Page 70 of Doctorshipped
I laugh out loud. He acts like a wedding is a funeral.
Jayme:We do.
Grant:Hazel is coming to care for the creature while we’re away.
Jayme: That creature will be fine. And so will you.
I hear his harumph in my mind, and something in me wishes I were standing right in front of him, able to reach out and run a comforting hand along his gorgeously chiseled jaw.
I obviously need my head examined.
Or I’m sleep deprived.
Or I need water. I’m probably dehydrated.
Grant:I’ll see you Saturday.
Jayme:At that wedding.
Grant:Are you mocking me?
Jayme:If I were mocking you, you’d know it, Peppers.
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t expect him to. I plop my phone into my purse, reach around for my backpack that has my overnight stuff in it, and brace myself for a night with my folks.
Dinner conversation remains typically bland until we roll around to the topic I always dread. My parents ask me about my writing. There’s always this undercurrent of judgment, as if being an aspiring and self-published author isn’t a real profession.
“So,” Dad says while he’s cutting his chicken cutlet into perfectly-even, bite-sized pieces. “You’re still writing those fantasy stories?”
“Yep. I am.”
“And how much are you making on those?”
“I pay my bills. Between tutoring, my work at the florist, and other freelance jobs, I make enough to always pay my bills and have something left over.”
“What about retirement?”
“I’m not looking to retire this year. Maybe next year, though.”
Mom shoots me a little warning glance. Nothing serious. My parents put the “non” in non-confrontational. Yes, my dad will grill me about work. It’s his way of saying I love you. I know they mean well, even though their questions don’t feel like care, they feel more like checkboxes.
But neither of them are going to confront my snark. They’ll give me little glances—especially mom—but nothing more.
“I am curious about your investments, Jayme,” Dad says. “You don’t have to give me figures. I just want to be sure you’re taking care of yourself for when you age.”
“Thanks, Dad. I appreciate your concern.”
Do I have a retirement fund? Well, no. I don’t. I earn enough to get by, pay taxes, and then I put some money in savings, but I don’t have enough to invest—not yet. That’s partly why I want to publish the vampire series through Heracles. If it took off, maybe then I could make enough extra from my writing that I could start planning for the future.
Dad just nods.
“In a real job, they put money aside for you.”
I disregard thereal jobcomment. I’ve let go of needing to make my parents perceive what I do as real work. It’s so common for people to underestimate what it takes to be an author, let alone to cobble together my many professions. I chuckle to myself.
Cobble.
Grant.
