The laugh stutters and dies in my throat. Then, to add insult to injury, a gob of my own saliva strangles me.
I finish choking and wheeze out, “What do you mean, you’re not going? Mom, this is what you’ve been wanting for ages. You and Bill are heading out on the road. You’ve beendyingto follow the Happy Clams around the country since before I was born. I should know. You’ve told me this likea thousand times.” She glances bashfully at her feet. “Mom, I love you. You need to do this for yourself. Besides, you’ve been planning this—your dream—for a year.”
Her eyes flash up. “But who’s going to take care of you?”
“I don’t need to be taken care of,” I say defensively, slumping onto one of the frayed chairs that surround the farm table. “I need for you to go and do this. I mean, don’t you think you’ve been through enough?”
She gives me a pitying look as if I’m keeping a secret only she knows the truth about.
I ignore her expression. “Is this because of Dad? Is that what’s brought on this change of heart?”
“No, no.” She presses one hip against the counter. “No. It has nothing to do with Dad. I just ... it’s just ...” She releases a long exhale. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Oh, God. From the look on her face, it must be bad. “Are you sick?” My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“No.”
Air rushes from my lungs in relief.Thank the Lord.I can’t lose another parent. Losing one was enough to last me a lifetime. “Then what is it? Is it me?”
I bet that’s it. My mom still thinks I’m sixteen and smoking pot in the back of the pickup. Why do parents never think you grow up? If anyone’s smoking potnow, it’s her. For goodness’ sake, she’s leaving to follow her favoritejam bandaround the country. If that doesn’t screamCBD-fueled midlife crisis, what does?
“Mom, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of the farm. I know you’re worried that I can’t handle it, but I’ve been in charge since Dad died. I’ll be fine,” I say staunchly. “I don’t need help.”
Besides that, I have plans. Things I’m going to do. Things she always says are too expensive, can’t be done—all of that. There’s always an excuse.
“I know you don’t need any help, hon. It’s not that. It’s ...” Her gaze swivels around until it finds theroosterclock on the wall. “Oh, would you look at the time? There’s something important happening upstairs.”
She moves to go past me, but I grab the giant cuff of her kaftan. “You’re not getting away that easy. What is it? What’s going on?”
She presses the back of her hand to her forehead in resignation. “Well, you see—”
Just as she’s about to word-vomit all over me, the phone trills on the wall. When I release her to rise and grab it, Mom takes the opportunityto shuffle out of reach. “We’re not done with this conversation,” I say sternly.
She looks relieved as she slips out of the room. “Of course not. We’ll finish it ... later.”
I scowl at the wall she disappeared behind and bring the slick-surfaced, puke-green phone to my ear. “Hello?”
Heavy breathing answers. What now? A phone-sex call? Isn’t it a bit early for that? It’s probably one of the Collins boys. Everybody knows all five of them are jonesing for girlfriends. But if those teenagers think they have a shot at twenty-seven-year-old me, their mama’s going to get an earful.
The person finally speaks in a thick Southern accent. “Rowe. Wadley.”
Right.I may have forgotten to mention that I’m Rowe Wadley—the bad luckin my town.
And my bad luck just got worse.
Because the sound of that voice makes the last slice of happiness die inside me. Unfortunately, this is not the Collins boys attempting to woo me with early-morning, bad-breath phone sex, and now I kinda wish it was.
I twirl the cord around my finger. “Why, Sally Ray, to what do I owe thedispleasureof a call so early in the morning?”
“Cut the crap, Rowe. Your stupid pigs are on my property.”
“No, they’re not. I mended the fence yesterday.”
I glance out the window above the kitchen sink. The sun breaks through the trees, smearing cotton candy and blue raspberry across the horizon. Cardinals sing. The piggies graze in the yar—
Wait a minute.
The pigs are not grazing. They’re not even in sight.
