Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“Not yet, buddy. One more hour.”
“But I’m hungry,” he whined.
“I packed snacks for you.”
“I ate them all.”
“Even the cupcake?”
“I ate that first.”
Laughing, I spotted a sign for a gas station travel center. “You’re lucky I need to use the bathroom, kiddo. We’ll get off at the next exit.”
In the mirror, I caught the little smile on his lips before he went back to whatever game he was playing on his tablet.
“When we get there, can we still go to the diner where you used to work?” he asked. “The place where you can sit at the counter?”
“We sure can,” I said, picturing the round chrome-and-red vinyl stools that used to line the old-fashioned counter where I’d spent four summers serving shakes, sundaes, burgers, and fries to tourists and locals alike. “They used to have the best chocolate milkshakes ever.”
“Do they have strawberry milkshakes?” asked Elliott, who never chose something brown—or any other color, for that matter—when there was something pink to be had.
“They did back then. I bet they still do.” I exited the freeway and spotted the travel center over to the right. “I know this is a long drive. But you’ll like where we’re going. I’ll show you all the places I used to play when I was a kid, I’ll take you to the beach, and we’re going to stay on a real farm.”
“Beckett’s farm?”
“Yes.” I’d told Elliott all about Beckett Weaver—how we’d grown up across the road from each other, what good friends we’d been, how he’d generously invited us to stay with him.
“Tell me again the animals he has.”
“Well, he definitely has cows and horses. But I think he also has chickens. And maybe a dog.”
“Any pigs?” he asked hopefully, since he imagined them to be his favorite color, even though I’d told him that most real-life pigs aren’t the bubble-gum hue they appear to be in cartoons.
“We’ll find out.”
“Can I pet the animals?”
“Sure. I bet he’ll let you feed them too.” I put the car in park and looked back at him. “There are lots of chores on a farm, and I told him we planned on helping out.”
He grinned and kicked his (pink) cowboy-booted feet. He’d asked for some cowboy boots when I told him we’d be staying on a farm for a few weeks. We’d gone shopping, and he’d fallen in love with the pink pair in the girls’ section of the store, rather than the black and brown pairs set out for boys. I let him choose the ones he really wanted, thrilled with the smile they put on his face.
Seeing it again now, I breathed a sigh of relief. He would be okay. We would be okay.
The last couple years had been rough.
My asshole ex, Sam, an orthopedic surgeon with a thriving practice and a roving eye, had humiliated me yet again with another public affair. Fed up with trying to take the high road and keep the marriage together for Elliott’s sake, I’d worked up my nerve and finally filed for divorce.
After a paltry attempt to talk me out of it—not because he loved me, but because divorce “looked bad”—Sam agreed to let me stay in the house and give me primary custody of Elliott, which was all I wanted. In exchange, I’d taken the lump sum his lawyers had offered instead of monthly spousal support and put every last dime into an educational trust for Elliott.
I didn’t want Sam’s money. And I didn’t need it. Maybe I hadn’t finished medical school, but I was a pediatric nurse practitioner with a job I loved and a salary that was more than enough to support me and my son.
What I wanted was a fresh start . . . but I also needed a little closure.
I was heading up to my hometown of Bellamy Creek for the first time in over a decade in order to sell my childhood home. My mother had left it to me in her will seven years ago, but the shock of her death had hit me hard, and I’d been unprepared to deal with it right away.
Lucky for me, tourism was big business in the picturesque lakeside town, and rental properties were always in high demand. I’d hired the first property manager to answer my ad, grateful when he promised to get the whole place cleaned out and rented quickly. But he’d turned out to be lazy and dishonest, skimming from the rent and letting the property fall into disrepair. Last year, I’d gotten a phone call from the county about the home’s dilapidated condition and overgrown yard.
I’d fired the manager right away, but I’d been right in the middle of my divorce and hadn’t had the time or emotional energy to travel up to Michigan and deal with it.
I was in a much better place now, and I was actually looking forward to showing Elliott where I’d grown up.