Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Collin and Amon did.
I swivel in my stool and look out the window so I can daydream about Amon a little bit before I shut the party down and close up. He said some pretty nice things to me this morning. I think he made his intentions perfectly clear and it’s exciting. I stare at the backwards varsity letters that spell ‘McBooms’ on the front window and have a revelation.
My luck has changed. I don’t think I realized it until just this very moment. I mean, a few months ago Cross and I were renting a doublewide situated in a vacant lot across the alley from the bakery. And then, one day, Lowyn McBride asked if I would like to live in her cute-as-fuck little house that looks like it belongs on the glossy pages of a lifestyle magazine.
Then Jim Bob said I could put my little lonely-hearts publication inside the Revival News, which got me ten new regular subscribers over the next few weeks.
And then Amon Parrish appeared outside my little print shop pulling a wagon of bones and the next thing I knew, I had myself a love interest.
It’s so weird how life can turn on a dime like that.
Everything has changed.
Hmm. One of my eyebrows goes up because there’s a connection to this turn of luck and it starts and ends with Amon Parrish. He came back into town and suddenly, life is better.
And for some reason this thought leads to the call of Revival. And I think… maybe it really is a call? And maybe people really do answer that call?
Let it be a sign. That’s how the call ends.
Let it be a sign.
This is my sign.
At six o’clock all the kids are kicked out and I lock up. Cross waits for me, sitting on the very stool where I spent my afternoon daydreaming. And when I’m all done, we walk out the back together, drive the few blocks home, and go inside.
“What’s for dinner tonight?”
“Hamburger mac.” I watch Cross’s face as I say this because hamburger mac has been his favorite since he was two. Is he growin’ out of it? Is it kind of embarrassing to love hamburger mac when you’re twelve and heading into junior high this fall?
I wait for the disagreeing scowl. The one he’s been practicing for the better part of six months now. The one that comes with the attitude that parents are the stupidest people on earth.
But to my delight he smiles. “Yum. I love hamburger mac. I’m so hungry. When will it be done?” His eyes dart over to the kitchen like he’s expecting it to be cooking on the stove. And even though he knows better—even though he knows that we just walked through that door and into this house together—his little boy brain still expects there to be food cooking on the stove just because he’s hungry.
Some mamas might get frustrated at their son’s utter and complete lack of situational awareness. But not me. No, sir. I love that my boy thinks my superpowers are limitless.
So I smile as he frowns at me, which irritates him. “Why are you just standing there? I’m starving.”
I turn my back before I laugh so he doesn’t see me.
Now, again, some mamas might take offense to his unreasonable expectations. Mostly for the fact that he is a boy expecting his mama to serve him.
But that’s my job. For now, anyway. I’m not in a hurry to give this up. We’re on the cusp here. He’s gonna be gone soon enough and I will never get these years back. With each day that passes the number of times that my son will look to me to meet all his needs dwindles.
And if I think about it too hard, I’ll cry.
So I don’t think about it at all. I just go into the kitchen, tie on an apron, and rustle this boy up some hamburger mac. Cross goes into his room and I don’t hear a peep out of him until dinner’s ready and I go knocking on the door.
“What?” he calls back. And he sounds irritated. Which baffles me a little because wasn’t he just starving to death?
“What? Dinner’s ready, that’s what. Get your butt out here.” I go to open the door, but I find it locked. “Cross Harlow! Why on earth are you locking me out of your room?”
“I’m doing something.”
“You’re doin’ what, exactly, that you need to talk to your mama this way? Especially since I just rustled you up some dinner.”
I hear him sigh on the other side of the door. The lock disengages and there he is, peeking at me through a crack in the door. “I’ll be right there.” His voice is calmer now. “You don’t have to wait at the door like I’m a baby.”