Page 91 of Bidding War

She rolls her eyes, then goes back and closes it. That’s when I notice we are alone in my room. Then she sits in the chair at my bedside. She must have brought it in with her.

How hard was I sleeping?

“I thought a little light would do you some good.”

“A little, maybe. Not the whole damn sun.”

“Language.”

I smirk and fight a laugh. “I got shot, Mom. I’m allowed to curse.”

She sighs, smiling a little as she pulls my blankets up to tuck me in. “How is your wound?”

“The home nurse?—"

“I want to hear it from you.” Her voice is unusually firm.

Her worry hits something deep inside of me, and I remember I’m still her first child. That’s who she is tucking in right now. “It’s doing better, Mom. Thanks for asking.”

Only then do I see the worry lines on her face. I got shot, and now her plastic surgeon is going to buy a new boat. The circle of life. “I do not like your side work, Anderson.”

I shrug and that doesn’t hurt as much as it had been. “Me, either.”

“Then why?—"

“Dad. It’s all him. He’s the one who decided I have to do this, even though it’s dangerous.”

“He expects you to be learning. Not taking bullets for the help.”

My head digs back into the pillow. “Not you, too.”

“Your father, flawed though he is, is right about this, Anderson. You are the valuable person in any equation you are in, and you must act accordingly.”

I know she is saying this because she loves me, and I scared her. I get that. So, I am trying to be understanding about it. “Mom, it was you who taught me everyone is valuable?—"

“Not like this,” she says sharply. “In general, yes, but in this? No. Not at all. We need you alive and well to run West Media. We need you breathing, Anderson. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

“I am not special?—"

“Don’t you ever say that again. You are. I won’t hear talk to the contrary.”

I let out as big of a breath as I’ve been able to take lately. There is no winning this with her, and I know it. “I know you’re upset, but I need you to understand my side of this. I acted on instinct?—"

“An instinct to get yourself killed? Are you suicidal, Anderson? Because we will get you the best therapist money can buy, and you know that.”

“No, it was an instinct to protect the man at my side.”

She sits back to ponder. “How may I divest you of that instinct?”

“I’m not sure you can. You see, my mother raised me to believe everyone has value?—"

“Don’t get cute with me, Anderson. I’ll not have it. Not now. Not when we are talking about life and death.”

“Geez, you get shot, and everyone loses their sense of?—"

She silences me with a look. “June is here.”

A conversation swerve as hard as any Dad takes. Didn’t see it coming. “What of it?”

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