Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Not Carrie’s grandpa.
Oh no. As we stand here in the kitchen of The Sugar Factory, Mr. Montlain can’t stop scowling at me. I don’t know if he’s more unhappy that Carrie and I are dating or that she’s going to art school. Both might be bad in his books.
“Art school,” he says after a long, contemplative silence. “Community college has always been her plan. You want her to change for you.”
“No sir. I encouraged her to apply for art school because she loves art. No other reason than that.”
“It’s in the same city as your college,” he points out.
“It’s the best art school around here,” I counter, outwardly confident but inwardly sweating. Am I being too argumentative and not deferential enough? Where’s the line between standing up for myself and Carrie, and being an arrogant prick? I want to call a time out and take a breather in the dugout, maybe chat with my batting coach. Unfortunately, I don’t have one of those for my relationship with Carrie. Or, actually, I guess I have a team full of coaches who can’t agree on anything, and talking to them would likely end up with half of them saying I should have crawled in here on my knees and the other half saying fuck Grandpa.
I’m trying to hit a home run, but I feel like I’m only making contact with half the ball and I’m going to ground out right to the pitcher.
“The Sugar Factory is going to provide her a good income until she retires. She’s not going to have to worry about how to pay her mortgage or pay for a new car. This is her security.” He pats the stainless steel counter.
“I guess this is old fashioned of me, but I want to be her security. I’ve got money from my grandparents plus I’m going to get my law degree and represent athletes like Colt Broussard. If she never sells a painting to anyone but me, she’ll be able to buy a house or car or take a vacation or order that bag she’s been eyeing. I promise you that my goal in life will be to make sure she lands soft no matter what journey she wants to take.”
Mr. Montlain continues to stare at me. The silence grows long and uncomfortable until the door to the kitchen bursts open, and Mrs. Montlain comes bustling through.
“Stop that right now, George. These kids are in love, and we should support them and not put up obstacles. You’ve been wanting to sell The Sugar Factory for years but held off because you thought Carrie would need it. Now we know it’s just a leash to keep her tied here.” Mrs. Montlain turns to me and pats my cheek. “I’m so glad you talked her into art school. I’ve been badgering the old man here to sell this place so we can go on a six-month cruise and finally enjoy our golden years. This restaurant work is hard, you know. Have to be open six days a week. Can’t leave it in the hands of strangers because it’ll be a mess when you get back. You’re a savior.” She pats me again.
“That’s a little far,” says Mr. Montlain, but one look from Mrs. Montlain and he quiets down.
“Go out there and put poor Carrie out of her misery. She’s about wrung the skin off her hands worrying about the two of you.”
Mrs. Montlain starts pushing me toward the door.
“I’m going to take care of her,” I call over my shoulder. “Promise on my life.”
Mr. Montlain grumbles something under his breath, but Mrs. Montlain tells me, “Don’t pay no more attention to that cranky old man. He’s just mad he didn’t get to tell Carrie first that she should go to art school. Baby girl, I’m bringing your man out.”
Carrie runs over from the cash register. “Is everything okay?” She searches my face. “He’s not mad, is he?”
“No. It’s all good.” I press a kiss to her forehead, not daring to stray lower for fear I’ll get too carried away and end up dry humping her against the cooler cases in front of her grandma. I don’t have much control around her.
“It’s all good,” echoes a rough voice behind us.
I shift, tucking Carrie under my arm. Mr. Montlain strides over. “I’m glad you’re going to art school. You have a real talent, and it’d be a shame if you didn’t nurture it.” He hands Carrie an envelope. “We've been putting a little money aside every month since you were born since we knew your mama wouldn’t be able to. There’s quite a bit in this savings account—enough to pay for your tuition. We’ll have a little more for you when we sell The Sugar Factory.”
Behind him, Mrs. Montlain lets out a whoop of joy.