It was all I could do not to vomit on the spot when Wyatt showed me that estimate. Had to use my years of stone-faced composure that keeps strangers—the only type of people I get to have in my life—at bay and nod, like he isn’t asking for ten times my monthly disposable income to get Van Gogh moving again.
This is why we keep savings,I hear the loving voice of my mother in my head, teaching me a life lesson in my early teen years when our only car broke down and we had to sacrifice a few meals to pay the bill, so she could still get to work at the diner and sneak some food out of the kitchen for the two of us at the end of each shift so we didn’t have to gocompletelywithout that month.
“I tried, Mom.” I say the words out loud, as my thoughts so often are.
There just hasn’t been enough work for a while to add to savingsandsend money back home. Plus, I had to dip into my sad little savings a few too many times when I had to stay at a campground because some snobby tourist called the cops to complain about my van being parked out at the beach. Or one of the big chain stores where they don’t allow overnight vehicles anymore.
Or that time my signal cut out and I couldn’t find my way to the stop I had planned when a road was washed out, so I pulled over in a neighborhood for the night and someone called in a complaint. I download the maps for my routes ahead of time these days but can’t go back and change the past.
If I could, I’d go a lot further back than not finding a better place to park that night. Draining my measly savings account is far from the worst thing to happen to me.
I plop down on the bed, breasts bouncing with the rest of me as I do, laptop on my thighs to check it out.
It’s not more work.
It’s something better. It might not pay in money, but it warms my insides in ways material things—even food—can’t. Reminds me why I stay strong, of my purpose, why I survived as long as I have, and why sharing anything I can do without from my pay is worth it, even when it means struggling in times like this.
Hello my sweet angel,
It’s so good to hear from you. Thank you for writing!
I tried to email you last week, but silly me, I used your last address by mistake. I tried to find this one, but I think it disappeared from my inbox or something. You know me and technology.
What’s this about a hiccup? Are you okay? Are you safe? Let me know if I can help in some way.
I planted pinks, yellows, and red tulips this year. Should be another month or so before they’re blooming, but of course I’ll send you pictures.
Not much new here. Yes, it’s chilly. I’ve got to stay bundled up not just on the way to and from work, but sometimes even in the diner. Jeff likes to say keeping it a few degrees colder in the cafe makes people spend more money, but I think it’s more than a few degrees, and it just keeps the staff shivering. He’s probably losing more in dropped plates and orders that have to be remade because our fingers have gone numb than people can possibly be spending. I know heat is expensive, but surely customers would pay a few cents more to be comfortable while they eat?
Anyway, don’t mind me, I’m just happy the snowy season is all but gone. That last storm, I was pretty sure we were going to get snow inside the cafe there for a minute! Haha! But don’t worry, Minnesota will be sunny and beautiful again in no time, and my poor fingers are already nearly thawed.
I can’t wait to hear about your latest adventures and where you are now or what you’re up to! Looking forward to my next postcard.
Meeting up with you for New Year’s would mean the world to me, sweetheart. But only if it’s safe for you. But as long as we’re dreaming, if we could go anywhere, I’d say let’s meet in Hawaii. Or maybe Norway. Anywhere we could spend time together would be heaven for me, even McDonald’s.
Miss you always. Love you longer.
Mom
My chest pinches, my heart constricting tight, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to stop the stinging in them from turning into more.
A familiar sort of rage courses through me for just a moment, hatred for the men in my life who put us in this position, followed by a desolate resignation that this is the status quo now. My mom, stuck where she is, kept in place by her past, with no hope for her future. And me, on the run, doing my best to hide from that same past, while never allowing anyone new in because history has proven that isn’t an option for me.
This is as good as it gets for someone with karma like mine. When countless lives are ruined because of you, you can’t expect a life of rainbows and butterflies in return.
I get to find my escape in the open road, a new place to explore, or a new body to find release with. Except there won’t be any of those for me, at least not for the next few weeks.
Well, there isonebody that’s been on my mind lately, and speak of the devil… I know curiosity killed the cat, but what’s so great about life anyway if I can’t indulge in what makes it worthwhile when given the chance?
He’s been at the shop most nights, working on that hot rod of his, and my plans for tonight include sneaking a peek to get my daily dose of eye candy and spank bank fodder.
Setting my laptop to the side where it’s safe and I can reply to her later, when I’m in a better mood, I army crawl to the back window and pull the covering up just enough for an eyeball to see through it. The bay doors are open, but I can’t make out any shapes moving around inside. Either Wyatt is still here, working out of sight in his office, or Weston is in the back, beneath the hood of that car he’s obsessed with.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been keeping an eye on him when I can these past few nights. Finding excuses to set up a folding chair outside my door “to get some sun” (even after dark, when there’s only one kind of Vitamin D available) and watch his muscles flex as he toils in the beam of the work lights set up in the garage. Or working outside so I can get a bit of fresh air (mostly motor oil and gas fumes), computer on my lap as I work a hell of a lot slower than usual, distracted by the view, and the occasional flirty lines thrown my way.
Hey, if there’s one thing I’ve learned through my hardships, it’s that you’ve gotta take pleasure where you can find it, in the simplest of things. Like admiring the male form in all its glory when you’re presented with the chance.
With a sigh of acceptance—looks like my plans tonight include nothing but laundry after all—I press play on the podcast and resume my heated exchange with the host who can’t hear me.
