Page 92 of Jonesing for a Spy

College. MBA. Running the company. All of that came easy. My personal life, though, that’s always been harder. I know what I want and refuse to settle. I’m all-in when it comes to what’s right in life. And I’m all in for and with Mirren Jones.

Apparently, the situation rectified itself as of this morning. She doesn’t need to know I noted it on my calendar. If she doesn’t want a baby, we’ll be smart. If she does, I’ll be ready.

There’s been nothing further from the investigation by the state or the audit from the contractor’s board. Thank goodness for their strict adherence to banker’s hours, because government efficiency on weekends would do me in.

There was a response from the association leadership on my resignation early last week. They were displeased—their word, not mine—but it makes no difference. My life. My choices. I have no accountability to some random organization.

Come to think of it, the timing of my audit is suspicious when paired with their reply. And while the state agency responsible for licensure could have randomly decided, chances are they moved on a tip from the public. My suspicions may never be confirmed, but I lean toward thinking they had a part.

I’m pissed, but more so, I’m tired. Tired of bullshit. Tired of running on adrenaline. Tired of being on the receiving end of what I don’t deserve.

My shoes pound the asphalt, and my brain hones in on exactly one thing. Freckles. The woman has changed the trajectory of where I thought my life would lead. And like an arrow nocked on a bowstring, my course has been set.

That thought leads me to point number two—my impending move to Alabama. Words I never thought would cross my mind feel like a well-worn pair of shoes, not simply broken in, but molded to perfection.

With that, my feet, of their own accord, turn me back to the home I grew up in. And my dad on his back deck with something on the grill after Sunday church.

My truck in the driveway must’ve tipped him off because he’s got more than enough smoked sausage and chicken to feed six, not the two or three they normally cook for.

“Let me grab a water,” I offer to him as he mans the grill.

“Grab me one, would ya?”

I kiss Mom on the cheek and grab two waters, lifting them in explanation.

“Tell your father the smashed potatoes and salad will be ready, but the broccoli might not be if he’s early.”

“Will do.” Back through the sliding glass door, I extend a bottle to Dad and take a long pull on mine, draining it quickly, my teeth aching at the cold. I relay Mom’s message and watch him flip the meat with tongs sturdier than any we ever had growing up.

“What brings you by, son?”

Why does anything have to “bring me by,” I want to ask. Instead, I avoid the word games and cut to the chase. “I met a woman and I plan to move to be with her. I need to talk with you about what that means for EP, and how you want to handle things if you want to be involved.”

He pivots comically slow, his face slack with disbelief before morphing into a beaming smile. He sets down his utensils and hugs me, slapping me on the back with an open palm twice in the process. “Happy for you, Strider. Can’t wait to hear everything. But…” He sighs and takes a sip of his water. “When you say moving, do you mean out of town?”

“Out of state. Alabama specifically. If I were in state, I could still manage Electric Peoria.”

“Alabama?” He mutters to himself. “Florida. Colorado. Diane is going to struggle.”

“You could always downsize.” At his look, I add, “Have a couple of places.”

He bats that suggestion away as if it’s a pesky gnat buzzing his face. “Our life is here. Tell me about your girl. Then we can figure out work.”

We talk until Mom comes out with a platter for the chicken and sausage, and we all meander inside for a Sunday family lunch that hits the spot even with the chaos of the last week, the hunger of my run, and the anticipation of what’s to come.

I drive home after offering to do the dishes and being shooed away by Mom who’s not taking the news nearly as well as Dad is.

I scan my house as I park, always on alert for O’Neill and where he could pop up. With nothing out of place, I enter through my garage and mudroom and am in the living room, heading for a much-needed shower when I stop dead in my tracks at the voice from the chair in the corner.

“Strider Anderson, I presume?”

39

sheer genetics

Strider

Sliding my hand into my pocket, I find my phone, ready to dial nine-one-one.