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I laugh and she smiles. “It’s not that interesting, believe me.”
“It’s so different than my own. From anyone I know actually.”
I put down my chicken and wipe my hands. “Well, I couch surfed at my friends’ houses sometimes. Most of their parents worked the night shift, so they didn’t know it. But when I turned eighteen, it was time I finally did something. But the thought of making enough money for an apartment with only a high school diploma… I just didn’t want to struggle, so I did what a lot of people in my position with few options looking for direction do. I joined the military.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
I nod. “It kept me housed, clothed, and fed. In a lot of ways, the military was nicer than my mother.”
“I can definitely see how you’d end up there. Did you love it?”
“Yeah. I really did.” I shrug. “I thrived there and felt a sense of accomplishment. I liked the fact that you got rewarded for your hard work.” She can probably hear the yearning in my tone. How much I miss it. I’m counting down the weeks until I’m back on base where I belong.
“Not like here, where the owner’s daughter gets the job.” She stares out the window again. At times like this, I feel like I lose her to her thoughts.
“I have no doubt you could do this job if you wanted, Brinley, but it’s clear this isn’t your dream job.”
She turns to face me and shakes her head. “But who really gets to live out their dreams? Dreams die every day for millions of people.”
“Just like millions of people live out their dreams every day,” I counter.
“True, but I’m not one of them.” She picks up her fork and takes a few bites of everything I made. “This is really good. Thank you so much for bringing me lunch.”
And like the snap of a finger, she changes the subject. Since I’m leaving in a few more weeks anyway, I decide not to push her.
Thirteen
Brinley
Around dinnertime, I’m shutting down for the day when my mom walks into my office.
“I’m just about to leave,” I say.
She sits on the couch, slips off her heels, and tucks her legs under her body. “You don’t have a few minutes for your mom?”
I stop what I’m doing. That’s her guilt trip because when she was my age, her mother had already died. Dad reminds me of that every time Mom and I go head to head with one another.
I walk over to the chair next to her and sit, then extend my legs on the coffee table, crossing them at my ankles. “If this is about Van, I’ll remind you again that we’re just friends.”
“Friends who bring one another lunch and friends who call in sick to take care of each other?” She tilts her head questioningly. She’s been on me for years to move on from Sawyer’s death.
“Our relationship really is platonic.”
“Because you’re making it that way or because you’re not attracted to him?”
I shrug and pick at my fingernails. This is why I barely paint them. I’m too anxious to have beautiful nails like my mom always does. “Both maybe.”
Her head falls back and hits the back of the couch as a huge belly laugh tumbles out of her. “Sweetie, you can say a lot about that man, but unattractive isn’t one of them. When I walked him up today, he turned the head of every woman in the office—and a few of the men’s too.”
“It’s because he’s huge and has tattoos.”
“Yes.”
“Mom, he’s your type, not mine.”
She stares into space. “I know, and if I was younger, I’d snatch up a guy like that.”
My face screws up at the thought. “Hate to break it to you, but I’ve been told the stories about you and Dad getting together. You didn’t sound like a willing participant at first.”
