Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
My mother doesn’t do pretty lies or even pretty truths. She lays the facts out as she sees them, stripped down and naked in the harsh light of the Eliza sun.
I’m sure she’d be gentler with me if my ex and I hadn’t been out of love for years before Frederica died in that plane crash. Or if she hadn’t died on the way to her honeymoon with another man.
As things stand…
Well, I’m lucky my mother’s been as tolerant with my moping and wallowing as she’s been thus far. But I can’t help it. I wasn’t in love with Frederica anymore, no, but she was someone I loved for a long time. More importantly, she was the person my girls loved most in the entire world.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to love Ava and Bella enough to make up for that kind of loss.
The thought keeps me up at night, worrying, stewing, researching new therapists because I’m pretty sure the one they’re working with now isn’t helping them process anything but how much they like playing with the dolls and trains in her office.
Last night I was up until nearly one in the morning looking at nanny agencies. I have a part-time service lined up for the next month, but I’m going to need help long-term. There’s no way an NHL career and being a full-time single dad work without help, and Mom has to go back home soon.
She’s already been here for almost eight weeks. If she stays remote much longer, her clients are going to mutiny. Mom’s the best divorce lawyer in our hometown, and she has half a dozen court dates coming up in February alone.
I’m dreading her leaving nearly as much as I’m dreading this party.
Though, bright side—once she’s gone, there won’t be anyone around to shove me out the front door with shouted orders to “cut loose a little, for Christ’s sake.”
“Little wins,” I mutter as I start up the car.
Sometimes you have to be grateful for little wins, especially when that’s all the universe seems to be giving you.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling into one of the posher neighborhoods in old New Orleans, where the party at Nix’s does indeed seem to be just getting started. The music from the backyard is loud, but the laughter is louder, which seems strange—this is a party for a musician, after all—but when I circle around to the front of the house, it’s clear why the dance music is being played at a respectable level.
They’ve got live music on the front porch, too.
I’m no expert, but it sounds like a couple of guitars and a bass, freestyling something bluesy, while a guy with a pair of wooden spoons taps a beat on the porch railing. It’s cool. Way cooler than the usual NHL soiree, filled with pro athletes posturing for puck bunnies and various other hangers-on.
I’m into it, and feeling happier about being out of the house, even before I start up the porch steps and get my first look at the “band”—a young guy with dreads on guitar, an older guy in a flannel coat on another guitar, and a ridiculously beautiful girl with brown curls and a mouth even a jock like me could write poetry about playing the hell out of the bass.
Holy shit.
It’s her.
Flamingo Pajamas, aka Clover, but in my head when I think of her—and I do think of her, way more often than I should—she’s always Flamingo Pajamas. She was so fucking cute in those bright pink PJs, with her crooked tiara, and casts with the doodles covering every inch of the plaster.
The casts are gone now, though, and she’s clearly back in action. Watching her play, you’d never believe that arm was out of commission not long ago.
I’m glad she’s doing better.
It’s good to see her healthy and smiling and wearing that sexy white sweater with the deep V in the front.
Woah, down boy, a voice in my head warns. She’s probably got a boyfriend. Even if she doesn’t, you’re in no place to even think about dating. You can barely manage to shower daily and keep the pantry stocked with food the girls will eat. You are not ready for any more adulting.
The inner voice is right.
So right, that I’m about to head inside, away from the porch and quite possibly the hottest bass player the world has ever known, when a shout rises above the party noise, “She’s having the baby! Out of the way, people, we have to get this woman to the hospital!”
Elly, Grammercy’s wife, bursts through the front door a beat later. I barely have time to jump to the side before she’s past me, shooing people out of the way, blazing a path for Blue, who’s right behind her, his arm around his very pregnant girlfriend.