you can hear it in the next county, so I know Joe isn’t here either. Yes, he lives here with my mom and my grandmother. This is why my mother needs a bigger house.
I drop my bags in the second guest room that’s situated next to Nan and Joe’s room. It’s not an homage to me, which I like. It’s a plain old space with brown and blue décor, no trophies on the shelf or medals hanging from hooks on the wall.
This wasn’t my childhood bedroom. No, we lived in a two-bedroom mobile home at Royal Oaks Trailer Park, only five miles from where this house sits. Not far enough away for my liking. If the wind blows just right, you can smell the desperation from here.
Not that there’s anything wrong with living in a trailer home, but that place was a disaster. Broken linoleum, carpet that crunched under your feet, and it listed slightly to the left. No matter how much Pine-Sol my mom used—and she used a lot—it always smelled of cigarette smoke and mildew. Even after all these years, any of those scents will trigger panic like a pit of vipers coiling and writhing deep in my gut.
This house was the first thing I bought when I signed my first contract as a pro. I tried like hell to get my mom to let me build her a new house or buy her one in Ryder West, but she wouldn’t have it.
“Ryder East is my home,” she’d said. “All my friends are here. Why would I leave it?”
That right there is what’s got me worried that she won’t accept Wayland Estate as a gift and refuse to move. But that was nine years ago. Maybe now she’ll be ready to make her escape.
I check the fridge and find some leftovers. I nuke a plate of grilled chicken and vegetables and tuck in to eat. I try to enjoy the meal, but my stupid conscience keeps intruding on my thoughts. Seeing Tiger really threw me off my game, but now that the shock’s worn off, I can see what a dick I was to her.
What little food I’ve eaten sours in my stomach. The prickly heat running from my neck to the tips of my ears isn’t because of my mom’s wonky air conditioner. It’s shame, pure and simple.
I insulted her competence. I told her I didn’t want her living in the pool house. Oh, and I also accused her of screwing around with the crew chief. People call me a lot of names, but dickhead is generally not one of them, and that’s how I behaved today.
My mother would have my hide if she knew how I treated Tiger. An idea hits me, and I pull my phone from my pocket and dial my assistant.
“What’s up, Cash?”
“Hey, Helen, can you send some flowers for me?”
“Sure. Who are they going to?”
“Tiger Lyons.”
“Tiger?”
I chuckle. “Yep, her name is Tiger. I’ll text you the address.”
“That’s fine. What do you want the card to say?”
What do I want to say? “I’m sorry I was an ass.”
Helen’s deep laugh comes through the line. “Stuck your foot in it, did ya?”
“Pretty much.” I push my hair from my eyes. “Can you have them delivered tomorrow?”
“Yes. Hey, did everything work out with the house?”
“It did. Thanks for all you did on your end. Order yourself some flowers too.”
“What? Oh, my. How very thoughtful of you. You do spoil me, Mr. King.” Every word is delivered with a dry unenthusiastic tone.
“Ha-ha. Just order the damn flowers and know that I couldn’t live one minute without you.”
“Oh, that I know. Talk tomorrow.”
“Talk tomorrow.”
We disconnect, and I’m feeling marginally better. This has been the strangest day, but at least I put one thing to rights. I finish up my meal and see a yellow flyer sticking out from under some mail on the table. I fish it out from the bottom of the stack and read it.
SAVE THE RECREATION CENTER
Meeting Thursday the 4th at 7:00 p.m.
LET’S BAND TOGETHER AS A COMMUNITY TO FORMULATE A PLAN
SINCE CASH DIDN’T COME THROUGH.
I reread the paper, and several things become apparent. First, I’m so happy the town is trying to save the rec center. I loved that place when I was a kid, and I’d hate to see it close. Second, I want to help, and nobody’s more surprised by that than me. And thirdly, whoever made the flyer needs a proofreader.