Page 2 of The Road Trip Romance

“Mommmm! It’s been like two years. I can do it,” she protests.

“Fine, but not until I get these clothes upstairs. Just give me five minutes. Finish putting the crayons away,” I say with yet another sigh as I lift the basket back up and start toward our bedrooms.

I ponder what the heck I’m doing with my life as I place all the clothes in their drawers. I had so many lofty goals once upon a time. I was going to travel. I was going to write a bestselling novel and have it made into a movie.

I love my kids with all my heart, but somewhere along the way of getting married, working crazy hours at my job, and becoming their mom, I lost myself. And I know I’m still in here somewhere, but sometimes, it just seems impossible to spend any time doing the things I really want to do.

I put the empty clothes basket in my closet and stare at a framed photo on my wall. It was the last time I remember feeling truly carefree. I was twenty-one and went to visit my best friend in France for a week. She was studying abroad. I couldn’t afford to do that, but I could afford a plane ticket.

My eyes dart from the photo to the mirror on my left and I stare at my reflection. I don’t look anything like that young woman. My body looks like a body that’s carried two babies. Wrinkles are starting to form on my face. There are bags under my eyes.

My phone buzzes, distracting me from critiquing my appearance, and I pull it from my pocket. Anissa. How do best friends know? It’s like some weird sixth sense.

I pick up and put the call on speaker as I walk into the kids’ bathroom and start putting some of their stuff that I know Mark won’t have into a bag.

“Beotch! You totally need to come visit me. These island men…holy fuck, girl! I am telling you, the sex is just…wow,” she starts.

I quickly take the call off speaker and hold the phone to my ear. “Anissa! The kids,” I hiss.

She laughs and immediately I know she’s had at least two margaritas. I spent nearly four years living with her, I know all her laughs.

“Whatever, when do they go to Mark’s? Can you get plane tickets?” she asks.

Part of me wants to say yes. But I have so much to do. I need this alone time to try and work on my book, clean, and definitely work out or have a spa day or something.

“I don’t know, Nis. There’s so much going on,” I explain as I lean against the bathroom sink and really look at my face. I look tired. And I hate that I look tired. Maybe I do need a trip.

“Oh, come on. At least think about it,” she prods, and I hear her laugh at something someone is saying, a male voice.

“Nis, you sound busy. Call me back later. We’ll catch up,” I suggest.

“Boo! You better seriously think about it, or I’ll come up there and kick your ass,” she says with a giggle.

I shake my head as I try to fight a smile. Even when she’s annoyingly drunk, she can make me laugh.

“Fine. I’ll think about it,” I agree as I grab the bag of medicine and Cal’s new favorite soap.

“Great! Love you, gotta go,” she says, and I hear the male voice again before she hangs up and I’m left staring at the phone.

I notice a missed text from Mark confirming when he’ll pick the kids up and then I see a missed call from my agent, Marta Garcia, or Marti as she prefers to be called.

I sit down on Cal’s bed, tossing the bag of things from the bathroom in his empty suitcase, and call her back.

“Are you sitting down?” she answers. I roll my eyes. Marti always asks me this, no matter what she’s calling about. I love the woman, and the little bit of income I get from writing is mostly thanks to her persistence, but her personality is so big that sometimes I feel like an ant in her presence.

“Yep,” I state, letting the “p” pop.

“I have no idea why, but guess whose agent just asked for your address?” she asks and then dramatically pauses.

I frown.What the hell is she talking about?

“You want to guess? You’ll never guess. Like seriously, you could guess for ten years, and I bet you wouldn’t guess, fine, maybe like for a year, but you are not going to guess,” she says, the words running together as she speaks.

“I get it. I’m not going to guess. Who?” I ask as I imagine maybe another more famous author wanting to see if I’ll ghostwrite or something like that.

She squeals and I hold the phone away from my face.

“Marti? Who the hell wants my address?” I ask again.

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