Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“Oh, that nonsense. He’s a scapegoat. I actually think he is trying to be helpful.” Mom nibbled on a piece of raw onion. “Small-town folks really know how to blow things out of proportion.”
“Blow what out of proportion?” Extracting information from my mother was like milking a shark. I moved to rub Semus behind the ear, knowing full well he would try to bite off my finger whenever he decided he was done with my ass. Every pet had its own theme. Cats’ trope was enemies to lovers, hands down.
“Cal, gossip is the lowest form of conversation. I don’t engage in it.” Mom kicked back in her chair, staring up at the kitchen ceiling. “Especially about someone so—”
“Don’t you dare say nice, Mamushka.”
“I was going to say brilliant. Nice is such a mediocre thing to be. Row is extraordinary. Your father cared deeply about him.”
This was news to me. When I found out that Dad and Row knew each other and cared about one another at the funeral, it gave me an unexplainable fuzzy feeling. Like returning to a home-cooked meal after a shitty day at work.
“Anyway, I’m so happy you got a job.” She reached to pat my knee.
Semus slapped her away.
“So am I,” I murmured into a bite of my shuba salad. Happy wasn’t a word I would use to describe my upcoming employment at Descartes, though. Terrified? Sure. I could also get behind worried, nervous, and vomit-y. Now that I grew out of my awkward kid phase and was just awkward, period, I was going to get the undiluted version of him. And judging by what I’d seen on TV, I was in for a world of pain.
“But enough about my glamorous career. Mental health check. How are you feeling, Mamushka?”
“It comes and goes. One moment I feel fine. Normal, even. The next, I can’t breathe.” She paused pensively, before adding, “This morning I found a note Dad left me in my nightstand drawer.”
Nightstand drawers had been Dad’s favorite format of communication. He had left us notes there frequently. He’d liked the surprise element of it.
“What did it say?” I licked the shuba from my fork.
“He asked me for a favor, the cheeky man!” She burst out laughing.
“Are we buying a yacht and cruising the Mediterranean?” I asked hopefully. We could really use a vacation.
“Let me amend—he asked me for something that won’t devastate me financially.” Mom poured herself a third shot of homemade vodka with garlic. Babushka’s recipe. “Something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time anyway.”
“Sell your mittens?” My eyes widened, my fingers finding Semus’s chin and neck for a little rub. Mom had made hundreds of pairs of mittens over the years, gifting them to anyone: NICU babies, friends of the family, and anyone else who was willing to take them.
She nodded sheepishly. “People like mittens, right?”
“Mamushka! Of course. What’s not to like about mittens? They keep you warm, they’re stylish, they rhyme with kittens. Can it get any better? I think not. Mittens are proof that God exists and that we’re His children.”
She laughed. “All right. I’ll think about it. How do I even go about it?”
“You open an Etsy shop and sell them online. Super easy. I can set it up for you.”
A beat of silence passed between us. “He might’ve left you something too,” she said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on it with my luck.”
“What are you talking about?” She gasped. “Honey, your luck is fin—”
Halfway through her sentence, Semus bit my finger, drawing blood. I was just bringing a pickle to my mouth and jerked back, the pickle juice squirting into my eye.
“Motherfluffer!” I fell flat on my ass, causing the disloyal cat to jump for safety but not before sinking his claws into my thighs to remind me who was the boss. I rolled on the floor, screaming, “My eyes! My eyes!”
“Never mind. Go rest, Callichka. I’ll do the dishes.”
CAL
“Gold Soundz”—Pavement
Before I went to bed, I glared at my nightstand. It was covered in green leopard print that was peeling and curly. I was afraid to open the drawer.
What if Dad hadn’t left me a request? A message? A keepsake to hold on to?
I started making up excuses for him in my head. Why should he leave me a note? It wasn’t like I’d still lived here. He’d had no way of knowing I’d end up staying home for any amount of time. And he had seemed so forgetful, so spacey the months before he’d moved into hospice.
Just open it, Cal, you big, stupid baby.
My heart felt like a mangled piece of paper, ready to be torn. Decisions, decisions. In the end, hope trumped fear. I pressed my eyes shut, curled my fingers around the knob, and pulled the drawer out inch by inch. I opened my eyes, holding my breath.