Page 105 of That Moment
“Nothing,” I start, but she gives me that look, and my protest collapses. “Okay, maybe not nothing. I just feel…” I search for the right word and come up empty. “Restless, I guess. Like I should be doing more. Or maybe less. I don’t know.”
Her expression softens, but she doesn’t interrupt. She just waits.
“I thought I was happy,” I admit. “With work, with life. And I am, mostly. But lately I’ve been thinking about what’s next, and I can’t tell if it’s excitement or fear or both.”
Mom leans back, one hand resting on the arm of the swing, her voice calm and certain. “You’ve always been like that. Even when you were little, you couldn’t sit still. You were always running ahead of everyone, always chasing the next thing.”
I smile faintly. “You mean trouble.”
“Sometimes that too.” Her eyes glint. “You’ve got that Slade spark, but your fire burns differently. You don’t just want a career, a nice car, a fancy trip… You want purpose.”
Her words tug something deep inside me. I swallow. “What if that adventure takes me away from here?”
Mom’s brows lift. “Away?”
“I got an offer,” I say quietly. “A firm in L.A., Celeste's old firm, actually. They want me to head a department. Junior Partner, actually. It’s… a big deal.”
She blinks, the surprise quick but genuine. “Wow. That’s amazing, honey. I didn’t even know you were looking.”
“I wasn’t.” I twist the stem of my wineglass between my fingers. “That’s the problem. I thought I was content at Slade. I like what I do. I love being close to everyone. But part of me keeps wondering if staying means I’m just… safe. If I’m missing something, I’m supposed to be brave enough to want.”
Mom hums again, thoughtful. “You sound just like Celeste when she was deciding if she should move back to L.A. or stay here. Same mix of nerves and fire.” She smiles. “We never pressured you kids to settle, but your brothers like the routine. They were both ready at a young age to step up into their roles at Slade. You’ve always been my wildcard. The one who didn’t need a plan to land on her feet.”
I laugh softly, but it’s shaky. “Yeah, well, this wildcard suddenly feels like she’s out of cards.”
She reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the same gesture she’s been doing since I was a little girl. “Honey, you don’t need me, or anyone for that matter, to tell you what to do. You already know the answer. You’re just scared to say it out loud.”
“What if I make the wrong choice?” My voice cracks before I can stop it.
She doesn’t flinch. “Then you learn from it. That’s what living is. It’s not supposed to be perfect. It’s supposed to beyours.”
The lump in my throat grows thicker by the second. Without thinking, I shift sideways and lay my head in her lap like I used to when I was little. The fabric of her skirt is warm against my cheek, the smell of soil and lavender wrapping around me.
Her fingers move through my hair, slow and steady. “You’ll figure it out, baby. You always do. Just promise me whatever you choose, you do it because it makes you happy—not because you’re scared to let someone down.”
I nod against her thigh, eyes blurring as the night hums around us. “I promise.”
For a long moment, neither of us says a word. The porch swing creaks, crickets sing, and I feel small again, safe, loved, and completely undone. And even though the ache of uncertainty still sits heavy in my chest, it feels like I can finally breathe a little lighter after talking to my mom.
We stay on the swing like that for a long while until my dad can’t take it any longer and demands we come inside to eat before he starves to death.
“He’s so dramatic,” Mom rolls her eyes as we walk inside.
“Yeah, and you love that bout him,” I squeeze her shoulders. “You always say he needed a calm woman to balance him out.” I kiss her cheek.
“Oh yes, I do,” she smiles at my dad, who’s standing in the kitchen with a scowl on his face.
Mom and I whip up an easy dinner, and I stay just long enough to eat before heading home.
By midafternoon the next day, my brain is a carousel of spreadsheets and supply contracts and one very specific pair of hands. I’m highlighting a clause about delivery penalties when Ranger’s voice rumbles down the hall, followed by a comment from Trent.
I glance up just in time to see Scotty in my doorway, his hand extended to the top of the door frame, his body propped lazily against the frame. He isn’t wearing a hat today. His hair’s a little more grown out than usual. His mouth curves when our eyes catch. It’s small.
“Lost?” I ask, aiming for casual.
He scans my office, that slow once-over that always makes me feel giddy inside. “The place looks too clean to get any real work done.”
I arch a brow. “Should I toss a few books around? Make a mess?”
