IT’S NOT REAL

MEETING MOM

ALREADY FALLING

CRAP WITH A CAPITAL C

MUST BE THE VODKA

END THE CHARADE

HANDLING MY BUSINESS

EPILOGUE

Other Books by J. Sterling

About the Author

ULTIMATUM

JOSEPH

“I’m tired of the cold,” my mother said as she looked out my office window on the thirty-second floor.

Without even glancing up from my desk, I knew she was staring at the snow-covered park across the street. New York had been ravaged by storms lately. A cold front unlike any other in past years blanketed our city with thick white snow. It was beautiful to look at, but it sucked to live in.

My mom sounded almost bored, as if the city disinterested her somehow. To be fair, she probably was. I’d heard this particular sentiment many times over the years from her, but for some reason, it felt a little different today.

“You always say that.” I finally looked up and waited for her to face me and make her point. I knew that she had one. I could sense it coming. My mother didn’t make unnecessary statements.

She turned, as if on cue, her weathered blue eyes meeting mine, even with the Botox. “I do, don’t I?” Her lips curled up into a small smile and her face wrinkled with it.

“It’s almost winter, Mom. We’re always tired of the cold. And then we’re tired of the heat in the summer. We’re New Yorkers; we’re not supposed to be happy.”

My mother laughed as she nodded in agreement. “Fair point.”

I waved my hand toward one of the couches in my massive corner office. “Sit down. Tell me what’s really going on.”

“Am I that obvious?” she asked before following my direction without arguing and taking a seat, her legs crossing at the ankles.

I stayed in the chair behind my desk and closed my laptop, so I could see her fully, giving her my devoted attention.

Ever since my father had been killed on 9/11, it’d been me and my mom against the world. Losing him had been awful and ugly, and we were painfully reminded of it each year on its anniversary. Thankfully, it didn’t hurt quite as bad as it once had, but the memory still seared like a red-hot poker at times. I couldn’t watch any documentaries on what had happened that day without breaking down into hysterics. And TV shows or movies where buildings fell to the ground caused me to have mini panic attacks, where I fought to catch my breath.

It’s not pretty, and it would be embarrassing if I gave a fuck. Which I don’t.

That day had been mass chaos and panic, and if you hadn’t been in the actual city, you had no idea what it’d felt like to be here. Pictures and television screens were one thing, but nothing compared to seeing it with your own two eyes, being worried with your own heart, and smelling the air that I could never accurately describe.