Page 5 of Gunner

However, instead of devoting my time to my social media status and marketing my brand, Mom and Dad insisted I go to college. They knew I wasn’t book smart like my brother, but my parentsinsisted I get an education, even if it was in fashion. Mom wanted me to learn business, but Dad was the one who knew my true love.

Well, he thought he did.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved fashion. It was my life, but there were more important things that I secretly desired. Things not even my parents knew about. Things that I kept to myself because I didn’t want any judgmental looks or snarky remarks. So, I kept my real dream hidden deep and focused on my second love. Fashion.

With Dad backing me, we talked Mom into a degree in fashion. Only, they didn’t tell me I had to learn other shit, like math, history and science. And don’t even get me started on that required P.E. class the school said I had to take.

What the hell did P.E. have to do with fashion?

I thought I’d be learning about which fabrics went well with others, how to use a sewing machine, how to design my own clothes. Not that other shit. Honestly, I didn’t really want to design anything. I wasn’t that inventive. If I had to have a job in fashion, I wanted to buy it, wear it and maybe show the world what was fresh and trending.

I wanted to inform, not create.

Heading for the kitchen, I turned on the lights only to scream bloody murder.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” I yelled, covering my eyes, spinning around fast.

Oh. My. God.

The horror!

I was going to need therapy for life!

The trauma!

Counting as fast as I could, I tried not to think about what I just witnessed. No child needed to see that shit. Like EVER!

I could hear them, behind me, hustling to clothe themselves.

My God! They were ancient!

I had to eat breakfast at that table.

EWW!

“I hope you disinfect that table before breakfast because there is no way I am sitting there until you do.”

“What in the hell you are doing here, Sarah?” my mom asked, out of breath. “You are supposed to be on a plane to Europe.”

“I think the better question is why you two are doing the mattress mambo in the kitchen? They invented beds for that, you know! Besides, aren’t you two too damn old to be doing that shit anymore? I thought when you hit fifty, sex was off the table.”

“This table works just fine, Sarah,” my dad chuckled, as I shivered.

Yuk!

“We’re dressed,” my mom huffed. “You can turn around now.”

“Are you sure? Because the therapy I’m going to need to get that image out of my head is going to be expensive.”

“Sarah,” my mom growled.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly turned, peeking behind my hand to make sure she was telling the truth.

Not that I didn’t believe her, but a girl could never be too sure.

Seeing both of them clothed, I lowered my hand. “You know the table isn’t hygienic, right?”

My dad chuckled.