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“It’s fine. I’ll handle it.”
“Kyle—”
“I saidI’ll handle it.”
“All right, fine.” A pause, and I know he won’t be able to resist telling me what to do. “Just let them make their pitch. Say you’ll think about it. And we can still share—”
My hand tightens around the phone receiver. “No.”
“Carl has always given you special treatment. I’m sure he could—”
“I saidno, Brayden. I make him twice as much money as anyone else. That’s not special treatment; that’s logic. Once the money is gone, it’ll be the same with the special treatment. Besides, it’s nothing he needs to know.”
“Fine. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Okay.” I hang up the phone with more force than is necessary, then continue into the kitchen.
Mabel is standing at the butcher block island, chopping strawberries. It’s all that’s grown in the back garden John tilled for her. All the farm produces, aside from milk from the cows.
“Everything okay?” she asks, studying me too intently.
My aunt says little. She misses even less.
“Fine.” I walk over to the cabinet and grab a glass out. Fill it with water from the tap while staring out the window above the sink, down the long stretch of dirt that serves as the driveway. “My record label is sending someone here tomorrow to talk me into signing another contract.”
I can barely make out Mabel’s hum over the steady slice of her knife. That was her same response when I announced I was done with music.
Quiet acceptance that reveals absolutely nothing.
John was similarly nonplussed.
And it’s one reason I never minded the strict structure I know other artists consider suffocating. Mabel and John are the closest thing to reliable role models I have, and they let me make my own choices. After years of having no guidance in my decisions, multiple opinions were welcome. So was a team of people telling me where I needed to be and what I needed to do every minute of each day. The set schedule was a relief to rely upon.
Now, I’m back to making decisions without taking any outside input into consideration.
It’s empowering.
It’s also lonely. Especially since, this time, I’m having to hold firm against shoves in the opposite direction.
I gulp some water, feeling it trickle down my throat in a cool stream. It does nothing for the sweat coating my skin. Or the annoyance simmering in my veins.
“Cal Hastings did the Thompsons’ roof last year, you know.”
I drain the rest of my glass, wash it, and then set it on the rack to dry. I’m used to Mabel’s conversation leaps. Once she’s exhausted what little she has to say on a subject, it’s on to the next topic.
“It’s going fine.”
Mabel hums again, and I hear her disbelief plain as day. The rare disagreement irritates me more than her usual apathy.
“I’m done throwing money at problems. I’m handling things myself.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Miles.”
Exactly what she said when I first got home. It sounds as meaningless now as it did then.
I clear my throat and shove away from the counter, irritated and irrationally annoyed. “I won’t be here for dinner. I’m going over to Hudson’s.”
“All right.” Mabel’s soft response sounds behind me as I head back outside into the heat.
