Page 81 of The Pass Protection
I’m caught off guard by her text. It’s not that we don’t get along or anything like that, it’s that Chloe doesn’t typically text just me outside of the group chat, although the chat has been quieter than usual.
Me: Hey! Yeah, I just got home for the day. Where would you like to meet?
Chloe: I’ll come to you with dinner! Do you like subs?
Me: Love them. I’m a chicken, bacon, and ranch kind of girl.
Chloe: You’ve got it! See you shortly!
I no sooner lock the screen, and it vibrates in my hand.
“Hello, my favorite mother.”
“Hello, my favorite daughter.” We both chuckle at our typical greeting. “How’s my girl?”
Leaning against the counter, I rest my hand on the top. “I’m doing good. Staying super busy.”
“I figured. You must be since I rarely hear from you.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a lot on my plate.”
She tsks. “I thought for sure I’d see you more now that you live in the same city as your parents.”
“Mom,” I grumble, not ready to get into the lousy child guilt. “I see you at home football games.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t worry, your father keeps me in the loop.”
“Oh, is he now? Does he have spies around campus?” I ask the question and secretly hope he hasn’t spied on me. Crew and I don’t flaunt our relationship on campus, but there have been longing glances and lingering touches. I can’t help myself when he’s around.
“He has. He said you’re playing basketball again. I’d love to watch. I miss watching you run up and down the court.”
Sticking my finger underneath the tab, I pop the opening on the can of Coke. “Bret Addison, are you drinking?”
“Yes, your underage daughter is going to tie one on with her mother on the phone.”
“I’m not naive enough to think that you don’t go out and party. I know you’re out there living it up.”
“Nobody says ‘living it up.’” I laugh.
“YO-YO?”
“Please just stop.” I shake my head. “It’s YOLO for you only live once, and again, no one says that. I’m just drinking a Coke.”
“Oh, honey, I wish you’d stop drinking that. Soda is so bad for you.”
Bringing the can to my lips, I take a long pull as the dark, fizzy liquid slides down my throat. “Am I supposed to stop smoking too?”
She gasps. “You’re not smoking, are you?”
“No, Mom.”
I can picture my mom standing in her pristine kitchen, the phone resting on her shoulder, hands in soapy dishwater, her face flustered from my antics. “Anyway, did you hear that your father and I were asked to be on a reality show? Apparently, a network wants to film a behind-the-scenes glimpse at life in football families across the country, and your father was the top choice.”
“That sounds terrible. Please tell me you said no.”
It’s her turn to chuckle. “Of course, we did as if we’d have cameras filming our every movement. There’s no way.”
“Thank god.”
