PETE HELPED HIS father stock the shelves with a shipment of paint. His father had been busy with customers when Pete arrived earlier in the day, so Pete had gone to work on a boat repair at the marina. He’d needed the time to calm down anyway, as he was still upset over Jenna keeping their relationship from her mother—even after he’d confided in her about his father. And the fact that she hadn’t told him she’d done it made it even worse. He knew she had her reasons, and by the time he returned to his father’s store a few hours after lunch, he was pretty much over it, but he worried about her. Whatever she wasn’t sharing with him about her mother was obviously eating away at her, and he could only hope she’d grow to trust him enough to open up. He sent her a text before heading into the hardware store. He knew she didn’t carry her cell phone, but she’d promised to check her messages when she was back at the cottage.
Hey, babe. Sorry I was upset. Do whatever you feel is right. I’m not going anywhere. Miss you.
He noticed that his father was moving slower than normal, an indication that he’d had very little sleep last night. That was okay. Pete hadn’t had a lot either, and he was thankful his father hadn’t called in the middle of the night. He treasured the night he’d had with Jenna. His mind drifted to making love to Jenna in her cottage, and his body went hot. He struggled to push the lustful thoughts away, scrubbing his face, focusing on Joey as she sniffed around the store, and finally turned his attention back to his father.
“Pop, can we sit down for a minute?”
His father looked at him out of the corner of his eyes while he lifted a can of paint to the shelf. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Yeah? So do I. It’ll only take a minute.” He knew this wasn’t going to be easy, and he hated how his stomach clenched tight at the prospect of bringing up his father’s drinking, but he had to try.
“I’ve got three more boxes in the back to unload.” His father wouldn’t meet his gaze. He rubbed his hands on his faded jeans and pulled at his leather belt. It was the same belt he’d worn for as long as Pete could remember. His father was a creature of habit—and Pete hoped his drinking was a habit he could break.
“Luckily you’ve got enough paint on the shelves for the next hour. Come on, Pop. Five minutes.” Pete arched a brow and set a hand on his father’s shoulder. He felt his father exhale. A reluctant acceptance of the inevitable.
“Fine. Five minutes,” he grumbled under his breath as he ran his eyes over Pete’s face. “You look different.”
“Yeah, so do you.”
His dad laughed. “Nothing different in this old man, but you? You’ve got a spark in your eyes.”
He was surprised to hear that when he felt like his body was on fire and every nerve was strung tight.
“Sky called me last night,” his father said.
Pete drew his brows together. “Yeah? What did she want?” They’d never discussed the fact that Pete protected Sky from his father’s drinking, and Pete wondered if his father had figured it out. He’d have to be blind not to notice how many times Pete had swept Sky away to his house under the pretense of wanting to spend more time with her rather than have her spend the night at his father’s house.
“She said she’s thinking of coming for a visit.” His father rubbed his chin.
“It’d be nice to see her,” Pete said to assuage his father, and made a mental note to call Sky again. He thought he’d taken care of this little visit.
“Well, looks like we may have company.” His father’s eyes drifted to the photograph of Pete’s mother beneath the counter, pushing Pete’s mind back to the reason he’d come.
He’d thought about how to bring up his father’s drinking a million times throughout the morning and finally decided the best tactic was indirect.
“Pop, I met someone.”
Neil smiled and lifted his hands in the air. “Finally. I was getting worried about you.”
Pete shook his head, agitation dulling his father’s jest. “I go out with women all the time.” I just don’t see them more than a few times. “I didn’t just meet her, but we just started dating. You know her. Jenna Ward.”
“Oh.” His father raised his brows. “Jenna Ward. I always liked Jenna. What took you so long?”
“My life isn’t exactly conducive to long-term relationships.” He held his father’s gaze and saw discomfort skate across his face as he shifted his eyes away. “Pop, we need to talk about this. I really like her, and I can’t keep coming over at all hours of the night to take care of you.”
“I don’t need you to come over.” His father waved a dismissive hand and stepped away.
“Pop.” He followed Neil back to the paint aisle and watched as his father began stocking the shelves again. Pete put his hand on his father’s arm, stopping it in midair. “Pop, this isn’t going to go away by ignoring it.”
His father pulled his arm from his grasp and set his eyes on the paint can, his jaw set firm. Pete knew he was raging his own silent battle, and he felt guilt grip him again. When Neil raised his eyes, they were narrow, determined.
“I love you, Pete, but why can’t you do as your brothers and sister do and go live your life and let me live mine?”
“Let you…Pop, really? Is that how you see this? As me messing with your life? You know why they let you live your life? Because it’s easier, and because you call me, Pop, not them. Me.” Anger brewed in Pete’s gut. “The last thing any of them need is to have their lives messed up by this nightmare.”
His father fisted his hands, and his cheeks reddened. Those were the only visible indications that he’d heard Pete’s words. With a deep exhalation, he calmly went back to shelving the paint.
“You’ve always been afraid to commit to a woman, Pete. It sounds like I’m a good excuse for you not to.”
Pete ground his teeth together to keep from yelling. “You know what, Pop? I’m not afraid to commit to Jenna. I already have, but I can’t live a normal life when I have to come drag your drunken butt into bed every night. Mom’s gone, Pop. She’s not coming back, and this double life you’re living? She’d be ashamed of it.” They were the last words he’d expected—or wanted—to say, even if he meant every word.
The color drained from Neil’s face. He set a hand on a shelf, as if Pete’s words hit with the impact of a bullet and he needed the shelf to remain erect.
Pete grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
His father shook his head, and when he looked up, his eyes had turned to liquid steel, but his tone was calm and even. “Son, I think you’d better leave.”