Page 6 of Something Forever
She shrugs. “Who cares? Anyway, since you’re a free agent, what’s next for you?”
I grimace, trying to figure out how the hell to phrase this. What’s the best way to explain that phone call?
“Well, actually, I have more news, and this one is a real doozy.”
“There’s something more newsworthy than Whitney Rhodes making her first ever spontaneous decision?” she teases.
“My estranged grandmother who I didn’t even know existed passed away and left me a million-dollar inheritance.”
Abbi’s jaw drops. “Oh my God. What?”
I nod in disbelief. “Yeah. It’s crazy.”
“Whoa,” she breathes out. “I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”
“Thanks,” I reply numbly. “It’s weird. I know I didn’t know her or anything, but I can’t help but feel a sense of grief, like I’ve missed out on an important relationship. I had this whole family that I never knew.”
“It’s pretty fucked up your mom never told you about them,” she says.
Abbi knows all about my strained relationship with my mother, and I’m sure she can tell that this news is only adding fuel to the fire.
It’s quiet for a moment before Abbi speaks again, awe in her voice. “So, a million bucks?”
I hold my hand up. “There’s a catch.”
“Ugh!” she says, throwing her head back dramatically. “There’s always a catch.”
“I have to be married — and stay married for three years — to get it.”
It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I’ve never seen Abbi so speechless. She’s always the quickest to come up with a retort or something clever to say.
I take a large gulp of my margarita. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“So… could you just… repeat that for me?”
“I have to get married and stay married for three?—”
“No right, so I heard you correctly, then.” She nods and then turns to face me. “So, I suppose my next question is: what in the ever-loving fuck?”
“I know.”
“Wow. This is so crazy.”
I shake my head, chuckling, the sound turning into a groan halfway through. “Abbi. What am I going to do?”
She puts her palm on my back, rubbing soft circles. The motion reminds me of when my mom used to rub my back when I was sick. A small, familiar comfort.
“You should probably call your mom.”
“She won’t even answer. I bet she’s holed up in some motel somewhere,” I grumble. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with her for weeks. I think she ditched her phone.”
Abbi is quiet for a moment. “It’s a lot of money, Whit.”
“I know.”
“You could do a lot with that money. Pay off all your loans. Finally open your salon.”
The truth I’ve been trying to ignore hits me all at once then, fueled by the alcohol and openness with Abbi. My dream. I’ve wanted to open my own hair salon for years. Ever since I was a kid, salons were a safe place for me. When I was on the road with my mom, she’d drop me at the strip mall, and I’d find my way to a place where I met all kinds of women. Beautiful women with problems and ideas and dreams.