Irish potato soup.”
I get her situated at the table before retrieving her soup and turkey club. Normally I’d make her a quick dinner myself, but I lost track of time at the library tonight.
“How was your first day back?” she asks as I peel the plastic wrap from her disposable soup spoon. “What classes did you have?”
“Anthro, Hospitality Design, and Interior Lighting,” I say. “And they were fine.”
“Can’t believe you’re almost done.” Aunt Bette smiles to cover the uncertainty in her eyes. “Seems like yesterday you were just starting.”
She knows I can’t stay here with her forever.
In four months, I’ll be flying the coop.
And while I’ve loved our time together—especially since it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever felt like I truly had a home—I can’t stay here forever.
Last summer, I interned for a local designer named Kira Kepner. Just last month, she contacted me, saying she’s been wanting to open a location up north in Malibu and she thinks I’d be the perfect designer to lead that team.
I almost choked when she gave me the salary.
I haven’t told Aunt Bette yet, but I’m going to accept the offer.
Working for someone like Kira while I build my portfolio and having a cushy income to pay the bills is more than I ever could have dreamed for myself at this point. Most interior design grads start out at the bottom, clawing their way up to prove themselves, all the while dealing with juvenile drama and salty competition and making the kind of money that necessitates a part-time job and a couple of roommates to help pay the rent—at least in this part of the country.
California isn’t cheap.
But now that I’ve lived here for almost four years, I can’t imagine living anywhere else, and I sure as hell have no plans to return home.
Missouri is great if you like farms and cornfields, if you’re into the Chiefs and the Royals and the Cardinals, if you can’t live without friendly folks with Midwestern manners, and if you gravitate toward the idea of living on the same street your whole life and raising a family of five with your high school sweetheart.
But those have never been my calling.
I’ve always wanted … something else.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Aunt Bette asks.
“I had a granola bar on the bus,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes before tearing her sandwich in half, placing it on its waxy paper wrap, and sliding it to me. “I’ll be damned if I sit here having a proper meal while you’re wasting away on chocolate chips bars.”
I take a bite, but only because I know she won’t let it go. “Thank you.”
I enjoy taking care of Aunt Bette, but sometimes I think she enjoys taking care of me more. She never married, never had kids. I’m the closest thing she’s ever had to a daughter. In fact, not long after I moved in, she told me one night over bourbon-spiked coffee that she wished she would’ve known all those years ago what I was going through—both before living with Uncle Michael and Aunt Elizabeth … and after.
She said she would have moved me out here sooner, would’ve taken me under her wing and given me a real home.
But it’s okay.
She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known.
And at least we have now.
I finish the rest of my half of Aunt Bette’s sandwich. “I should head back, going to check my email and head to bed early.”
She snorts. “Well, don’t go to bed too early.”
“As long as you don’t stay up too late,” I tease her back before disappearing down the hall.
As soon as I get to my room, I pull my laptop from my bag and connect it to the charger on my desk. I wait for the light to turn green before gathering my hair into a messy ponytail and heading to the bathroom to wash up for bed. When I come back, I change into a faded t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms.
The shuffling of Aunt Bette’s feet down the hall is followed by the sound of her laughter. She says something else, though I can’t make out the words. She must be on the phone with one of her girlfriends. They always call each other around this time of night, and tomorrow is Bunko day at Sheila Carlisle’s house.
I carry my laptop to the bed and climb under the covers, opting to check my email before calling it an early night.
Most students my age are living in campus town apartments, sitting around their kitchen islands shooting the shit with their bestie roommates over takeout pizza, putting their homework aside to catch up on the latest episode of The Bachelorette, helping each other decide whether to swipe left or right on the newest dating app.