Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“We have twenty minutes until that batch comes out of the oven,” Hazel says as she goes back over to the fridge and pulls out four packets of bacon. “Try me. And you can peel bacon while you’re talking.”
I grab a big cookie sheet from a pile I see on a rack, deciding whether I’m going to share. And if so, how?
“Okay, let’s see. First off, I grew up with opportunities, obviously. I won’t deny that.”
“That’s good, very self-aware of you,” Hazel teases, grabbing a bag of pecans and scooping brown sugar into a bowl.
“But there was also an expectation of who I’d be, what I’d be,” I explain carefully, and she lifts an eyebrow. “I know, I know. Poor little rich boy, right? But it was there, just the same. Like my whole life was laid out for me, planned out . . . where I’d go to school, what I’d major in, what I’d do after graduation, who I’d marry, and what I’d do from there. It felt a little like being told the world was your oyster, but then realizing that you don’t like oysters, and that there’s a whole ocean of other options out there. And land. And air.”
“So you wanted to sink or swim with the fishies?” Hazel says as she pours the pecans into a big industrial food processor. “You sure you moved to Newport and not New York?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m sure. I guess what I mean is . . . I just wanted freedom. Rise or fall, it’d be closer to being by my own hands.”
“Closer?”
“Regardless of how much I might have given up moving out of Cold Springs, I still started life with a lot of advantages,” I admit. “But I tried to leave as much behind as I could. I took my truck, same truck I’ve got now, and started driving. Didn’t know where I was going or what I was going to do. I just wanted to figure things out on my own without the family static.”
“But you took the money, right?” Hazel asks, a bit accusatory, and I get it. Like I said, I had advantages that I’m well aware of. Even so, I feel like I should say no, as if the money is going to be a sticking point for Hazel that lets her discount anything unexpected I might’ve done. But if I’m telling Hazel about leaving, I’m going with the truth.
“Yes and no. I took what was in my accounts and lived on that for a bit while I figured myself out. And you could say I used my family resources to take out a zero-interest startup loan for my shop,” I explain. “But once I had some success, I stopped. I’ve been putting money back into the savings accounts my parents set up when I was a kid, paying on my business loan, and living on my own income. I’ve got a budget all set up for it.”
To my surprise, Hazel smiles. “Idiot. No sense leaving money on the table. Take what you can get when you run. If it’s in your name, it’s yours.”
“Well, I guess I can see your point. I just want to make sure at some point I’m doing it on my own, even if it’s only in my own head.” I laugh, what she said registering fully. “I figured you’d be all ‘rich-boy runaway on Daddy’s dime.’ That’s what I think most people hear when I tell them about leaving.”
Hazel looks thoughtful. “I think you’d be surprised. Do you know how many people have those thoughts? Getting out of Cold Springs or whatever town they’re in? Getting away from some bullshit in their past? People do just about anything for a fresh start.”
In three seconds, she’s making me feel less guilty about taking the money than I’ve been able to do for myself in years. “Most people don’t have the opportunity to start over.”
“Hopefully, they stay because the reasons to stay are better than the ones to go,” Hazel says optimistically.
But I’ve seen Winston’s and Wren’s situations, and their balance sheets definitely tilt in favor of getting the hell out of Cold Springs. Yet here they stay. “Hmmph,” I grunt.
“You tell many people about why you left?”
I freeze. I have to think hard, just to be sure, but in the end, I look up at her, her with her pecans and brown sugar, me with my tray of bacon slices. “Honestly? Just you.” When she lifts an eyebrow, I nod. “It’s the truth. I have friends in Newport, but I haven’t exactly told them where I come from. I’m not ashamed of it, but it doesn’t seem relevant, either, because it’s not who I am anymore. They don’t care about my last name, or associate it with the way . . . well, folks here do.”