Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Okay,” he said immediately. He wasn’t taking any chances that we’d leave it behind again.
Fifteen minutes later, we were stepping out of our motel room and into the cool spring sunshine.
“Cold, Mama,” Rhett said in confusion, looking up at the sun through his sunglasses.
“It doesn’t get hot here until the summer, buddy,” I replied, resettling him on my hip. Even after almost two weeks of no problems, my eyes still scanned the parking lot, watching for anything out of place.
“Brr.”
“Right now it’s spring,” I said as I unlocked the car and threw our bag on the back seat. “And spring is cold in Oregon.”
I kept up a running conversation as I buckled him into his seat and grabbed him a breakfast bar and a water bottle. I’d done it since he was a baby, discussing things that were way outside of his understanding, describing what we were doing, pointing out things I thought would interest him. I wasn’t sure why I did it, maybe because I’d never really had anyone else to talk to. As he got older, he replied to most things I said, even if he wasn’t sure what I was talking about. I liked to think that was why his vocabulary was so good, because I never shut up.
“Thank you,” he said as I finally finished describing the Oregon weather.
“You’re welcome,” I said, brushing his hair away from his face. “You know, you’re my best friend.”
“My best friend,” he replied happily, smiling with breakfast bar in his teeth.
“Just another short drive, and we’ll be there.”
I closed his door and hurried around the car, checking on him in the mirror as soon as I’d sat down again.
“Little bites, Rhett,” I reminded him. “Chew it up good, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Um, no,” I said, pausing to watch him as he took a huge bite. “Small bites.”
“’mall bites,” he agreed.
“Try again.”
The bite he took was so small, I doubted he could even taste it.
“Thank you.” I backed out of my parking spot and drove out of the lot, my eyes half on the road and half on Rhett. I knew I shouldn’t be letting him eat in the car, but I’d had to relax on some of my own rules while we were traveling. If we’d stopped for him every time he had to eat, we’d still be somewhere in California.
“All done,” Rhett said with a sigh as he looked out his window.
“We won’t be in the car that long, bud,” I assured him, getting onto the freeway.
“No car, please,” he whined. He’d finished his breakfast bar already and was no longer distracted.
I grimaced. “Just look out the windows, bud,” I said. “There’s all sorts of stuff to see.”
“Rhett all done,” he complained. Then, blessed silence filled the car.
I glanced at him to make sure he was okay, then smiled a little to myself as I found a familiar radio station. There was something about the stations of your childhood that just stuck with you. No matter where I lived, I always remembered the stations we had in Eugene. It was going to be a long day, but the nostalgia of the familiar music was a balm.
“That’s it,” I said about ten minutes later, parked in front of my childhood home. It looked smaller than I remembered.
“Grandma’s house?” Rhett asked, straining toward his window.
“Yeah, that was my house when I was little like you,” I replied. “I lived there with Grandma and Grandpa.”
“Go,” he wheedled, pulling on his shoulder straps. “Me go.”
“We can go look,” I said with a smile as I turned the car off. “But just from the outside, okay?”
“Okay!”
“You need to stay with Mama,” I warned as I got him out of his seat. “No running away.”
“No runnin’ away,” he repeated.
“And you have to hold my hand.”
“Grandma,” he said as he gripped my hand. “Grandma house.”
“Yeah, this was Grandma’s old house.” We walked forward to the edge of the yard and peeked over the fence.
“Me go,” Rhett said excitedly, pulling at my shirt so I’d lift him up to see.
“No, buddy, we can’t go in there,” I said, my heart thundering in my throat as I took in the familiar backyard. It was stupid, it was just a hammock—a million people had one—but something about it hanging there, swinging slightly in the breeze made me homesick for the past.
“Grandma,” Rhett ordered, wiggling on my hip. “Grandma’s house.”
It was then that I realized my serious royal fuck up. My chest ached as Rhett looked toward the front of the house, wiggling to get down. He thought my mom was in there.
“Grandma’s not here, buddy,” I said gently as I carried him back to the car. “This was my house when I was little. It’s someone else’s house now.”
“No, Grandma’s house,” Rhett yelled, trying to jerk out of my arms, looking at the house over my shoulder.