Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“So, how are you?” my mom asks in an airy voice. We talk a few times a week when I’m not away on an operation. They’re not overly long conversations, but they are quality.
“I’m good,” I say as I sit up, throwing my feet up on the coffee table. “Was watching some old movie on TV. Just relaxing today.”
“When are you going out on your next job?” she asks. The tiny tinge of worry in her voice is something she can never hide.
She doesn’t know the exact details of my work, but she knows that some of it is quite dangerous. I could never lie to her about that, but it’s something she’s become slightly used to since I used to be a SEAL.
“I’ve got a concert security detail in a few weeks. Some pop princess I’ve never even heard of.”
“Well, if you’d quit listening to that head-banging metal music, you might know,” she says pertly.
“Yeah, Mom. I hear you. Broaden my horizons and all that. How’s Dad doing?”
“He’s fine,” she says with a huff. “Went back to work too early if you ask me. Just got the soybean crop planted, and, of course, he did most of it himself with Chad’s help.”
Chad is Jennifer’s husband. My dad had a hernia repair a few weeks ago, but I’m not surprised he’s out on the tractor. When the planting has to happen, it has to happen because it’s usually boxed in by spring storms. The window to get the seed into the ground is narrow.
“I’m sure he’s fine.” It’s true. My dad is one tough son of a bitch, and one of the hardest-working men I know. A real salt-of-the-earth type of guy.
“Listen, honey,” my mom says into the phone. “Jennifer’s standing here. She wants to talk to you.”
“Okay,” I say, but my mom is already handing the phone off. Jennifer’s voice comes through clearly.
“Hey, Bobo,” she says sweetly.
I get a pang of longing for home from her use of my childhood nickname. I can’t quite remember if Bobo is short for Bodie or brother from when she’d been just starting to talk as a baby, but she still calls me that to this day.
“What’s up, Jenny Sue?” I tease, knowing she hates me to call her that. She’s always preferred the more dignified Jennifer.
“I’ve got news,” she says in a half-squeal, half-breathy sigh, totally ignoring my use of that horrid name.
“What?” I ask, amused by the mental image of her practically hopping in place to tell me something.
“I’m pregnant,” she shrieks into the phone and I wince, pulling my cell away for a moment before putting it back to my ear. Her and my mom are laughing excitedly in the background. “Chad and I are pregnant. Three months. Baby will be here right before Thanksgiving.”
“That’s awesome, sis.” My heart expands at the thought of adding a new niece or nephew to my crew of potential kids I can spoil. “So was this planned?”
“It was,” she gushes with pride. “We didn’t want to wait too much longer. We wanted Rebecca and the next kid to be fairly close in age.”
For a moment, my knees go weak when I realize I could be having a kid within just a few months of Jennifer. My son or daughter would have cousins the same age, and they’d be as close as siblings I’d bet.
But I give my head a hard shake. I refuse to think about that because there’s no sense wondering about “what if” until I know what Rachel wants to do.
“Will you be coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas?” Jennifer asks.
“Absolutely,” I tell her with confidence. “I’ve got nothing scheduled right now, but I’ll make sure to keep one of those holidays open so I can put on my uncle boots.”
“Awesome, Bobo,” she sighs into the phone, and I miss my sister greatly in this moment.
Fuck… I miss my entire family, but that’s always been the way it is. When I decided to leave home for the military, having to be separated from those I loved most was my big sacrifice.
“Miss you, kiddo,” I tell her gruffly.
“Miss you back,” she says, and then adds, “Hold on. Mom wants to talk to you again.”
There’s a slight pause, and my mom is back on the line. “Hey, honey. So you’ll come for Thanksgiving or Christmas?”
“Promise,” I assure her, since I have the ability to decline any operation or detail presented to me. I didn’t make it home last year for either holiday, so I’m going this year.
“Well, we miss you,” she says.
Another pang of longing for home hits me. It’s something I know will never go away. “Miss you, too, Mom,” I mutter into the phone, my voice a little hoarse with emotion. “Tell Dad I said hello.”
“Will do,” she says softly, and I can even imagine a slight mist in her eyes. “Bye.”