It had been the one year anniversary of my mother’s death. She had been killed instantly by a teenage girl texting a friend. The girl blew a stop sign going 45 mph and never even braked. My mom was 53.
She was coming home from Peterson’s Java Cup with a medium latte in one hand and the latest copy of US magazine in the other.
The driver’s text said, “I know I’m late will hurry.”
That one short sentence that wasn’t even a proper sentence, killed my mother. She was my mom, my mommy, my mentor and my best friend.
That stupid text changed my life in way too many ways.
And so last night I had too many whiskey sours. Six? Maybe 8. Too many for sure.
Even Doyle’s new, outstandingly handsome bouncer was giving me looks and bouncers never give me looks. I’m the good one. I may have tossed him some shade…I don’t know. I actually can’t remember. But it feels like something I would have done last night. Crap night. Junk night.
I should know his name…right?