Read Online These Boots Weren't Made for Walking by Melody Carlson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Melody Carlson
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ahead and return my U-Haul to the rental place in town. They close at five, and I don't want to get charged an extra day. I leave Mom a note, saying that if she gets home in time, maybe she could pick me up. But after I turn in the truck and try her from my cell phone, I realize that's not happening. I leave her a message, saying I'll grab a quick cup of coffee at The Butte (Black Bear's best coffeehouse) and maybe start walking home, since it's only about twenty minutes anyway.
I am barraged with worries about my mom as I sit down withmy latte. What if she's been in a wreck of some kind? I think she'd fare well in that old, heavy Suburban of hers. Or what if she's stressed over my unexpected visit? She could be having some kind of meltdown or breakdown or something. But that doesn't seem likely. She probably just had a lot of errands to do, things she's neglected and is embarrassed to let me see. Although Sunday doesn't really seem the best day for things like that. I hope nothing's wrong.
I realize I'm pretty grimy and dusty and develop an instant worry that I'll see someone I know. So I pick up the local newspaper (the
Black Bear Bulletin)
and do my best to hide behind it as I drink my latte. I try to focus on the small-town news. Most of the stories this week are about the Black Bear Blues Festival and the big names the organizers have managed to attract, which actually are fairly impressive. I'd totally forgotten this event was in late October.
When I'm finished with the news and my latte, I try calling Mom again, but there's still no answer. Feeling a little worried, I decide to hurry on home. It's a beautiful day, and the exercise won't hurt me. I just hope I don't run into anyone I know as I pop on my big sunglasses and take the back streets, going as fast as these chubby legs will take me.
I'm actually huffing and puffing and freshly sweaty when I turn down the street to our house. I really must get into shape. All that sitting around on my big rear end and eating junk food has taken a serious toll. As I approach Mom's house, I notice a car that I don't recognize parked in her driveway—a red Jeep Wrangler. AsI get closer, I notice a tall guy leaning against it. He has on khakis and a light blue shirt, and his legs are casually crossed as he talks into a cell phone. Something about this guy seems familiar to me, but I can't quite put my finger on it. He closes his cell phone as I cut across the front lawn, and suddenly I get it. I know who he is.
It's Todd Michaels from Black Bear High. He was a year ahead of me and one of the coolest guys around—smart, athletic, really good looking—the kind of guy I used to daydream about, imagining him inviting me out for a Coke, later taking me to the prom, and eventually being the father of my children… Of course, none of that ever happened. Not even close. I can see that he's changed a bit, probably for the better if that's even possible.
As the full realization of who he is hits me, I also remember how disgusting I look right now. I'm wearing my too-tight jeans, which are also too short, my run-down tennis shoes, an old gray sweatshirt—your basic loser-chick apparel. I want to turn around and walk the other way. But it's too late. He's already waving, and to my horror and despite my sunglasses, it's as if he recognizes me. Good-bye, incognito.
“Hey,” he calls out, “is that you, Cassidy Cantrell?”
I try not to look like a shrinking violet as I nod and say an embarrassed “Yeah, it is.” Is it possible that he's actually here to see me? I cautiously approach him, wishing I could rewind the clock and do this totally differendy. I mean, this could've been one of those big moments in life—one of those times you dream of, hopefor, fantasize about later. But maybe it's not too late. I force a smile as I stand across from him. I think I can smell his cologne—and it smells expensive.
“Your mom told me to look for you. She thought you would be here by
I am barraged with worries about my mom as I sit down withmy latte. What if she's been in a wreck of some kind? I think she'd fare well in that old, heavy Suburban of hers. Or what if she's stressed over my unexpected visit? She could be having some kind of meltdown or breakdown or something. But that doesn't seem likely. She probably just had a lot of errands to do, things she's neglected and is embarrassed to let me see. Although Sunday doesn't really seem the best day for things like that. I hope nothing's wrong.
I realize I'm pretty grimy and dusty and develop an instant worry that I'll see someone I know. So I pick up the local newspaper (the
Black Bear Bulletin)
and do my best to hide behind it as I drink my latte. I try to focus on the small-town news. Most of the stories this week are about the Black Bear Blues Festival and the big names the organizers have managed to attract, which actually are fairly impressive. I'd totally forgotten this event was in late October.
When I'm finished with the news and my latte, I try calling Mom again, but there's still no answer. Feeling a little worried, I decide to hurry on home. It's a beautiful day, and the exercise won't hurt me. I just hope I don't run into anyone I know as I pop on my big sunglasses and take the back streets, going as fast as these chubby legs will take me.
I'm actually huffing and puffing and freshly sweaty when I turn down the street to our house. I really must get into shape. All that sitting around on my big rear end and eating junk food has taken a serious toll. As I approach Mom's house, I notice a car that I don't recognize parked in her driveway—a red Jeep Wrangler. AsI get closer, I notice a tall guy leaning against it. He has on khakis and a light blue shirt, and his legs are casually crossed as he talks into a cell phone. Something about this guy seems familiar to me, but I can't quite put my finger on it. He closes his cell phone as I cut across the front lawn, and suddenly I get it. I know who he is.
It's Todd Michaels from Black Bear High. He was a year ahead of me and one of the coolest guys around—smart, athletic, really good looking—the kind of guy I used to daydream about, imagining him inviting me out for a Coke, later taking me to the prom, and eventually being the father of my children… Of course, none of that ever happened. Not even close. I can see that he's changed a bit, probably for the better if that's even possible.
As the full realization of who he is hits me, I also remember how disgusting I look right now. I'm wearing my too-tight jeans, which are also too short, my run-down tennis shoes, an old gray sweatshirt—your basic loser-chick apparel. I want to turn around and walk the other way. But it's too late. He's already waving, and to my horror and despite my sunglasses, it's as if he recognizes me. Good-bye, incognito.
“Hey,” he calls out, “is that you, Cassidy Cantrell?”
I try not to look like a shrinking violet as I nod and say an embarrassed “Yeah, it is.” Is it possible that he's actually here to see me? I cautiously approach him, wishing I could rewind the clock and do this totally differendy. I mean, this could've been one of those big moments in life—one of those times you dream of, hopefor, fantasize about later. But maybe it's not too late. I force a smile as I stand across from him. I think I can smell his cologne—and it smells expensive.
“Your mom told me to look for you. She thought you would be here by
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