Page 7 of Ripped & Shipped
“At the least. They can run up into the thousands.”
Shannon shakes her head. “Well, you rock those.”
“Thanks.”
This is by far the longest conversation we’ve had since high school—which was eleven years ago.
A door opens.
Shannon’s dad’s voice reaches the reception area. “Well, Chris. Let me know if you change your mind. And, if you have time, pop in on your mother. She’s having a day.”
Chris walks into the reception area. When he obviously notices me, his face turns from a semi-smile to what could be called a grimace. Except his eyes drop to my feet and travel upward toward my face. When he meets my stare … does he blush? It’s not a really noticeable change, but I’d say he’s busted and he knows it. That’s right, St. James. I do pilates and yoga, and I’ve got the figure to show it.
“Chris,” I say.
“Ella Mae,” he retorts.
I smirk for extra emphasis. He turns away, tells his sister he’ll see her later, and walks out the front door without another word in my direction.
Hey, peeps!
You never know what good fortune will slide your way. Just remember that little nugget of truth during the down days, the slow days, and the days when you feel unseen and misunderstood.
Good things are always coming.
And today, well … Today I got a big invitation from someone HUGE! His name might rhyme with MakesMaCan. Shhhhh. Don’t tell!
I’m not saying a thing yet, but let’s just say a collab may be in the works. And maybe a trip … somewhere sunny and beautiful.
So, keep on believing in yourself. Never change for anyone. And most of all … say it with me … don’t forget to put the YOU in fab-YOU-lous today!
CHAPTER4
Chris
My childhood homeis a pretty typical house in Bordeaux. We have a variety of styles common in the midwest around town—craftsman, ranch/rambler, and even some colonial and victorian.
Ours is a two-story home with a concrete front porch, a gabled roof, and an old-fashioned, solid-wood, craftsman door. I guess you’d call it charming.
The paint color has changed over the years. It’s currently a light yellow with white trim and navy shutters. Dad keeps the yard and exterior looking good enough to be in a magazine. The picket fence has gone from brown to white. But otherwise, the property is the same as it was thirty-two years ago when my parents bought it to prepare to start their family.
I sit in my car, looking up at the two sets of bedroom windows visible from the street, and then I glance at the attic windows above them. Shannon and our middle sister, Bridgette, shared the left bedroom. As the older brother and only boy, I had the one on the right to myself.
If I close my eyes, I can see Bridgette and Shannon practicing dance routines in the front yard.
I take in a steadying breath. Dad said Mom’s “having a day.” Ever since we lost Bridgette in an accident when she was sixteen, Mom’s days are clouded with chronic, relentless depression.
The night of the crash, I stayed home to play in a football game. I’ve always believed I could have made a difference. If I had just skipped that game, fate would have been different.
Alter one element, and the whole trajectory of a situation changes. My presence could have been that element.
Maybe I would have shouted, “Watch out!” at just the right moment. I might have made us run late, or more likely, kept us on schedule. I could have done something—anything—to avert the accident that took my sister from us. But I was home celebrating a win while my family endured a horrific car crash, and Bridgette breathed her last breath.
And we didn’t only lose Bridgette that day, we lost Mom. She’s still here in body, but she’s never fully come back to us in spirit. Clinical depression set in, and she has far more hard days than good. Thirteen years have passed, but for Mom, it’s like the worst kind of groundhog day. She relives the trauma of losing her middle child daily.
Squaring my shoulders, I get out of the car, open the front gate and latch it behind me. Then I continue up porch steps until I’m facing the front door. I don’t need to knock, so I walk in.
“Hey, Mom! It’s Chris!” I shout, even though I don’t expect an answer..
