“Are you coming this afternoon?”
Mom spins around to face me, sloshing coffee on her I mean businesssuit. She rushes to the sink and rips off half a roll of paper towels to wet them. “What’s this afternoon?” she asks, dabbing at the dark stain.
I stop fingering the place in my paddock boot where the stitching is coming undone and let my foot drop to the floor. “The show.” I hold back the irritation in my voice, but I can hear the edges of it. I’ve learned that never helps my cause with mom.
She slams the wad of wet towels in the trash. “I can’t, Cory.”
Our eyes meet.
Hers cut away first. “I’m scheduled to sit an open house all day today,” she says.
“But you said—”
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish