Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
I hesitate, not sure I want the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “He didn’t…”
“Take advantage of me? God, no. We were both blasted. All I remember is that he introduced himself as Robert, we had this crazy connection, and I climbed him like a pole.”
“Mom.”
“Sorry.” She has the decency to turn pink. “We went our separate ways in the morning. By the time I found out I was pregnant, three months had passed, it was summer, and I didn’t know where to find him. I returned to the frat house and asked around. The guys laughed at me, Josie. They laughed. It was like every mistake I made as a kid flashed before me in that moment. The booze, the sex, the drugs—”
My eyes widen. “Drugs?”
The mother I knew was always so straight-laced. I’ve never even seen her drink a sip of wine. Not even in pasta.
She groans, getting up and taking a seat on the empty visitor’s chair. “So much drugs. That’s why I got so scared when I found your stash?”
“Wait. Hold up.” I shake my head, not following. “My stash? I don’t do drugs. Never have, never will.”
“Your stash. Of books.”
“You mean my manuscripts?” I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, even as my head threatens to split with a headache. “Oh, my God. When people say stash, they mean contraband, Mom.”
A small smile makes its way up her cheeks. I didn’t realize how little I’ve seen it.
“You called me Mom.”
I look away, unsure how to answer that.
She sobers, scratching the back of her neck. “I snuck into your room when you didn’t return that night and read one of your manuscripts. The ones you worked on for your creative writing class.”
“Umm…okay?” I don’t follow.
“Devil Chalk.”
“Oh. Oh.”
I wrote a short story on addiction for my creative writing final, which I turned into a novella the following summer as I debated pursuing a career in publishing. In the end, I realized it wasn’t for me, but I couldn’t bring myself to toss anything I’d written.
I shake my head. “Just because I wrote a book about addiction doesn’t mean I’ve ever done drugs.”
“It read like a diary.”
“That’s the writing style. Bridget Jones meets Choke. My professor thought it was cool.”
“It felt so real. I saw myself in every page, Josie. You even knew how to cook meth.”
“Yeah, because of a Google search. Couldn’t you have asked me about it before, I don’t know, kicking me out?”
“I messed up, didn’t I?” She gnaws on her lower lip. “I just…am so embarrassed about my past and scared you’d found yourself on the same path. I thought it had to be my fault, and the only way to save you would be to get you away from me.”
“So you sent me here.”
“A few months before you graduated, I saw an interview on tv. Some sort of press conference, but there he was. Your father. It had to be him. Same first name and everything. I tracked down his number that very day, but I couldn’t bring myself to call him.”
“Why not?”
“When I found out I was pregnant, I cut everyone from that life out. I was too scared of meeting someone who knew the old me. I also didn’t know how I’d tell you. Here I was, always telling you to be a good girl. Get good grades, don’t sleep around, focus on your future. And I was—and still am—the biggest hypocrite. I didn’t have the guts to call him.”
“Until the morning you kicked me out.”
“I got in touch with him a few weeks before, but that day was when I asked him to take you. I messed up. I was so focused on preventing you from becoming me that I pushed you away.” She peers down at the floor before glancing back up. “I abandoned you when you needed me most. I’m so sorry, Josie. God, I’m sorry.”
Tears stream down her cheeks. I bite down on my tongue, forcing myself to hold it together. But then Mom sobs, and I can’t hold it in any longer. My own tears start to fall. Her words have opened up memories of my youth.
Scenes hit me in the chest like a ton of bricks. Every time she worked long hours to provide for me. When she tried to protect me from everyone, including myself.
Those are the moments that matter.
Yes, she should’ve talked to me. She shouldn’t have sent me away. She should’ve told me about Dad the second I found out. And she should’ve spent more time with me as a kid, making sure I never felt like a burden.
But she loved me.
She loves me.
She made so many wrong choices, but when it mattered, she did the right thing—she sent me here.
Working for Dad has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me.