Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 131459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
I probably would have felt the same if she were a boy, but I definitely needed that since she was a girl.
I didn’t want some bitchy mean girl bullying her, and Cadence not feeling it was important enough to interrupt me so she could tell me.
I didn’t want some boy pressuring her into something she didn’t want, and Cadence feeling awkward confiding that in me.
Or something worse, and she didn’t think she could share it with me.
This meant I checked the judgment (and it was hard, I had a fair few opinions about everything, but my daughter and how she behaved and the type of person I hoped she would become was top of that list). I listened. I tried to be supportive when necessary, neutral when requested, offering wisdom when needed. But generally I was open to anything she wanted to give me without there being a downside for her.
This bred her saying it like it was.
Or it could be she came by that naturally, because that was a lot like her dad.
And a lot like me.
On the other hand, I couldn’t tell her I didn’t want to phone Tom Pierce because I was pissed as shit at him for turning out to be an asshole.
He’d polluted the fantasy.
He was the last one standing, after Rollo was gone.
And then he fell.
But he’d said something to me years ago. And since I cut ties with him and we only spoke that once, after Rollo died, I didn’t know if what I took as a promise, he kept.
And now, I needed to know if he kept that promise.
Last, and worst, the conversation would best be had in person. Shit like this was real. It was extreme. And I wasn’t paranoid, but I had my share of attention, especially lately, now that the Millennials and Gen Z were discovering me.
Better safe than sorry.
“Mom, if this guy knows something, it’s doing the right thing to drag him in. Even if he doesn’t want to be in. But I’m looking him up…”
And she was, I could see. Cadence was scrunched in our pillowy couch, knees up, heels in the seat with her laptop wedged between her body and her thighs.
“…and he looks like he’s a decent guy. Maybe even a super decent one. I’m skimming this op-ed he wrote about USA Gymnastics’ and Michigan State’s responsibility in regard to the Larry Nassar situation, and he didn’t pull any punches. So he might even be, like, unicorn decent.”
Yes.
He seemed to be like that.
On paper and he talked a fair game too.
One thing I learned early, but somehow forgot when it came to Tom Pierce: Looks could be deceiving.
But this wasn’t about Tom. Or me. Or me and Tom, which never was, never could be and now I’d never allow it to be.
It was about something a whole lot bigger.
After a big sigh that garnered an even bigger grin from Cadence, I left my daughter where she was, went up to my studio and phoned him.
I thought I’d have to leave a message because he’d be busy seeing patients or hobnobbing with world-class athletes or hanging around while Paloma Friedrichsen got a pedicure.
Okay, that last was bitchy.
But what was he thinking, going from Imogen Swan to Paloma?
I’d had occasion to be around Paloma far too frequently in my life, and the woman had two modes. First was Cut A Bitch if she felt the vaguest indication you might stand between her and something she wanted. Second, Vacuous Arm Candy, but only vacuous so she wouldn’t do anything to annoy the man she had her fangs sunk into so she could bask in the light of his fame. This was, until she found another wealthier, more famous man she wanted to bleed (and bang).
Paloma Friedrichsen was one of most coldly calculating females I’d ever run across. I couldn’t believe Tom fell for her crap.
Then again, I was realizing I didn’t know Tom at all. I had read him completely wrong in our very brief acquaintance.
But that was on me.
However, in that moment, Tom was doing none of these things I thought would keep him from answering his phone, or if he was, he had time to take a call.
Because he picked up within three rings.
“Mika?”
Well, hell.
He knew who was calling which meant he’d programmed me in.
And he’d done that after I left that shitty message on the heels of that Elsa Cohen/Samantha Wheeler fiasco.
What did I do with that?
And worse, a friend of mine, who was a tennis fan, and just a man fan, said she taped Tom’s commentaries and listened to them while she was masturbating.
“I know what the face looks like,” she’d said. “But for me, I close my eyes and listen, because it’s about that voice.”
She was not wrong.
Tom Pierce looked good and sounded good.