Category: Caliboy1991 (Page 6 of 28)

The Road Less Traveled – Chapter 4
By
Caliboy1991

I pressed the key on my laptop, putting a period at the end of the sentence. Another chapter done. Leaning back against the leather seat at the dining table, I glanced outside. In the distance were the westernmost peaks of the San Juan Mountains. One pleasure of my nomadic lifestyle was a moment like this.

I saved my work and shut the laptop. Tomorrow, I would edit the completed chapter and begin work on the last chapter. This book had already been delayed by my experiment with Give the Devil His Due. This would be the fifth and final book in a particularly steamy billionaire romance series. I liked writing series; fans mostly seemed to enjoy binging every book in a series. Although there was a fall-off in readers between a fifth and sixth book. That’s why the fifth book would wrap up all the loose ends.

A blanket was folded on the end of the sofa. We hadn’t bothered unfolding the sleeper part of the sofa the previous night, and Gabe had slept on top of the leather cushions. His laptop rested atop the blanket. Gabe gave up writing by lunchtime and said he was going to explore the RV park. Getting out of the coach sounded like a good idea. This part of Colorado was arid and dry during the summer and when I opened the door, the dry heat slapped me in the face.

There were other diesel pushers near ours, but the way the park was set up, there were trees between each site, giving guests some measure of privacy. I expected to find Gabe wandering around the park. Imagine my surprise when I found him lying on a foldable lounge chair between the two slide-outs in nothing more than a pair of blue board shorts. He appeared to have fallen asleep while reading. My surprise was doubled when I saw the book he’d fallen asleep to. It was laying on his narrow chest, the front and back cover facing up. It was the book that launched my self-publishing career, Can’t Buy My Love. Since its release five years ago, it sold over two-hundred-fifty thousand copies. The cover showed a young woman wearing an evening dress with a plunging neckline. Her breasts were all but revealed as they nearly spilled out of the dress. A man in a tuxedo stood next to a Lear jet, his arm outstretched, as though begging her to come to him. I was proud of that cover.

But Abby would shit a brick if she knew I was letting her impressionably naïve eleven-year-old son read women’s porn. I cleared my throat as I stood at the end of the lounge chair.

Gabe’s eyes fluttered open. “You finished writing?”

I pointed to the book, “Your mom wouldn’t approve of you reading that, Gabe.”

His eyes shot open and instinctively, his hands shot to cover the book. A worried look crossed his face, “Come on, Aunt Sydney. It’s just a book. I read lots of books. And you’re a really good writer and I wanted to read your stuff.”

My problem with him reading my smut had everything to do with my sister. Funny how our experiences form us. She was the one who got knocked up in high school. Yet, she treated Gabe like he was still a little child and not a near-teenager. Smothering is what it was. But she was my sister and even if I didn’t share her views, I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Unlike Abby, I didn’t lose my virginity until college. Was the worst sex of my life. We were the same age, but he wasn’t gentle or skilled. It hurt the entire time, and I was bruised and uncomfortable for a week. Since then, my sexual experiences extended no further than the sex toys secreted under my bed. Yet, I prided myself on the realistic sex scenes in my stories. Yeah, funny how different my sister and I are.

Trying to figure out how to explain to him about why it was bad for him to read my smut, I grabbed a second lounge chair from an open storage bin and set it up next to Gabe’s. “What would your mom say about you reading my books?”

A spark of anger flashed in the boy’s eyes, “She doesn’t understand what it’s like to want to write, Aunt Sydney. I’ve read books at the school library with stuff in them. People getting shot, people kissing and, um, doing stuff.”

I doubted the school library had anything as explicit as what I wrote. I tried again, “But what about your mom?”

He glared at me, “She treats me like a little kid, Aunt Sydney. I’m not. I’m almost twelve. I’m as big as some of the eighth graders and I know what they talk about when no teachers are around.”

My resistance crumbled. Gabe wasn’t my child; just my nephew. But I found myself agreeing with him. He had more emotional maturity than some adults I knew. As much as I loved my sister, I also wanted to show Gabe I trusted him. And one way was to get off his back about reading my books. Writing under a pen-name, the only feedback I got were the piles of reviews on Amazon. My mom never approved of my writing career and Abby treated it as some guilty pleasure. She probably went to confession after reading each book. If Gabe wanted to read the books, maybe I could finally have someone with whom I could share my passion.

I raised my hands, “I surrender.” Then, as I thought about some of the explicit scenes in Can’t Buy My Love, I added, “You might want to skip some of the scenes. They get really mushy.”

A splash of crimson rose on Gabe’s cheeks, “Yeah. I-, I noticed.”

Unconsciously, he reached down and adjusted his shorts. For a split second, I thought I saw a bulge pushing against the fabric between his legs. I tore my eyes away from his midsection, “I warned you.”

The flush in my nephew’s skin didn’t go away, but he smiled, “Y-, yeah. But I’m old enough to read stuff like that now.”

It would be wildly inappropriate, but I wanted to ask him what he thought of it. But no sooner had the thought materialized that I pushed it away. This was my nephew I was thinking about, for God’s sake.

I pushed the back of my lounge chair back and closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. After a few minutes, Gabe said, “Aunt Sydney, does a woman really like it when a man, um, forces her to do stuff, um, like in this story?”

After more than fifty books, and countless steamy sex scenes, they ran together in my mind. But I would never forget that first sex scene I wrote. Rupert, my first billionaire bad boy, had forced himself onto Elizabeth, my first heroine. For reasons I still don’t understand, there’s an enormous market for stories with dubious consent in them, and Can’t Buy My Love tapped into that market in a way nothing since had done. But fiction wasn’t fact.

I bit my lip, trying to figure out how to explain this in a way Abby would approve of. Not for the first time had I wished she had already had the talk with him. “There’s stuff that happens in a story, Gabe, that touches our fantasies. Kind of like when your character in your story turned his magic on the bullies. Even though it’s fiction and fun to think about, it probably wouldn’t be near as fun in real life.”

Gabe pursed his lips, “But there’s no magic in real life. The bullies keep on bullying.”

I dipped my head, “It sucks when they do. I guess it wasn’t the best example. There are some women who like it when a man…”

The word failed me. There wasn’t a way to explain this to Gabe that would carry the stamp of Abby’s approval. I sighed and decided it’s easier to be me instead of trying to toe my sister’s line. Abby might kill me, but Gabe deserved a real answer, “… does things to control he. Even forces himself on her.”

Gabe sat up straighter, “L-, like um, doing stuff together?”

Damn you, Abby, I thought. There was no getting around the fact that Gabe’s education had been sadly lacking. I snorted, “You mean sex?”

He absentmindedly adjusted his shorts as the blush spread down his neck, “Yeah.”

Maybe I’ll burn in hell, but Gabe would learn about the birds and the bees from his Aunt Sydney, regardless of what my sister had planned. “Okay, sweetie, you’re almost twelve. When I was your age, I called things what they were. Stuff usually has a name. Sex, penis, vagina, those are all nouns that describe stuff. You’ve got the makings of a talented writer, Gabe. So, let’s call stuff by its name. You’re not going to embarrass me if you say penis or dick, vagina or pussy, sex or fuck. We’re writers and sometimes we make use of all of them. Just don’t call them ‘stuff’ anymore. Okay?”

Maybe that was a mistake. Gabe giggled as he stared at me. When he stopped laughing, he said, “Okay, Aunt Sydney. So, in your story when Rupert, um, fucked Elizabeth, he forced her.”

Now that the gloves were off, I said, “Lots of women fantasize about a powerful man forcing them to have sex. But that’s just a fantasy for nearly all women. In the real world, that’s not what they really want. They want agency.”

Gabe cocked his head at how I used the word. He replied, “Agency? Like the Agents of SHIELD?”

I chuckled at his understanding, “Not quite. To have agency is to be in control of your life, able to do the things that are important to you.”

Recognition flared to life in his eyes, “Oh. I get it. Kids don’t have any agency, because we can’t control our lives.”

I reached over and patted his bare knee, “That’s a good example of it. Adults, both men and women, want to be in control of our own lives and that means how we have sex. We might fantasize about someone forcing sex onto us, but would never want that in real life. We want it to be with someone we love, or at least with someone we like.”

I had opened a whole new world for my nephew, and watched the gears in his mind spin, absorbing our conversation with growing awareness. “I guess that’s why mom didn’t have many second or third dates.”

Abby never talked to me about her love life. The wild teen had become a bit of a prude in her twenties, as far as I was concerned. I said, “It could be more complicated than just about sex, Gabe. She may have thought none of those guys would have been a good father figure to you. Without asking her, we’ll probably not know.”

The light dimmed in his eyes, “Even if she wasn’t really sick, I don’t think I could ever ask her about that. You understand me and it’s easier to talk about this stuff-, um, about sex with you.”

I don’t know why the praise from a nearly twelve-year-old made me feel so good, but it did. I grinned at him, “I’m glad. You’re growing up and there ought to be someone you can talk to, and I’m glad I’m that person for you.”

He smiled, picking up the book to continue reading it, “Me too.”

We fell into silence; Gabe reading my smutty first novel and me closing my eyes and hoping I could figure out how to tell my sister she doesn’t need to worry with the birds and the bees anymore. After a bit, he said, “Aunt Sydney, I know Mom never brought any men home, but what about you? Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

My stomach lurched; had I just unleashed Pandora’s box? I opened my eyes, “That’s a story for another time, Gabe. I think I’m going to head inside and start preparing dinner.”

Copyright 2022 – Caliboy1991
All rights reserved

The Road Less Traveled – Chapter 3
By
Caliboy1991

A click of a door opening and closing brought me out of my sleep. Light filtered through the curtains when I blinked my eyes open. We plugged the RV into the 50 Amp outlets at the camping site the previous night and the air conditioning ran off the city power, keeping the coach cool. Just the way I liked it. I pulled back the covers and rolled over, searching for my phone. When the back-light came on I groaned. It was a few minutes after seven.

Now that I knew I wanted to write, I was itching to be six hundred miles away, exploring ways my billionaire bad boy could seduce the heroine. Before, I would have grabbed some powdered donuts from the nearest convenience store, along with a cup of coffee and a twenty-ounce Coke. Even though I lacked any maternal instincts, I knew Gabe needed better than junk food.

The door to the half-bath opened right then. At least I wouldn’t have to wake the boy up. I called out, “Good morning, sunshine.”

His bare feet shuffled across the tiled floor until he stood in the opening between the bedroom and the kitchen area. Sunlight filtering into the RV behind him outlined his body. His hair was mused, and he yawned as he leaned against the wood-paneled wall. He was dressed in the same white briefs he slept in the previous night and nothing else. He yawned, “Good morning. What’s for breakfast?”

As my eyes went to his tighty-whities, he seemed oblivious to his semi-naked state. That was the Gabe I remembered from when he was little. In between his legs, there was a slight bump outlined in the white fabric of his underwear. With only one truly horrible experience under my belt about men, I was hardly an expert. But he seemed soft to me, for which I was grateful.

Stunned at where my eyes had gone, I glanced away, ashamed I had chosen to gawk at my preteen nephew. “Um, probably McDonalds. You want an Egg McMuffin?”

He stretched, drawing my eyes back to him. He was definitely related to me. He wasn’t simply slender. No, he was skinny and reminded me of when I was his age. Mom had been on me all the time to eat more because I was just skin and bones. He nodded, “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Glad I had slept in a t-shirt and pajama shorts, I rolled toward the other side of the bed, closest to the rear bathroom, “Cool. You should probably get dressed. You don’t want any preteen girls spying you strutting your stuff.”

Gabe gasped, as though only now realizing how little he had on. He was halfway back to the sofa when I heard a faint, “Right.”

I grabbed my jeans from the previous night and a clean shirt and headed toward the rear toilet. While I sat there doing my business, I noticed the envelope Abby gave me. In all the hubbub of getting away from the house and the drive, it had skipped my mind.

I pulled it from the back pocket. It was heavier than I first realized. Abby hadn’t sealed the envelop; she just folded the flap inside. There were folded sheets of paper, plastic cards, and a spare key to her place. And money. I sighed with exasperation. I was the successful writer, with a million copies of my books sold. The last thing she needed was to give me money.

I rifled past the money. One of the plastic cards was Gabe’s insurance card. The other was the previous year’s student ID. It must have been taken at the beginning of his sixth grade. Even though his face lacked the angular lines of adolescence, there was something still innocently boyish in his features. There was just a lot more of it in the school ID photo.

There were a couple of folded up sheets of paper. The first was a simply power of attorney Abby got notarized the same day she called me. The second was Gabe’s birth certificate with his social security card stapled to it. The last set of pages was a will. It was simple. Like our Mom, Abby didn’t have much. Even the house was a rental. The will reflected her simply lifestyle. Her one prized possession was getting dressed in the front of the RV at that moment. And she named me his guardian in the event of her death. She signed and notarized the will the same day as the power of attorney.

I bit my lip and blinked back tears. I still hoped she would call us after the chemo treatment, but seeing the will and other documents, I felt a sense of finality in the previous day’s visit. As I dressed in the closed confine of the little room enclosing the toilet, I wondered for not the first time what I was getting myself into.

We ate breakfast in the parking lot behind the one-horse town’s McDonald’s. Even though we had retracted the RV’s slide-outs when we pulled out of the RV park, we still squeezed into the dining table seats behind the passenger’s seat. Thoughts of the contents of the envelop filling my mind. But the last thing Gabe needed was for me to confess my worries. I needed to be strong for him.

Halfway through his McMuffin, he asked, “Aunt Sydney, Mom said you write bodice rippers. What are those?”

The biscuit, already drier than most, seemed to stick in my throat. “Your mom said that?”

He rolled his eyes at me. I couldn’t let the fact that his eyes were even with mine make me forget he was still a little boy, not a teenager. In the back of my mind, I really wished Abby hadn’t sheltered him as much as she had. He deadpanned, “You’re too young to be forgetting stuff.”

I always thought kids my nephew’s age thought everyone older than sixteen or seventeen was ancient. The few times I included children in my stories, that’s how I played them. My voice was droll, “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty-four. That’s only twice as many years old as me. Mom’s almost thirty,” his eyes sparkled with mischief, “you know that’s almost ancient.”

My lips curled into a smile, “When we talk to your mom, I’ll make sure to tell her that.”

He crumpled the wrapping on his biscuit, “You getting forgetful, Aunt Sydney? You didn’t tell me what a bodice ripper is.”

So much for hoping he’d forgotten. My mind went into overdrive, wondering how to keep our conversation PG rated. “It’s just a nickname for a type of romance novel.”

Gabe’s eyebrow furrowed, “I get that. Um, what’s a bodice?”

Keep it PG, Syd. “It’s an old-fashioned name for the part of a woman’s dress, from the waist to the neckline, but excluding the sleeves.”

The golden-brown eyes looking back at me were intelligent, and one wrong step would be more than my sister wanted her son to know. Slowly, those eyes grew round and his mouth formed a little oh. “The ripper part means the man tears her clothes off?”

I flushed. “Maybe we can talk about that later, okay?”

A smile slid across his features, “Your stories are sexy. That’s what Mom meant. That’s why that man and women were naked on the book cover. He ripped her bodice off.”

Despite the air conditioner, I was hot. “Gabe, I don’t think your mom wants me talking about this with you.”

He leaned back in the booth, “I’m almost twelve. I know all about that stuff, I’m going to be in the seventh grade in the fall. Just because mom won’t let me watch any sexy movies, doesn’t mean I don’t understand about it.”

If there were a hell, I was risking damnation. But the smug look on his adorable face was too much. I leaned against the table, “Really? Like what?”

It was Gabe’s turn to turn red. He stammered, “Well, um. A man, um, puts his, you know, thing, into a woman’s, um, thing. That’s how they have sex.”

It was all I could do to not laugh at his description. “That seems so, ah, precise and scientific.”

Gabe giggled. “I know the words. It’s just mom would whip my butt if I used them around you.”

It was my turn to smirk, “Best stay out of my books, they’re full of language your mom wouldn’t want you to say.”

The smile remained on my nephew’s face as he leaned forward. “You use words like, um, shit and fuck in your stories?”

Those words were scarcely out of his mouth when he bit his lip, as though trying to gauge my response. I just smirked and slid out of the booth and tousled his hair. The language he used reminded me he was his own person, developing his own identity. Parents are there to keep kids going the right direction. Grandparents are there to spoil them and give them presents. Young, single aunts, we’re there to be a bad influence.

“Yeah. I use shit and fuck in my stories. Sometimes dick and pussy too.”

The scandalized look on my nephew’s face was priceless. I turned and said, “Come on, let’s hit the road. We’ve got nine hours ahead of us.

***

The sign read another forty-five miles to Flagstaff. My stomach told me we’d be going through it just in time for an early dinner. The drive reminded me why I enjoyed heading north when leaving SoCal. Arizona was dry and dusty; all the more so along Interstate Forty. Gabe was quiet. He propped his laptop on his lap. The typing didn’t bother me and he had been quiet, which let me do lots of thinking and praying.

I grew up lapsed Catholic and hadn’t been inside a church for anything more than a wedding or funeral since high school. It’s not that I didn’t believe, just that I didn’t think any of it mattered. But that didn’t stop me from praying. Maybe prayer is like a lottery ticket. For the 99,999,999, it’s a waste of time, but that one person with the lucky numbers, maybe God would hear that one prayer and answer it.

Not that I really believed, but I didn’t want to lose my sister. I loved Gabe and if it came down to it, he could stay with me if something happened to Abby. But I knew I wasn’t a proper role model for my young nephew. I mean, for God’s sake, I write soft core porn for women. Not exactly conducive environment to raise a boy. All the same, he was more like me than his mom. Abby was the one with the feminine curves, although none of us Nelson women were going to win the Most Buxom contest. She had briefly flirted with a c-cup after giving birth to Gabe. It’s not that I had a boyish figure, after all, my hips were wider than my shoulders, it’s just I was lean, to the point of gauntness, and had been that way all my life. And Gabe’s thin arms and legs, his narrow torso, those were traits we shared. Even our hair was the same russet color, a genetic reminder of our Irish roots.

But whether he stayed for a couple of months, while his mom fought the “Big C” or whether he took up permanent residence on my sleeper sofa, bad influence or not, there was one thing I could teach him; something else he shared in common with me. Writing.

I lowered the volume on the radio, sending CCR fading into the background of road-noise, “So, tell me about that story contest you won at school.”

Gabe pulled his head up from the laptop. A smile danced across his preadolescent features and a spark lit in his eyes, as though pleased I bothered to ask. “It was about a boy who was picked on by bullies at school. One day, he discovered he had magical powers. And he used those powers to turn the things the bullies did to him and other students back on themselves.”

Tall for his age, the idea bullies would tease my nephew hadn’t crossed my mind. “Are there bullies at your school?”

Gabe shrugged, “There are bullies everywhere, Aunt Sydney.”

The maturity of his answer struck a chord in me. Even a dozen years before, in the same junior high, a couple of girls had tormented me almost every day for two years. It wasn’t that I had been a late bloomer, it’s just what tits nature had endowed on me and my sister had mostly gone to Abby. Even twelve years later, if I wanted to look even the slightest bit busty, I wore a padded bra.

“Yeah, I guess so. So, what’s your favorite scene in that story?”

His eyebrows furrowed in thought, “There’s this one time when a couple of bullies push the hero into a toilet stall, and they’re forcing his head into the toilet when he works his magic, and reverses their positions. Only their heads start out in the toilet. That was the first time when he stood up to them. But there are a couple of more times where he has to do similar things to the bullies to finally get them to stop.”

Something I learned later than Gabe seemed to have, for most of us, our stories come from our fantasies. “That’s a cool story. Turning the tables on the bullies is an awesome idea. I know what those old kill-joys called teachers couldn’t have approved of the idea, but you still won. That’s something.”

Gabe grinned. “The contest was voted on by all the students in the creative writing classes. The teacher took everyone’s names off their stories, so that everyone would vote for their favorite story, not the one by the most popular student. And, well, a lot of kids get bullied. So, I won.”

Hearing my nephew’s enthusiasm was almost a window into my own youth. I didn’t discover my passion for writing until high school, but I’ll never forget the feeling as people raptly listened to my stories. More than that, though, getting him talking brightened both of our days. “What’re you working on now?”

He glanced at his laptop, “Just an idea I’ve been playing with for a few days. It’s a story about this kid who lives in a magical land. Kind of like England, but with magic.”

I offered, “Like Harry Potter?”

He scowled, “That’s der-, deriv-, a copy of stuff already done. More like Merlin and King Arthur. Anyway, he wants to become a knight because a fire-breathing dragon killed his parents. The dragon has everyone in the kingdom scared, so the king promises his daughter to whoever slays the dragon.”

The idea intrigued me. The great thing about self-publishing is that you don’t have to please some progressive moral busybody in New York or San Francisco with your own progressive ideas. If you write something appealing, people will read it, no matter how un-woke it may be. And the traditional gatekeepers would certainly think some young man slaying a dragon to win the hand of the princess was positively neanderthal. Of course, it sprang from the mind of an eleven-year-old boy, and they’re hardly civilized; so, it’s almost the same thing. More than that, I loved the idea for him.

“That sounds exciting, can you read to me the first chapter?”

If Gabe hadn’t been buckled into the seatbelt, he would have floated away. A moment later, he read, “Jack snuck off and went fishing the day the dragon struck his parents’ farm…”

Copyright 2022 – Caliboy1991
All rights reserved

The Road Less Traveled – Chapter 2
By
Caliboy1991

If anything, Bakersfield was even more rundown than when I was there for Mom’s funeral. Abby’s little row-house was landscaped as well as one could expect on a teacher’s aide’s salary. But it beat the hell out of the overgrown yard next to hers, with plastic pink flamingos scattered about the lawn.

When I drew alongside the curb, I wondered how safe my motorhome would be. Even with skyrocketing property values hereabouts, my RV was easily worth twice the most expensive house in the neighborhood. I put the vehicle in park and set the emergency brake. For the first time since buying the luxury RV, I wished I’d splurged on an alarm. When you’re writing a bodice ripper in Mt. Rainier National Park, you don’t worry about someone stealing the hubcaps off your $800,000 motorhome. I pressed the fob on the key chain and locked the door opposite the driver’s chair and walked up the broken sidewalk toward my sister’s house.

The door opened before I was halfway toward the house and my sister threw herself down the rickety stairs. A half-dozen steps and she nearly bowled me over, “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Sis. You got here faster than I expected. You were in Washington yesterday.”

I threw my arms around Abby, “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away, Abby.”

When she let go of my neck, the dark circles under Abby’s eyes stood in stark contrast to my memories. She had always been vivacious and lively. Now she looked visibly sick. “I’m glad you came when you did. The specialist overseeing my care called last night, and she wants me to come on into the hospital tonight to start the treatment.”

Until I laid eyes on Abby, I wouldn’t have believed it. I had missed Mom’s long decline last year. Was this how it had started for her? Her words were like a sledge hammer to my heart, “So soon. God, I thought we’d have a couple of days.”

Abby’s laughter was brittle, “Your wheels would walk off in this neighborhood if you left that here overnight, Sis.”

She paused and looked at the motorcoach that took up the entire front of the postage stamp lot on which her modest home sat. “I knew you’d done well with your writing, Sydney, but damn, girl, you’ve done better than I thought.”

I forced a grin, “Over a million copies sold over the past five years. Can’t make me put down roots, but I like my comforts too.”

Abby flashed a tired grin, “Gabe’s gonna like his Aunt Sydney’s digs.”

“How is he?”

She turned away from the RV, hooked my arm and led me toward her home, “I told him last night. Kinda what you’d expect. Denial at first. Fear. Now he’s angry that I’m going into the hospital. He feels like I’m abandoning him. It’s just after what I went through with Mom last year, I’ll be damned if I’m going to ask the same thing of my kid. Gabe deserves a real summer, not sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a dimly lit hospital room.”

I was at the crossroads of my own career. For the first time since I told Abby I’d take Gabe for the summer, I decided the two of us getting away, clearing our heads really was the right thing to do. “I’m looking forward to finally getting to spend some time with my nephew.”

Abby rested her hand on my arm, “You’re a bit of a hero to him, Syd. He’s been writing stories for the past year. Even won a creative writing contest at school this spring. Don’t be surprised if he badgers you with a billion questions about writing. He wants to become a professional writer like you.”

Even though it was the end of May, the weather was mild. Yet the heat on my face had nothing to do with the weather. My voice cracked, “Like me? Does he know the kind of stories I write?”

She chuckled, “I don’t think so. I’m super proud of you, Sis, but I don’t leave your books lying around the house.”

I had images flashing through my mind of my nephew staring, mouth agape, at one of my racier novels. Since college, I’ve always lived alone. My books were part of my life. I had copies of all fifty-five in the RV. I was rethinking my offer to watch Gabe right then. “You know, I’ve got deadlines and a couple of books to finish this summer, manuscripts around the RV that I’m editing, and my personal library. I’m not sure how to keep Gabe away from my stories.”

Abby shrugged, looking tired. “He’s almost twelve. He’s read most of the books in the school library. I was reading some pretty steamy books when I wasn’t much older than him. I remember some of that smut you were reading at twelve, so if your bodice rippers are the worst he reads this summer, I’d call that a win-win for all of us.”

I wasn’t sure I was ready to see my nephew reading my soft-core porn for middle-aged white women. I couldn’t figure out how to say that, so I pulled the front door open wider, “Come on, Abby. Let’s go enjoy some air conditioning.”

Abby’s house was small. Most of the houses in the neighborhood weren’t much bigger. But the living room was clean and well-lit. Light spilled in through the windows on the front of the house, giving it an airy ambiance. The furniture was well used, but clean. The only hint that a preteen lived in the house was a pair of sneakers and a spiral notebook with childish doodles on the cardboard backing.

From a hallway that led toward their bedrooms came a familiar voice, “Mom, I can’t find my shoes. Where’d you put them?”

Abby rolled her eyes, “It’s not where did I forget them, it’s where did you put them. In some ways, he’s still my little boy. In other ways, it’s like having a teenager in the house again.” She gave me a pointed look.

I knew the dig was directed at me. She had been 18 when I turned 13. She had just given birth the previous summer, and I had been less that magnanimous about sharing a house with a squalling baby. I didn’t take the bait. I just gave her a big grin, “Karma?”

She snorted, “Maybe. God knows I gave Mom plenty of crap when I was a kid. And I was the only daughter to get pregnant in high school.”

“After that, the bar was pretty low for me.”

A moment later, a boy I hardly recognized came from the hallway. Gabriel was shirtless, wearing just a pair of denim shorts, when he stumbled to a stop as his eyes fell on me. Then he shrieked, “Aunt Sydney! You’re here!”

Unworried about being half dressed, the boy raced across the room. For the second time that day, I was nearly bowled over. When he threw his arms around my shoulders, I was stunned to find he was every inch as tall as me. I couldn’t believe it. Even though Mom’s funeral was eighteen months before, Gabriel had been a typical ten-year-old. Maybe a few inches over four feet.

Abby came to my rescue, “Your shoes are on the floor. Where you left them. Now, quit trying to squeeze your aunt and go put on a shirt.”

Gabe blushed. I wasn’t sure if his realization came from leaving his shoes scattered about or from clinging half-naked on me.

When the boy retreated, with sneakers in hand, Abby and I collapsed on the couch. “You weren’t kidding, sis. He’s as tall as me. When did that happen?”

Abby shrugged, “Who knows? One minute he was my little darling child. He’s still my darling child, but he’s grown a foot in the last year. He’s taller than me.”

I put my feet on top of the scuffed top of a coffee table, “He’s taller than some teenagers. Maybe I need to give him lots of privacy. I know what I was like as a teen.”

Despite the circles under Abby’s eyes, her cheeks held a hint of scarlet, “I don’t think you have to worry about that. There are no playboys under his bed, no pile of tissues in his trashcan, no strange stains in his underwear.”

My sister wasn’t the only woman in the room whose cheeks were hot. When I had volunteered to keep Gabe, I hadn’t considered how awkward those tween years could be. Even at twenty-four, I’d done a good job of forgetting about them.

Gabe chose that moment to reenter the living room, “What’s that about underwear? I remembered to pack them.” He turned his attention to me, “Mom said your RV has a washing machine and dryer in it. Is that true?”

Abby traded a knowing glance with me, but I was glad Gabe hadn’t heard all of our conversation. That would have been terribly awkward. Then I wondered, had Abby given her son the talk? That was definitely not on my list of things to discuss with my nephew. I nodded, “Yep. It’s a self-contained house on wheels. Every creature comfort and then some.”

The boy’s eyes lit up, “Cool. I’m packed, can I go on and take my stuff and load it?”

I glanced over at Abby. As much as I wanted to spend the whole of the day with her, I could see our brief visit had already sapped her vitality. She offered me an apologetic smile, “Go on, show him the RV, get his stuff stored. I’m going to rest until you’re ready to head out.”

Gabe’s eyes cut between me and his mom. There was pain behind his golden-brown eyes that wasn’t there a moment before. What little I recalled of my nephew was that he was a smart kid, given more to reading than playing outside. I got a vibe he understood more than he was letting on.

I dipped my head to Gabe, “Sure thing. Go grab your first bag and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

By the time I climbed from the couch, Gabe was back with a duffle bag. It pulled on his right shoulder. How much of his wardrobe was he lugging in that bag? “Come on, let’s get your stuff stowed away.”

As I reached for the fob, Gabe gave an appreciative whistle, “Dang, Aunt Sydney, your ride is sweet.”

I gave him a knowing smile, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” And with that, I unlocked and opened the door. The steps were tiled in subtle shades of brown.

When he joined me at the top of the stairs, I pressed the fob and the door hissed shut. “Automatic. How sweet is that?”

The sadness in Gabe’s eyes was replaced with excitement and buoyant curiosity. “Dude, the driver’s seat looks like something out of Star Trek.”

I gave him a playful jab to his shoulder, “Dude? Really. Come on, there’s more to see.”

I pressed a button along the huge dashboard, bathing the whole coach in soft ambient lighting. I ignored the passenger seat behind the stairs and pointed behind it to a table and booth with leather bench-seats big enough for two people at the table. When I needed to write and the weather outside proved uncooperative, I had sat at that table for countless hours, crafting dozens of stories over the past year. “I’ve done lots of writing here. But I imagine we can eat plenty of meals here.”

I pointed to the other side of the motorcoach. Behind the captain’s chair was a full-length sofa. At the far end of the sofa, we could pull it into an “L” shape when the slide-outs were open. “I’ve fallen asleep on the couch more than a few times. But it also folds out into a bed. Either way, I hope it’s comfortable enough for you.”

Gabe set the heavy duffle on the sofa and then plopped down now next to it, testing it out, “I’ve fallen asleep on the couch, in the living room. This is loads more comfortable than that.”

I moved along the narrow path between the two retracted slide-outs. Beyond the sofa and dining table was a kitchen, with the sink, countertop, and stove on one side and a big, residential style fridge on the other. “Here’s the kitchen. I guess I should learn to cook better, although I’m a bit addicted to Subway sandwiches.”

Gabe ran his hands over the smooth composite countertop, “Sweet, it’s almost as big as our kitchen.”

A pang shot through my chest at those words. Pregnant at sixteen, a mom at seventeen, Abby never really got out of the working-class neighborhood in which our mom had raised us, on the edge of poverty. I had fled as soon as I self-published my first successful book, while attending the local community college, and until now, hadn’t looked back.

I couldn’t deal with those thoughts, and pushed them aside, and moved past the slide-outs. I opened the door to the toilet, “Here’s the half-bath.”

I closed the door and turned to the other side of the coach and opened a cabinet. Racks of electronic devices were arrayed before us. “Here’s the audio-video setup for the RV. The DirecTV box is here as well as a stereo system. You know, I’ve had this RV for almost a year and I think I only got the satellite working once. Maybe you can figure it out for me.”

Gabe leaned forward, his chin touching the top of my shoulder, as he peered into the storage closet’s shadows, “Cool. Mom said I had to ask you if it’s okay for me to bring my laptop.”

He stood straight as though wanting my approval, adding, “Mom tell you I want to become a writer?” His voice faltered, and the soft overhead lights showed the crimson on his smooth cheeks as he finished, “Like you.”

It was my turn to feel flushed. I was pretty sure the last thing Abby wanted was for Gabe to write soft core porn for women. The earnest look in my nephew’s eyes took me back to when I was around his age and discovered how easy words came to me. “We’ll see. What’s your favorite types of stories?”

Gabe scrunched his eyebrows in thought, “I liked the Narnia books, like, forever. I just finished Tolkien’s The Hobbit. I guess mostly fantasy.”

Somewhere inside me, I breathed a sigh of relief. Fantasy didn’t stoke my engines, but I knew enough about the genre. I figured I could give him some pointers.

With the engine cut off, the coach was growing warm. The walkway in between the half-bath and electrical equipment was narrow and Gabe was so close to me I could see beads of sweat pearling above his upper lip. I could see what Abby meant about his development. Some boys have a sheen of peach fuzz over their upper lips; a hint of puberty on the way or already arrived. But Gabe’s face was baby-smooth. Even his vellus hairs were so fine as to blend against his smooth skin. Aware I was staring, I said, “Alright, come on. Just a bit more to go.”

What had sold me on this particular luxury coach were the last two rooms. The bedroom held a king-sized bed on one slide-out and a huge flat-screen TV on the other. There were spacious mini-closets on either side of the TV. With the slide-outs retracted, there was no room to walk. I knelt on the edge of the bed and opened the nearest closet. I had a couple of shirts on hangers, which I pulled out and threw on the bed, “You can use this for clothes you need to hang up. There are some drawers down below that you can use for anything else.”

Gabe eyed the bed and then the closet next to the TV. The scarlet in his cheeks nearly reached his ears, “But this is your bedroom, Aunt Sydney.”

Clearly embarrassed at the thought of being in a place so intimate, Gabe reminded me of the little boy I still remembered. I shrugged and crawled across the bed toward the back of the coach, “So? This is an RV, not a house. There’s no place to store your clothes up front. Also,” I stood and walked over to the second reason I bought this model, “You’ll have to go through the bedroom to get to the shower and second bathroom.”

The bathroom was easily the largest I saw when I had been shopping for an RV. On the other side of the doorway was a second enclosed toilet. Just beyond the toilet, on the passenger side of the RV was a large, marble-tiled shower. A couple of feet wide and four feet deep, it was one of my guilty pleasures. The tankless water heater, fueled by propane, barely kept up with my long, luxurious showers.

Gabe opened the glass door and poked his head inside, “This thing is freaking huge.”

I smirked at my nephew, knowing how Abby complained about getting him to take a bath. “You know, my standards of hygiene are pretty high, kiddo. Once a week baths aren’t gonna cut it when you’re traveling with your Aunt Sydney.”

I’m not sure how it managed, but his blush spread to his neck as he mumbled, “I’m not that bad anymore.”

I patted him on the back, “Good.” Then I turned to the other side of the bathroom where we faced highly polished wood panel doors. “Then that means you won’t mind doing your own laundry either.”

I opened the rear-most door, revealing a washing machine stacked on top of a dryer. When I told him earlier it had all the comforts of home, I hadn’t been lying.

The with the slide-outs retracted, the parts of the RV with the most room were the cockpit at the front and the bathroom at the rear. I was able to pirouette around, throwing my hands wide, “What do you think?”

The boy grinned, “It’s really nice, Aunt Sydney. All of this from writing books?”

After spinning around, I was none too steady on my feet. I reached out and grabbed his shoulder to keep from falling, “I guess those ballet lessons were a waste of money. Yeah, Gabe. I got lucky with my first book, and things have gone well since then.”

I collapsed on the bed to let my head stopped spinning. Once things stopped spinning, I looked up at my nephew. He had put his hands in his pockets and looked around the back half of the RV. “You okay, champ?”

His lips tried to curl into a smile, but the ends quivered until he sat next to me, “I’m scared. I know Mom is really sick, even though she’s trying to hide it. She wouldn’t be going into the hospital if it wasn’t serious.”

He bit his lower lip as his chin trembled. In that moment, even though he was about the same size as me, he was still that little boy I knew before I found success. I reached around and pulled him into a half-hug, “I know, Gabe. I’m worried too. But I love your mom and you and if what she needs right now is time to fight this illness, then that’s exactly what we’re going to give her–Space to fight it on her terms.”

A tear spilled down his cheek, “What if…”

He choked back a sob. He couldn’t finish the words. I squeezed his shoulders tight, “Let’s not go there. We’re going to do what she asks, and she’s going to fight this and get better.”

The look he gave me was enough for me to know he didn’t believe it. But I couldn’t think about losing Abby. She had to pull through. With no more comfort to give, I climbed across the bed and said, “Let’s go check on your mom and get the rest of your stuff.”

We found Abby resting on the couch. She was streaming some Clapton through the TV when we came in. Her eyes fluttered upon, resting on Gabe, “Did you get the grand tour?”

The boy came over and sat on the edge of the couch, “Yeah. It’s really sick, Mom.”

I shook my head; kids and their slang. Gabe rested a hand on Abby’s shoulder, “You okay, Mom? Get you anything?”

Abby forced a smile onto her features. Her eyes winced at the effort, “Never better, sweetie. Why don’t you get the rest of your stuff loaded up? A van from the hospital is supposed to pick me up by four.”

Reflexively, I looked at my watch. Only thirty minutes. While Gabe hurried back to his room, I took his place next to my sister, “Are you sure you don’t want us to stay here. We could come visit you.”

Abby’s hand shot out and gripped my wrist. “No. I had to watch our mom waste away. And hated every minute of it. I don’t want Gabe or you to have to go through that. And when I’m better, and they’re ready to send me home, I’ll let you guys know and you guys can come and pamper me then.”

The words were chipper, but her eyes told a different tale. Now that I could see Abby in the flesh, I knew the cancer was farther along than she had admitted. I wanted to be upset with her, but I couldn’t find the anger; only the sadness. I went along with the lie, “I can hardly wait. After chemo is over, you and I, we’ll go find you a beautiful wig. How does that sound?”

She smiled, and for a flash, the brightness of her smile lit her eyes. “That sounds like a wonderful plan.” The spark fled, replaced by the pain and anguish. She glanced toward the hallway, where we could hear Gabe raising a ruckus in his room. In a voice so quiet, I had to strain to hear her, Abby said, “You guys will be back within a couple of months, and we’ll look back on this and laugh. But,” she sighed, her shoulders slumped, “if things don’t go so well, you’re the only family Gabe has. He’s all you’d have.”

A moment later, Gabe returned. He had a suitcase in each hand. “This is everything.”

I rose and saw both suitcases bulged. He had to have sat on them to get them closed. “What all are you taking? Is that the kitchen sink in one of them?”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, “No. Just more clothes, some books, my collection of stories, and my laptop.”

Abby rose, albeit much slower than I, “Did you check with your aunt about bringing a laptop? Maybe she doesn’t want you hunched over trying to outdo that story from school.”

Gabe shot me a pleading glance. I bobbed my head, “No problem, Abby. I told him I’d give him some pointers on writing.”

She gave me a sly grin, “Oh, heaven help me. The last thing I need is Gabe submitting a bodice ripper for his seventh-grade creative writing class.”

While the boy gave his mom a confused look, I tried my best to look innocent as I drawled in a faux Southern accent, “Why, I declare, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Gabe shook his head, “Women are weird.” He hefted the suitcases, adding, “These are getting heavy. Where can I put them, Aunt Sydney?”

I dropped the Hollywoodish Southern accent, “We’ve got lots of storage under the RV. We’ll get them stored there for now.”

As Gabe headed out the front door, Abby rested her hand on my arm, “Just a sec, sis.”

She leaned over and pulled an envelope from under the cushions and gave it to me, “There’s some legal stuff, like power of attorney for Gabe in there, just in case you have to take him to the doctor. His birth certificate and CHIP card, too.”

I slid the envelope into the back pocket of my jeans as Abby leaned in to hug me, “Thanks for keeping Gabe while I deal with this, sis. You’re the best.”

I returned the hug, “I’d do anything for you. I’m sorry to have been MIA for so long. It was selfish of me.”

She let go my neck, “You always come through in the end, Syd. Let’s go outside. I bet there’s an eleven-year-old trying to picklock your storage bins.”

It was close. Gabe went from the first storage bin, trying the handle, then going from one to the next. There were five bins below the RV and even though I had plenty of stuff stored under there, two more suitcases wouldn’t be noticed.

I opened the middle bin and revealed an electric sliding cargo tray. The cargo tray rolled toward us. There were a few boxes already on the tray, but plenty of room for Gabe’s suitcases. Once he set them on the tray, he pulled the tab open on one of my cardboard boxes, “Oh, cool. Are these your books, Aunt Sydney?”

Sure, it was warm outside. But that had nothing to do with the heat spreading across my face as my nephew held up one of my first books. Flowing cursive script revealed the title; His forever. But my eyes didn’t pay any attention to that. The artwork on the cover showed a beautiful woman, whose naked back was partially covered by an equally handsome man’s naked torso. They stared at the reader; their lust carefully drawn on their faces. My voice was strangled, “Um, yeah. But why don’t you put it away?”

That’s when my nephew realized the scantily clad figures on the book’s cover and dropped it like a hot potato. The mirth in Abby’s eyes almost made me want to claw her eyes out, but those years were a decade gone. Instead, I just shrugged. Then, to make the matter worse, she leaned in and whispered, “He doesn’t really understand any of that stuff yet. Haven’t had an occasion to give him the talk.”

She chose that moment to give me a tight hug before drawing Gabe into a deeper hug. They were both crying by the time Abby stepped back. She sniffled, “Okay, you two. I love you both. My ride will be here soon. You should hit the road before rush hour hits.”

There were more hugs and when we finally managed to pull away from the curb, a glance through the driver’s side mirror showed a mini-bus pulling into the drive. Gabe strapped himself into the passenger seat. He wiped as his eyes, trying to keep the tears from flowing. I was a mess too, but back behind the wheel, I did what I could to block those thoughts. There would be time enough later to cry.

The sun reflected in the driver’s side rear-view mirror as I pulled off the highway in Barstow. Two hours of travel and I was hungry. I glanced at Gabe. He hadn’t said more than a dozen words since leaving his mom’s place. “You hungry?”

He ran a hand through auburn hair and seemed to come alive as we passed billboard advertisements, “Yeah. You?”

“I could eat a horse or two,” I replied with a grin.

We found a place we could park outside of Barstow station. Decorated like an old style train-station, there were a handful of restaurants in the building. After paying for some imitation Chinese food at Panda Express, we sat by a window overlooking railroad tracks. After tearing into my General Tso’s, I said, “There are a couple of RV parks nearby. I figured we could stay for the night, get a good night’s rest.”

Gabe stabbed a bit of battered chicken into a cup of sweet and sour sauce, “Where are we going?”

Since leaving Abby’s, that thought weighed heavily on me. On one hand, I was now responsible for an eleven-year-old boy. On the other hand, even with the setback of my latest manuscript, I had several books plotted for my publishing business. “I was thinking of going someplace where I could get some writing done. Some places in Colorado come to mind. Maybe pick someplace where there’s some cool shi-, um, stuff to see.”

Barely gone for a couple of hours from Abby’s and I was already falling back into my old habits. Gabe smirked. He was eleven, not seven. He knew what almost slipped out. “Show me how to write better?”

Abby hadn’t even taken the time to tell my nephew about the birds and the bees, I sure didn’t want his first awareness of those rights of passage to come from my soft porn for middle-aged women. Even so, I figured I could balance some instruction with my own writing schedule. “Sure, Gabe. You’ll have to show me the story you wrote to win the contest at school.”

He beamed; It was nice to see him forget his mom’s unfortunate situation, if just for a bit.

Copyright 2022 – Caliboy1991
All rights reserved

The Road Less Traveled – Chapter 1
By
Caliboy1991

I hit the wipers to clear the mist from the windshield as I kept both hands on the steering wheel of my motorcoach. Interstate 90 over Snoqualmie Pass was a breeze in my new Foretravel ih-45 as the Cummins diesel made easy work of the three-thousand-foot pass.

My mind was hard at work on what new escapes I could throw at Randy Tremaine, the billionaire bad boy who featured heavily in my new series of romance novels. As if thinking of the devil would conjure him, my cell phone rang. I grinned when I saw the caller ID. Bess Deveraux’s name blinked across the screen. Pressing the answer button on the steering wheel, my voice was more chipper than I felt. “Hey Bess, what’s my favorite agent got for me today?”

Bess came back at me in an affected foreign accent, “Favorite agent? How many more do you keep around? Write a few romance novels, sell some books on Amazon and you authors go through agents like your billionaire characters go through women.”

Even though my stomach churned at her call, a grin split my face. Bess was no more French than I was a billionaire. The question that had been keeping me up for weeks bubbled from my lips, “What did Harlequin think of Give the Devil His Due?”

Bess dropped the accent, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Sydney? The guy was just arrested and your billionaire bad boy is a carbon copy of Jeffery Fucking Epstein?”

Worried by her tone, I played defensive, “Come on, Bess. Every woman who fancies herself a romance novelist is writing bad boy romance, billionaire romance, or billionaire bad boy romance. To stand above the slush, you’ve gotta make an impression.”

Bess shot back, “I got news for you, Syd, whoever said there is no such thing as bad press was a sociopath. This story is too raw, too toxic right now. I’m not sure I’d publish this under your own imprint if I were you. A billionaire who seduces underage women, drugs them and brings them to his island as his sexual playthings, don’t piss off your readers.”

The nervous buzz in my stomach turned to nausea. Give the Devil His Due was supposed to be my entrance into the fabled halls of traditional publishing. The competition in the indie market was brutal and the publishing schedule to keep my pen-name visible to viewers was emptying my well of creativity. The previous year, I released twelve novels. And this year my sales were only slightly more than half of last year’s.

I shifted back into drive once I was off the pass. I could drive and talk on the hands-free phone without being distracted. But Bess had thrown me for a loop. “If they don’t want extreme billionaire bad boy, what the hell do they want?”

The snooty foreign accent was back, “Not this. I’ve been told by an editor at Harlequin they are thinning their stable of authors. The eBook market is enormous, but it is only growing more competitive each year. Too many authors flooding the market with knockoffs of the last best seller. Have you thought about retirement?”

A car in front of me was slowing. A quick glance in my driver’s side mirror and I moved around the slowpoke. “I’m twenty-four years old, Bess. I haven’t even hit my stride yet. But I really needed this contact.”

An audible sigh came through the speakers, “You and me, both, Syd. I can try shopping it around to smaller publishers, if you really want.”

I could hear the “but” in her voice. It was useless shaking my head; not like anyone could see me. “No. Let it lie for now. I may self publish it yet.”

“It’s your funeral, Syd. Ciao.”

I killed the connection a split second before Bess, if only to work out some of my frustration. That’s when I noticed I missed a call while talking with my agent. A quick check surprised me. It was my sister. What did she want? It was too early in the year to invite me to Thanksgiving; summer had yet to arrive in the Pacific Northwest. My mind immediately went to the worst-case scenario. Had something happened to my only nephew? It embarrassed me when I realize how long it had been since I thought about Abby and Gabriel. I reached for the phone to see if my sister left a message.

I played the recording. Abby’s voice seemed off, “Hey, sis. Just wanted to talk, hear your voice. Gabe says hi. Call me back when you can.”

If I didn’t need to keep my eyes on the road, I would have stared at the phone. “What the fuck?”

Abby’s my older sister, by five years. Because of our age differences, we’re not very close. Since launching my writing career, I haven’t exactly invested a lot of time in my family. Even less now, since our mom died last year. Come to think of it, that was the last time I’d spent any time with Abby and Gabe. I treated my family sort of like church; Thanksgiving and Christmas, if I could swing it. Writing was my life, and that’s where I spent my time. Not that I didn’t love Abby. Now that Mom was gone, she and my nephew were the only family I had left. It’s just our lives revolved around different things. Since giving birth to my nephew at seventeen, Abby’s life revolved around him and her job as a teacher’s assistant. We’re both passionate about our lives; just in different ways.

With more than a little trepidation, I tapped the screen on my phone to return the call. When she answered, Abby sounded tired, “Hey, sis. That was quick.”

“Was on the phone with my agent. How’re things with you and Gabriel?”

“It’s Gabe now. You’d hardly recognize him. He’s as tall as me now.”

When I saw my nephew at our mom’s funeral, he was short, like most kids. “Really, isn’t he still ten?”

My sister’s laughter was hollow, “Goodness, that’s what comes of only coming for Thanksgiving and Christmas every few years, Syd. Gabe will be twelve at the start of July.”

I felt guilty. It had been too long. “Save a place for me this Thanksgiving. I’ll make sure to be there this time.”

Silence filled the air. “You there, Abby?”

I could hear the tears in her voice, “If I’m still here, Syd. I went to the doctor last week and the news…”

When she faltered, I blurted, “What? What’s wrong, sis?”

“It’s cancer.”

My eyes blurred, and I eased off the Cummins diesel engine. I saw a gas station in the distance and hit the blinker. Mom had died of cancer and my mind was a jumble of questions. “Give me a sec, Abby. I’m pulling over.”

Her quiet sobs pulled at my heart as I brought the RV to a stop on one side of the gas station. When I engaged the emergency brake, I said, “How far along is it?”

Abby’s voice shook, “Farther along than I’d like. Oh, hell, any amount is more that I’d want. I’m supposed to start an aggressive round of chemo in a few days.”

Never had I wanted to be closer to my sister than at that moment. Thoughts about my writing career fled my mind, “I can be there tomorrow, Sis. How’s Gabriel, I mean, Gabe handling it?”

A loud sigh filled the cab of the RV, “He knows I’m sick, but I haven’t told him how serious it is yet.”

Her humor wasn’t entirely gone, “At least school’s out, so I won’t have to burn any sick-time with the school district.”

My heart hurt as though squeezed in a vise grip. I wished I could take back the years spent on the road, writing, to have been with her over the past few years. Tears spilled across my cheeks, “When I get there, you just tell me what you want me to do and consider it done.”

Abby’s sob filled the speakers. I couldn’t hold back either and I cried with her. After a moment, she said, “They’re going to admit me to the hospital for the chemo. I don’t want Gabe to see me like this, Sydney.”

I was sure I could find a place to store the RV in Bakersfield, “I can stay with him all summer if you need. Not a problem.”

“Can you do me a solid, sis? Take him with you for the summer. Get him out of town, away from here for a couple of months. It’ll do him good.”

I could hear the unspoken words. It might do you some good too, Sydney. Abby didn’t begrudge me the success I found as a writer, but she loved her family and my absence always bothered her. Now that it was just to two of us and her son, how could I possibly blame her. In that moment, I would have agreed to anything, “Sure, Sis.”

We talked for a while longer before she said she needed to rest. Once I disconnected the call, I stared out the windshield. The Cascade Mountains filled the vista. What had I just agreed to? Where would I put a ten, no–scratch that, an eleven-year-old kid in the RV?

My home on wheels was spacious for just me. But I hadn’t bought it intending to share the space. I swiveled the driver’s chair around. The slides were pulled in, compacting the space. A narrow space between the left and ride slide-outs left me a pathway to the toilet room halfway along the RV’s forty-five-foot-long chassis. When I passed by the sofa, I wondered how Gabe would enjoy sleeping on it. Since buying the RV with the proceeds of my earlier sales, I’d fallen asleep on the sofa more than a couple of times.

I slid into the toilet and closed the door before I bent over the toilet and threw up. I didn’t know where it came from, but dread filled me; I didn’t want to lose my sister. Compared to that, the rest of my dread was inconsequential. I didn’t know what to do with a kid for a couple of months. And God forbid, if something should happen to my sister, I had no idea what to do with Gabe.

Thirty minutes later, refueled and back in control of my emotions, I pulled back onto the highway with Bakersfield, California programmed into the GPS.

Copyright 2022 – Caliboy1991
All rights reserved