Page 57 of How to Get Lucky
In one damn morning, all my luck has drained away.
32
I do my best to focus on work after the world’s worst morning. I’m tweaking some new online ads for my website when the phone rings later that day. Mom’s picture lights up the display, and I answer immediately, grateful for a friendly voice.
Someone who’s on my side.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, setting my laptop on the coffee table.
“Have I ever told you what a charming and wonderful son your father and I think you are?”
“Mmm, flattery. Something must be broken.” I know this routine, have played it for years. Today, it’s weirdly comforting.
“The bathroom sink is completely clogged. I tried unscrewing a pipe—”
“Mom, what have I told you? Do not attempt handiwork.”
“Yes, it did seem to cause more problems. But you’re so clever and—”
“I’m on my way.”
* * *
Ninety minutes later, I toss my wrench back in the toolbox, the job done. At least I did something right today.
“Good as new, Mom,” I say, walking into the kitchen. “And I organized the towels under the bathroom sink.”
She arches a brow. “You don’t organize. Something must be off.”
Everything is off.
“Least I could do,” I say, grabbing my keys off the entryway table.
“Want to stay for some lemonade? Shame to come all this way just to turn around and drive home.”
Pretty sure I don’t deserve lemonade, but I can’t resist. She makes it from scratch with vanilla and honey. “Sure.”
“If all I get is a sure to the one thing that you’d beg, borrow, and steal anything to have, I’m guessing you’re having a bad day. What’s wrong, sweetie?”
I heave a sigh. The saddest one in the country. “Might be easier to tell you what’s right,” I say, taking a seat on a barstool by the island.
Mom pours me a glass of lemonade as I serve up the sad, sorry state of my heart. “London and I broke up today.”
Her brow knits. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone. You said the other day you weren’t.”
My shoulders sag. I suck, and lemonade won’t fix it. I lied to my parents. “Yeah, sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to say anything, because she’s kind of off-limits,” I say, then give her the details. The PG version. “So what started as a simple date turned into a complicated thing, because her brother is my boss and the lines were getting blurry.”
“That sounds familiar,” she says gently, leaning on the island opposite me.
“It feels familiar. But also not. The circumstances are definitely reminiscent of Tracy, but my feelings for London are decidedly different.” I take a drink of the lemonade. “This is delicious,” I say, enjoying the simplicity of the drink. The constancy. Then I soldier on, too much to get off my chest now that the floodgates have opened.
“I’d convinced myself that we could make it work because my event company was picking up steam since the last time we talked. Then one of my bookings canceled this morning, I don’t know where I stand with the job I already have, and now I’ve lost the woman too.”
Mom cuts right to the chase. “Do you love her?”
The answer flutters to life in my gut the second she asks. I try to think it through, to apply logic, but my body knows instantly—it longs for London. I met her two weeks ago, and she’s fantastic, open, fun, passionate, supportive, and the coolest person ever. But there’s even more than that.
We spark.
On pretty much everything.
From dogs, to tacos, to Instant Pots.
From kissing, to connecting, to spending time together.
Every moment with her is electric, in bed and out of bed.
And that’s awesome and terrible at the same damn time.
Because I really need to figure things out.
And fast.
I give my mom a helpless smile. “I think I’ve fallen in love with her.”
Mom smiles, but it doesn’t last long. “Sounds like you still have a lot to work out. Finding a career of value and substance is important. The same can be said of finding a partner. As long as you’re honest with yourself first, you’ll figure out what to do next.”
I hope I figure it out soon, since I’m going into work in a few more hours.
* * *
My mom’s advice clangs around in my head on the drive home. I want to do the right thing, one step at a time, but my life is a Jenga tower right now, teetering on a bunch of center blocks.
As I walk into my place, my normally boisterous door greeter doesn’t even look up. He keeps gnawing on his hedgie in his spot.
“Hey, buddy. Did you miss me?”
He jerks his head away and kills the toy even more dead.
I flop down on the couch. “Tell me what to do next.”
Bowie is usually a good listener, but he shakes the hedgie another time, focused only on the toy.
