Page 103 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
Once I answer a dozen questions, my mom sounds satisfied that I’m truly safe and well. “So where are you again? In a hermit cabin writing music?”
“Yeah.” I don’t love her incredulous tone. She’s always enjoyed listening to me and Grandma sing together, but she gets weird when I start talking about doing music on my own. “I’ve got a new band, and it’s doing really well, but I’ve been so overwhelmed with work that I haven’t been taking much time to write new music.”
“So, a friend—a man—set you up with a cabin so you could do that?” she asks. But it’s not really an ask. Her tone is demanding that I fill in all the blanks.
“My neighbor, Josh. I’ve been seeing him. He’s a good guy. Supportive. He’s seen me edging toward burnout, so he pushed me to take some time off.”
“From your job?” Her voice is skeptical. “Shouldn’t you put aside music for a little while if you’re feeling maxed out?”
I stifle a sigh. I understand why that’s her instinct. As a single mom, she could only ever consider the practicalities. But I’m just single, not a single mom, and I have more options. I’m beginning to realize that every day. The pure peace of just making music for two solid days is still humming through me.
“Mom, what if I told you that there’s a pretty good chance I’ll have an opportunity to quit the nursing home and focus on music full-time? I could cover all my expenses, picking up nurse sub shifts through an agency if I need the cash, and I can make something of this band.”
She’s quiet for several long beats. “I’d say you didn’t go to college for music. You went to be a nurse. So be a nurse.”
I hear Grandma in the background fussing at my mom. “Give me that,” she says a second before her voice comes on the line, loud and clear. “How you doing, honey? You safe?”
I reassure her with an update about the very nice Texas ranch house I’m sitting in now, toasty and full.
“Good, good,” she says. “Now what’s this about music and nursing?”
“Things have been going pretty well for the band,” I tell her.
I hear my mom call in the background, “Youknewabout this?” Her voice is indignant.
Grandma covers the receiver, but I hear her response anyway. “Yes, Gina. And how you’re acting right now is exactly why I knew, and you didn’t. Now hush.”
She speaks normally into the phone again. “Sorry about that. You were saying about the band?”
I catch her up on the opportunities looming, and she oohs and aahs at all the right moments. “To sum up, if things go well at Southwest Fest, I could end up with a record deal and maybe even go on an official tour instead of slapping together club gigs wherever we can talk people into booking us.”
“That’s amazing, honey. I sure am proud of you.”
“Grandma? What if push comes to shove, and I have to choose?”
“You mean choose between music and nursing?” she asks. “That’s easy. As long as you can pay the bills, do what makes your heart most happy.”
There’s a scrabbling sound and a grunt and my mom gets back on the line. “You do not quit a stable nursing job to play rock star,” she says. “Hobbies don’t pay the bills.”
“But this one will,” I tell her. “And it’s not a hobby. These past two days have been . . .” I don’t know how to explain it. A gift, even with the dropping temperatures and the drafty cabin. To sit and think only about music and not what impossible feat the nursing home director would ask me to accomplish?
Bliss.
I don’t finish the sentence before there’s more scrabbling and Grandma’s back. “Listen to me, Sami. I’m older and wiser. If you get a chance to do this music thing full-time, you do it. You understand?”
My mom is squawking protests in the background, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if my grandmother is holding her off with a hand on her head, the way brothers torture younger siblings in TV shows.
“We love you,” Grandma says to be heard over my mom’s fussing. “Glad you’re safe. Call when you’re home.”
I hang up the phone, smiling. Grampa Jim walks back in. “Good call?” he asks.
“Good call.” I study him for a few seconds. I know better than most that not every old person is wise, but I have a pretty good sense about who to listen to. The wise ones know a lot. “Could I ask your advice on something?”
He turns toward me and fixes me with his eyes. They’re the same shade of blue as Josh’s, and they shine with the same intelligence. It would be a stupid person who underestimated this man just because he has white hair and liver spots.
“Depends,” he says. “Try me.”
“It’s about Josh.”
