Not My Mother by Miranda Smith (lightweight ebook reader .txt) 📕

For a brief moment, I felt like a bride on her wedding day, like a giddy girl in the old movies being carried over the threshold into forever. Each day, I was getting closer to being that perfect person I wanted to be. And I enjoyed imagining it. Going new places. Making new memories. Raising a family—a real family—with a man like Cliff by my side.

He must have been fantasizing too, because when I opened my eyes again, he smiled.

“You make me so happy, Sarah Paxton.”

I wanted to say the same, but the moment passed. I looked down at the floor. Cliff walked to the last stack of boxes and pushed them into the hallway.

“I can carry one—”

“Don’t even think about it,” he cut me off, blocking me with his shoulder. He lifted all three boxes with one squat.

“Be careful going down the stairs,” I warned him.

Outside, Jamie pulled up to the sidewalk just as we were exiting the building.

“Last load?” she shouted, blocking the sun with her hand. We nodded.

“I’m going to ask her about it,” Cliff said, still holding the boxes.

“About what?”

“Who’s renting her old place. Maybe it could really be ours.”

I smiled, knowing that even if it wasn’t possible to rent a nicer apartment now, Cliff wanted that, and at some point, we would get it. My eyes darted left, then right, following Cliff as he walked across the street. For a brief second, I looked behind me. At Jamie’s old home. Possibly my new one, and my heart felt like it might burst with sadness and joy all at once.

“Cliff!” Jamie shouted. “Wait!”

A dark SUV barreled down the one-way road. It came out of nowhere, this dark mass of metal and shine. Cliff, his face blocked by the boxes, couldn’t see. The car slammed into him. His body somersaulting into the air, the belongings he’d been carrying spilling into the street. Everything happened in slow motion, an excruciating scene that would not end. And I couldn’t stop watching.

After the hit, we were all still. Had it really happened?

I ran to him. As I got closer, I heard the squealing tires as the SUV continued its mad dash down the street. In that moment, I didn’t care. I only wanted to be near Cliff. Make sure he was okay.

But he wasn’t. You could tell just by looking at him. You could tell by the blood oozing out of his nose, trickling down his left ear. And his limbs—well, no one’s body should be bent in that way. Especially not my boyfriend’s, who, only moments ago, had been speaking about our future.

A future that would never happen.

15 MarionNow

It’s the middle of the night when I wake up. I had a dream. It wasn’t traumatic enough to be considered a nightmare, but it wasn’t good, either. One of those annoying tricks of the mind that transports you to the past, and for a few moments upon waking, you think you’re in a different time.

In the dream, Evan and I were at our old apartment, the one we shared before I bought this condo. The dining room table was covered with his books and papers; my clothes had a light dusting of flour from the restaurant. I sat on his lap, laced my fingers behind his neck and kissed his lips.

That’s all I remember.

I once read dreams, even the winding, epic ones, last only a few seconds. I don’t see how that can be true when, even as I’m awake, I’m still trapped in the vision.

It’s no wonder Evan is oozing his way into my subconscious. With everything that has happened in the past few days, it’s understandable why I’d want to revert back to a time when life was simpler. Happier. Before I had to start making decisions that could adversely affect those around me. It must be my mind’s way of preventing me from worrying about Mom. It’s a form of protection.

I think back to the events that led us to this point. Evan and I began dating when I moved back home after I graduated college. I’d known him most of my life, the way all North Bay natives know each other. His father owned one of the leisure boating companies, taking tourists out along the coast. He was working for his dad while I had plans to reinvent The Shack. We were both part of a younger generation, trying to pay our respects to the one before us.

Des was determined to make The Shack more commercial. She aspired to make it a must-stop destination for tourists visiting North Bay, and she thought bringing me in would help make that happen. Des is a mean cook, but she’s the first to admit she’s not a people person. She enjoys making one-on-one connections with locals, but she lacks the kind of personality needed for wider networking.

Mom had owned The Shack for years alongside Des but couldn’t really help her on this front. She wasn’t a people person either. Of course, now I’m wondering if she dodged those connections because she wanted to remain unrecognizable, in an attempt to hide me and what she’d done.

For years, The Shack had kept its head above water, but now I needed it to turn a profit, to make it a thriving restaurant, not just one that existed. Mom and Des pulled funds to pay for a massive renovation of the dining room. Gone were the yellowed tiles and flimsy faux steel counters. We purchased new tables and chairs, updated the appliances. The hardest part was convincing Des to tweak the menu.

Once we’d improved the restaurant’s ambience, I started reaching out to other local businesses. That’s how I got into the hotel crowd, even if it meant kissing ass to people like Holly Dale. It was worth it. Within a few years The Shack earned back the investment from the renovation. Then we started making real money, enough