When Girlfriends Chase Dreams Read Free Page A

these four walls a very comfortable and inviting three-bed and two-bath residence, right here at 1247 Parker Lane. In a very quiet Madison Park neighborhood, surrounded by beautiful parks, which are ideal for those routine walks with our Jack Russell Terrier mix, Schnickerdoodle.
    “I’m home!” I call out. I flip on the living room lights. “Anyone home?”
    Conner’s truck is in the drive, so either he’s hidden away in another part of the house or he’s out with one of his buddies—most likely his best friend, Chad Harris. They’re probably getting themselves into some sort of trouble—driving recklessly in a vacant, snow-covered parking lot with Chad’s souped-up truck, or bowling and beering their minds away, or watching some testosterone-amped film.
    “Conner?” I call out. Or maybe he’s out walk— He’s not walking the dog; Schnickerdoodle comes racing from one of the back bedrooms and immediately starts to jump up and down at my feet. I greet him and give him a good rubbing behind the ears. “Where’s Daddy? Huh? Where’s Daddy?”
    “Daddy’s here!” Conner’s leaning against the wall at the end of the hall, grinning and still wearing his pajamas.
    We kiss hello and I can’t help but tease him about his choice of clothing.
    “I’ve been making major progress,” he asserts himself. “Come on.” He takes my hand and leads me into one of the spare bedrooms that we use as an office; although, as of late it’s been Wedding Central, with yards upon yards of burlap and tulle wadded up in one corner and covering my sewing table. I’m working on some fabulous drapes for the wedding décor. It’s going to look amazing!
    “Now it’s just the beginning,” Conner says. He takes a seat in the plush swivel chair and fiddles with the computer’s mouse. “It’s still a work-in-progress, but I think it’s really coming along.” He turns to me and points at the screen, which is vibrantly colored with the familiar squared sequences of cartoon events.
    “Nice,” I compliment.
    When Conner’s not busily working in front of the screen where he works as an accountant downtown, he’s having fun making his own comic strips. It’s his artistic release; and since before we met, he’s either been sketching cartoon characters or creating impressive storyboards on-screen.
    He’s really quite good, and I’m not just saying that because he’s my boy—I mean, fiancé. Gosh, that’s still so hard to believe even after all these months of being engaged! Conner could probably take his skills to a local newspaper—get a regular daily feature or something—and see where it could go from there. But anytime I mention it, Conner casually shrugs and says, “Nah.”
    If he didn’t love his job crunching numbers so much (and if cartooning were a guarantee of a nice pay), I would think he’d try to turn his hobby into a career. He insists, however, that keeping it at hobby level is a big part of its appeal. It’s a fun form of artistic expression and something to do when he chooses, never because of a deadline.
    “It still needs a lot of work,” he says. “I’m not sure about the way I’ve made the frogs look. Almost too cartoony, you know?”
    I nod sincerely, not really understanding how a comic can look “too cartoony,” but knowing that he won’t stop the strip until it’s done to his satisfaction. I also know it’ll look awesome no matter what he decides.
    One time, a few years ago, he was so hung up on how his femme fatale spoke—saying her dialect was too garbled for someone who was so one-track-minded and almost simplistic. He’d toyed around with her lingo from bubble to bubble in that particular story for months. Even though the strip wasn’t longer than four pages or so, it consumed more of his time than some of his much lengthier stories. So long as he enjoys the cartooning and has fun, I say he should go for it. And, of course, so long as he manages to set aside some time to lend