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I shouldn’t even know there’s such a thing as a Creator fund—an actual fund where people with TikTok accounts get paid for views—but I know this now because I watched Stella deposit an insane amount of money into her bank account.
All because people watch her crazy videos.
Who needs a fucking 401(k) when you can just shake your ass on social media, amirite?
Sheesh.
Already far too annoyed with the day, I head over to the coffeepot and focus on utilizing the one thing that’s capable of perking me up. I’m never a morning person, but after spending an hour on the phone with Willow last night explaining that our mother is in a relationship with a sweet-talking old man named Sal, I’m feeling even more nappish right out of the gate.
Once I set the pot to brew, I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my jean shorts and start scrolling through missed notifications.
Emails from Brody about the shop.
A few texts from ski clients who want to book lessons for the winter.
A thread from my sister asking about the complexities of starting what I’ve assured her is a “casual relationship” within the bounds of a retirement community.
And three messages from my dumb ex Josh that are certainly not worth reading.
I delete the texts from my ex.
Try to read through Brody’s emails but only get about halfway through, and eventually, just send him a response that says, “Awesome. It all sounds good to me. Thank you for being so on top of everything, Bro!”
And type out a message to my sister that suggests she direct her interrogation toward the actual perp—our mother.
Finally, after I forward the texts from my clients to the shop’s email so that we can work on adding them to the schedule, the Bee Gees finish up their show in the dining room and my mom shuffles into the kitchen.
Her face is fixated on the screen of her phone, and with each swipe of her finger, the sounds of a new TikTok video fill the silence of the kitchen.
Good God. I think I have to get her out of this house and away from that phone.
Otherwise, if I don’t, I fear I might have to stage some sort of intervention with those specialists from A&E. And let’s be real, I barely feel like cleaning up the guest room, much less organizing a whole intervention where I have to write a letter and shit.
“Morning, Mom,” I greet, and it’s only then that she looks up from her phone and makes eye contact with me.
“Oh hi, sweetie! When did you get up?”
“When the Bee Gees started playing their concert in the dining room.”
“It wasn’t that loud.” She rolls her eyes, and I narrow mine.
“Wasn’t that loud?” I retort. “I thought I was going to find a young John Travolta in bell-bottoms and platform shoes dancing around in your kitchen.”
She ignores me and goes back to her phone, only lifting her eyes to do the small tasks of making herself a hot tea.
Yeah. I have to get her out of this house today and away from that fucking phone.
For another few, quiet minutes, I stand there in the kitchen with the oblivious little social media addict and give myself enough time to drink my coffee.
But once I’ve downed about half the cup, I decide to make my move.
Stealthily, I close the distance between us, and quick as a whip, I reach my hand out and snag my mother’s phone from her unsuspecting hands.
“What the heck! Give me my phone back!” she shouts, and I shake my head, backing up a few steps from her.
“No,” I retort without hesitation. “Today, we are taking a break from social media and doing something outside.”
“To do what, exactly, Car?” One feisty hand to her hip, Stella glares. “It’s already eighty degrees out there, and it’s not even nine.”
I choose that time to walk to the front of the fridge and check out the monthly calendar of Sunny Creek’s activities for the day. The instant I spot something that makes sense, I tap the paper with my finger. “This,” I say. “Water aerobics class. Ten a.m.”
“No way. I hate that class.” She huffs. “The instructor is so boring. The music she plays is the opposite of groovy, Car.”
I ignore her pointless excuse. “Mom, this kind of exercise is exactly what you need.”
“I do plenty of exercise!” she retorts. “Every morning, I post my—”
“Mom, Dr. Samson suggested water workouts, not TikTok twerk videos. You need something that’s low weight-bearing. It’s what’s best for your joints and your still-healing tailbone.”
She just stands there, trying to stab daggers into my eyeballs. Or wishing I would disappear. I’m not sure. Both feel pretty appropriate right now.
“C’mon, it won’t be so bad,” I try to reassure her. Frankly, I’m sure it’s awful, but the sun is out and the weather is warm and I just have to get out of this fucking house. The farther away I am from the Bee Gees’ live shows and my mother’s Juicy sweatpants, the better. Even if that means napping on a sun lounger while she skips around in the pool with her fellow Sunny Creek villagers to un-groovy music.
