Page 2 of Goode Tidings

"Read it for me?" I ask, steering with my knee for a moment as I partially unwrap a protein bar and shove it in my mouth.

Oliver plucks my phone from the cupholder between us. "Chuck-wad says he needs you on a call in an hour."

If my mouth weren't full of cashew butter and chocolate chip protein bar, my molars would grind together. Oh, Chuck-wad. You abomination of a human. I told him I was going to be unavailable after midday, but he's been beside himself about this new opportunity for our company, Blossom Paperie, to partner with interior design power couple Becca and Michael McMann. Strawberry blonde and beautiful, with sparkling smiles and denim work shirts, Becca and Michael have a 'we eat root vegetable stew and serve iced tea in goblets' vibe. Earthy and relatable, but chic. They're expanding their brand into home goods and want to add wrapping paper to their spring collection. A collaboration like this would open doors for Blossom, and Charles is losing his mind over it.

"Please write him back and tell him I can be available for a call in two hours, when I arrive at my destination." Let's hope it's a phone call, and not a video call. In my mint green matching sweatshirt and shorts, I look like a grandma who power walks her neighborhood with a fanny pack bouncing on her hip bone. Then again, I am a professional artist. I feel like that gives me leeway in the fashion department. Full license to be eccentric.

Oliver and I are heading to 1447 Lake Circle, in Snowflake, Arizona. A solid four-hour drive from Phoenix, where Oliver and I live. Lived? Hmm. Temporarily departed from. That's better.

Oliver's fingers fly over the screen at a rate I could never accomplish. He recites, "Dear Chuck-wad, my mom says you're the worst boss she's ever had. You don't give her credit for her ideas, and your breath smells like stale black coffee."

"Oliver," I warn, knowing he's not really typing what he just said.

Oliver ignores me. "She also believes that when you claimed you accidentally grazed your hand over her ass, you actually meant to do it."

My surprised and worried gaze slices to my son, the scenery beyond the window rushing past. I never planned for him to know I'd been on the receiving end of something like that. Blossom Paperie had brought everyone together, including their remote employees, for a corporate event at the only physical office they keep in Northern California. Chuck-wad had reached for something behind me at the same time I stood up and leaned over to grab a design sheet. I'd jolted as if burned. He'd apologized and labeled it an accident. My gut told me differently.

"Ollie," I say, softer now, using the name my little brother, Klein, usually calls him.

Oliver hits Send and tosses my phone down. "I told you I heard your conversation."

I drag a quick breath in through my nose as my brain sorts through this new information and decides what to address. First things first: my job.

"What message did you just send?"

Oliver slouches in his seat as he fluffs up the front of his already fluffy hair. "I told him what you said to tell him. But what you should really tell him is to f⁠—"

"Oliver." I'm using my mom voice.

"Whatever." He picks at a piece of lint on his baggy sweatpants.

There's plenty I'd like to say to Charles the Chuck-wad, but I like food, and shelter. Clothing, too, and providing my offspring with the same. I also really like manicures, collagen masks, and toffee. Non-essential, but still vital.

"Oliver," I start, finishing my protein bar and stuffing the wrapper into the empty cubby on the inside of my car door. "There will be times in your life when you have something to say, but you can't for various reasons. Times when you want to stand up for yourself, but something keeps you from doing so. Wisdom is knowing when it's the right time."

Oliver's lips rumble together, making a vibrating sound. More disgust from the teen.

Honestly, I get it. Somewhere deep down, I'm disappointed in myself. Younger Eden would never have tolerated a man's unwanted touch, and she would've sworn the future version of her wouldn't either. Past me knew nothing of pressure, of bills, of feeding two mouths on one income. Justin's child support, when it arrives, is helpful. But I can't depend on it. We have a spoken agreement, nothing legally binding. I was fed up with him and his childish ways when we divorced. I wanted to be rid of his dead weight. In hindsight, I wish I'd had more patience. I didn't, and now that means I cover all my bases on my own.

I fiddle with a lock of my dark hair, trying to choose my words carefully. "The world isn't a fair place, and⁠—"

"Uh, yeah. I already know that."

I double-check my mirror before signaling and moving into the left lane to pass an eighteen-wheeler inching up the mountain in front of us. It's a steady climb all the way from Phoenix to Snowflake, an interstate dotted with tractor trailers and people getting out of the city for the weekend.

I nod and remain silent. Every uttered word is a minefield these days. Verbally tiptoeing around Oliver is emotionally exhausting.

"Snowflake sounds like a nice place, right?" I tap his thigh. A mistake. He moves his leg away.

I keep going, trying to cover up my gaffe and his recoil. "I can't believe your dad had a cabin hidden in his back pocket for years." Five years, to be exact. Justin's dad passed this cabin down to him five years ago. But who's counting?

"We've already talked about this," Oliver says, reaching into the navy blue backpack at his feet. He comes away with earbuds and threads them into his ears.

"Oh, good," I say, heavy on the irritation, knowing he can't hear me. Normally, I have a rule: no phones or headphones while I'm driving. I don't enjoy feeling like a car service, and I prefer conversation. I open my mouth to remind him of this, but hesitate. What we're doing is kind of a big deal. Moving to a new home, and a new school. Oliver must be feeling emotions he's not sharing with me. Should I let it go? Allow him to break a rule?

This is when it would be helpful to have a second parent to work with on the business of parenting, but that second parent is barely an adult himself, and if he were here, probably wouldn't be all that helpful.

"Choose your battles," I mutter, my thumb lightly tapping the top of the steering wheel. Between my boss and my teenage son, I have enough on my plate.