Because if anything, the young crowd is always about the experience, something Larkin has been drilling into me since the moment we started the rebranding process.
After I’ve made a decent dent in my emails, my phone buzzes with a text message. Mom.
When I was seven and Cooper was five, our biological mom overdosed and our grandma became our legal guardian. We lived with her for a few months until she couldn’t physically take care of us anymore. At that point, we were placed into foster care. We bounced from house to house for a few more months until we met Peggy and Martin. The minute I met them, I knew—I knew we were going to be a family. I felt it in my soul. And after a year of living with them on Marina Island, a small island off the coast of Seattle, they sat us down and asked if we wanted to be a part of their family permanently.
I’m not one to be sentimental—I’m more logical than anything—but that hug, the one I gave my parents when they asked us to take their last name . . . yeah, I can still feel their arms wrapped around me. I can still smell Mom’s lavender perfume and hear Dad’s sniffs as he showed his true feelings that day. He gripped me by the cheeks, looked into my eyes, and told me that he would be honored to call me son.
From that day forward, I knew my life would be dedicated to thanking them for giving me a chance in life. And not only me but Cooper as well. Shortly after, Mom and Dad were surprised when they found out they were pregnant with Palmer. They didn’t think getting pregnant was an option for them, but life has a tricky way of throwing you for a loop. From a family of four, we became a blended family of five and have been ever since.
I open up Mom’s text and read it to myself.
Mom: What’s this I hear you’re not going to be staying with us? You know the Island’s Bed and Breakfast claims to have the best continental breakfast, but nothing beats my homemade pancakes. Are you really going to give up my fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth pancakes for a free continental breakfast of dry muffins and orange juice tainted with pulp?
Smiling to myself, I shake my head at her. Want to talk about a mama bear? Peggy Chance is the definition. She clings to every facet of her children’s lives. We were her goals, her aspirations, her fulfillment. While Dad was running the store, she was taking care of the home front, keeping us in line, dishing out responsibilities, and inserting herself into our lives in every possible way.
I type back to her.
Ford: Larkin will be with me. It would be weird for her to stay at the family house.
Mom: We have plenty of room. We can stick her in your room, and you can sleep on the couch.
Ford: My assistant sleeping in my childhood bed isn’t exactly what I would call professional.
Mom: Oh stop, Larkin is practically part of the family. I bet she’d love to see where you used to hide away when you were a teenager.
Ford: I’m sure she’d love to obtain any sort of knowledge when it comes to my teenage years to tease me with, but I’d prefer if I keep things professional. Plus, we have a lot of work to do. If we stayed with you, you’d be interrupting our meetings every half hour, on the hour to make sure we’re drinking enough water to make our pee clear.
Mom: Hydration is important, especially if you want to stay young looking. Which reminds me, have you started using that eye cream I sent you? You’re 36, prime time for having to use an eye cream. I already have Palmer using hers and she’s 27. You’re behind.
Ford: Good on the eye cream, Mom. Thanks though.
Mom: Well, if you’re not going to use it, bring it with you so I can give it to Cooper. He’s starting to get some crow’s feet.
Ford: Can’t wait to tell him that.
Mom: Don’t pick on your brother. He’s sensitive.
The elevator door dings, and I glance up to the parting doors, expecting someone from marketing to drop off the mock-ups, but instead see a wisp of ice-blonde hair right before Larkin steps off and walks toward my office, a paper bag in hand.
I lean back in my chair and watch her approach me, a smirk crossing her lips.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as she sets the brown bag on my desk. “I told you to go home.”
“I couldn’t let you not eat dinner.” She pulls out two carry-out cups from Gelato Boy, our favorite ice cream place in Denver. She pushes a cup toward me, along with a spoon. “Got your favorite, Gooey Buttercake and Caramel.”
“You’re trying to make me wake up earlier than I want so I can get in some extra miles on the pavement, aren’t you?” I take the gelato and remove the lid. Creamy gelato mixed with caramel glistens up at me, making my mouth water. Didn’t realize how much I needed this until now.