“Are you coming this afternoon?” I ask.
Mom spins around, sloshing coffee on her I mean business suit. “Oh, no, of all days. I don’t have time to change.” She rushes to the sink and rips off half a roll of paper towels to wet them. “What’s this afternoon?” She glances up for a second in between dabbing at the dark stain on her blouse.
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.
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