The Bequest
Chapter 65—Amanda

I never liked eggs much. I'd eat them, but only if they were paired with something else. Chickens freaked me right out. Their bizarre, jerky movements. Their beady eyes. Their staccato pecking. Until we arrived at Birch Creek Ranch.

I'm the first to admit that I was the most useless person who arrived in Utah. I didn't touch a horse the whole time I was there. I never fed the goats-their baaa-ing grated on my nerves and their little black piles of poo balls gave me the willies.

At first, the chickens strolling around everywhere, and pooping everywhere, made me crazy. But over time, I started to recognize the different hens. Some were red. Some were white. My favorite ones had little beard-looking feathers under their beaks. I called them the Aunties. Some of those chickens laid light brown eggs. Some laid white eggs. But some of them laid light, sky-blue eggs. Initially the bizarre shell color freaked me out, but by the time we board the plane to go home, I'm already missing them.

When a hawk called overhead, or when they dove and screamed, those chickens would dive under the porch, into the bushes, or underneath a wheelbarrow. The two roosters, one a brilliant rainbow of colors, one a snowy white with long black tail feathers, would fluff up and strut, cawing right back.

It gave me new insight into the phrase 'to chicken out."

So when I say that I 'chickened out' and texted Eddy my goodbye, I really mean it.

I wanted to go and see him. I wanted to call him and set up a time to meet, but every single time I replayed the way it would go in my head, it came out the same. I looked like a complete jerk, or I sounded like a ninny who lets a company dictate all my actions..

Plus, if I saw his dimples, I might do something stupid, like tell Lololime to jump in a lake. I just got the renewal of the contract on our apartment. Our rent's going up by a hefty amount. The girls' private school tuition is going up again as well -we need the income from that deal.

EMERGENCY BACK HOME. I'M SO SORRY-WE'RE LEAVING TOMORROW MORNING.

That's all I said in my text.

He texted back right away. I HOPE YOU'RE OKAY. I'M SAD YOU HAVE TO LEAVE SO SOON. WISH YOU ALL THE BEST.

Part of me was hoping he'd freak out. If my life was a movie, he'd drive over and interrupt our packing. Then he'd try to convince me to stay. Or he might even demand to know what the emergency is and offer to lend a hand.

But my life would be far too depressing to be a movie or a television show. And in real life, good people respect boundaries. No means no, and when I say I have an emergency and I'm leaving, a guy wishes me luck and lets things go. Maybe that's been my problem all along, wishing that my life would be more like a movie. It's not realistic, which sets up all the wrong expectations.

It hurt almost as much to leave Roscoe as it did to text Eddy my goodbye. The poor little dog was my perfect companion during my time. He followed me everywhere, waiting dejectedly by the front door whenever I left. Sure, I tripped over him, and every time he licked my hand, I cringed a little, knowing all the places his tongue would go, but of all the people who arrived, he chose me to love.

Being chosen and loved is always an honor.

And with the recent loss of Jedediah, I'm worried how he'll handle the fact that I've left again. I even considered bringing him to New York, but in the end, I decided that would be more traumatic for him than the departure of a woman he barely knew.

I'm sitting on the plane, Maren and Emery both plugged into their fully charged iPads, when I get the new proposal from Lololime. I frantically download the attachment, worried they'll make me shut off my phone before I can read it. They want me to push two lines again-the juvenile female line, and the adult one.

More specifically, they want Maren to model the juvenile line, and not only through images I selectively upload to my account. They want posts from her Insta account to interact with and somewhat mirror mine.

I can't articulate why, but the very idea of forcing posts on my teenage daughter enrages me. They signed with me, not with her. She only has a few thousand followers. Why would they want me to post the same images she does, and then tag her account? All the proposal says is that it will be 'more interactive and impactful.' What does that even mean? It's almost as bad as the word 'dynamic' was.

"You okay, Mom?" Emery's brow is furrowed. "You look upset."

I smooth my face and force a smile. "I'm fine, darling. Completely fine. I just can't wait to get home." Something brushes against the side of my leg and I reach down automatically to pet Roscoe, only he's not there. It's a kid holding a teddy bear, and I've just grabbed it.

The little boy immediately starts bawling and his mother looks like she's about to report me to Child Protective Services.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "His bear bumped me and it surprised me. That's all."

"Are you saying it's his fault you grabbed him?"

"I didn't grab him," I defend. "I grabbed his toy."

"He's three! What's wrong with you?"

I'd forgotten how crazy most people are. I turn inward, curling my body toward my daughters to avoid any further interactions. But the whole way home, I keep thinking about how I miss Roscoe. How I chickened out with Eddy. And how Lololime sucks. First they want me to build my campaign around a relationship-it's hard enough to date without my success or failure being linked to my performance at work. And now they want me to use my own daughter as some kind of marketing boost.

Of course, when we land in New York, my phone notifies me that the signing bonus for the contract has hit my account, and some of the wind goes out of my sails. They are paying me handsomely for the pleasure of directing my online persona. It's probably to be expected that they'll be annoying and somewhat heavy handed.

The second we arrive, before we even reach baggage claim, Maren's on her phone. At first she's just texting, but within half an hour, she's sending Marco Polos and voice messages to everyone she knows. I forgot how catty she sounds when she's talking to her friends. It sets my teeth on edge.

When we're getting into the cab, I glance at Emery. Her shoulders are hunched, her eyes cast down at her feet, and her fingers are twitching. It's her norm, or it was, before our vacation. I'd forgotten how anxious and unhappy she looked all the time before we reached the ranch.

"You never said anything when I said we were coming home early," I say.

Emery shrugs.

"Are you excited to see your friends again?"

She shrugs.

"Not at all?"

"Mom, I'm fine."

If you're loving the book, nel5s.com is where the adventure continues. Join us for the complete experience—all for free. The next chapter is eagerly waiting for you! 'Fine' is a code word. Abby knew it. I know it. "Emery, you can tell me how you're really feeling."

"No," she says. "I can't tell you, because I already know that you're as 'fine' as I am."

How is my daughter so brilliant?

"It's been a rough week, adjusting to Lololime and the things they expect of me now that I've signed with them."

"It was a rough few weeks trying to make them happy enough to choose you," she says.

She's freaking Gandhi. "Yeah. It was." That makes me wonder how bad the next two years will be it's not like any part of this process has been fulfilling or particularly joyful.

"Do you like your job?" Her whole body straightens, her eyes brightening as she asks the question.

No one has ever asked me that. They ask what I do. They ask how it works. They ask how much it pays more often than I expected. But no one has ever asked me whether I like it. "No." I shake my head. "Sometimes I think I hate it, but I don't know how to do anything else, and I'm good at this."

Her expression's pained, like she just swallowed a bug. "I hope I don't have to spend my whole life doing something I don't like."

Spend her life.

It's a normal word to use in conjunction with time, but it hits me differently today for some reason.

I'm acutely aware that our minutes and hours and days and weeks are a form of currency-they're limited. We can choose how to use them, but then a finite resource of our life is gone. Time is probably the most important currency of my entire life.