“This hobo bath you’re giving yourself is impressive. Where are you off to?”
I slip my clean T-shirt over my head, appreciating that it smells like fresh laundry. I pull on a baseball hat and adjust it on my head. “Going to help Mr. Buster. It’s mid-October, you know what that means.”
“Still volunteering?”
“Yeah.” I let out a long breath and take a quick gulp of the Mountain Dew Tucker brought me earlier. It’s a little hot and a little flat, but I still guzzle it down. “It’s hard to say no to Barney Buster. He corners you and twitches his eye at you until you agree to help him out.” As much as I’m happy for my friends finding their women, I miss their availability. We used to shoot the shit about everything because we were always together. Now? Not so much. Wouldn’t say anything to them, but I miss my friends, despite having to put up with their shit each day at work. I cap my drink and look Racer in the eye. “Plus, it keeps me busy. Now that you and Tucker are living in relationship bliss, I’ve tried to occupy my freed-up time with little projects and hobbies.”
“Hobbies?” Racer pushes off my truck and raises an eyebrow at me. “Did you start up a knitting club with your geriatric neighbors?”
“No,” I scoff. He doesn’t need to know about the night I spent at Mrs. Wickham’s house with her “cronies” teaching me how to knit. That little factoid will be buried with me . . . along with my attempt at knitting myself a sock.
“Why do I feel like you’re lying?” he presses with a giant grin on his face.
“Because you would want nothing more than for me to be a knitting old fart who stays home on Friday nights, bitching about the street youth.”
“Pretty much.” He laughs.
It’s sad that I feel two knitting needles away from becoming that man.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint, but I haven’t taken up knitting.” Eh, not lately. “I need to get out of here or else I’m going to be late. Say hi to Georgie for me. See you tomorrow, man.”
I hop in my truck, start her up, and pull out of the housing development we’ve been working at. It’s our first project as JMW Builders and even though it’s stressful, I couldn’t be prouder of our work. Starting the business a few months ago was a risk, but with the financial backing of the biggest lumber and concrete yard owners in the area, it has been a huge blessing. Materials are cheap, our reputation for hard work helps us win contracts, and our attention to detail is starting to give us a great name. Tucker, Racer, and I always daydreamed of being our own bosses but it always felt like a pipe dream, and yet, it’s so fucking real.
I’m not too far from my destination, so I don’t bother turning up the radio or trying to find a song to listen to; it’s probably because I need time to think. It’s been a week since Amelia moved in next door and besides some awkward waves and helping her unload her car, we haven’t interacted much.
And I know I told her I would leave her alone, but it’s almost impossible not to yearn to be near her when I know she’s only twenty feet away in another house. It’s actually torture, knowing the girl who still owns my heart is so close, and yet miles upon miles away from me.
I want to give her space, especially since she’s in a relationship with another man, but I also want to at least talk to her, clear the air. I don’t want her to hate me, and I want her to know my decision to break us up was selfless.
But would she believe me at this point?
Would she forgive me?
I rub my temple while I wait at a stoplight, trying to ward off a threatening headache. A buzzing in my pocket pulls me from my thoughts.
My phone.
Still waiting to drive, I look at the caller ID right before I answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Sweetheart.” She coughs into the phone a few times. “How are you?”
“Good.” Thankfully my phone is attached through the Bluetooth in my truck so I can drive and talk without getting a ticket. New York State police officers are ruthless, but that’s a good thing. “Headed to help Mr. Buster.”
“He’s still alive?” she asks, sounding tired.
“Yes. He’s only in his fifties. He’s not that old.”
“Maybe it’s because he’s bald him seems older.” I fail to mention that he looks younger than my mom because that would only hurt her feelings, especially since she still tries to dress like today’s teenagers.
“Might be.” I make a right turn and don’t beat around the bush. “What’s going on, Mom?”
“It’s October seventeenth.” Then it’s no longer fatigue I hear in her voice but sadness.
October seventeenth, the day Runt’s adoption went through. The date didn’t even cross my mind, which is weird because I’ve never forgotten it before. I blame the blast from the past who’s now living next to me.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I forgot. How are you doing?” She calls, I comfort, it’s how it’s always been, and I don’t ever see it changing.
“Okay.” She sniffs into the phone. “It’s always a struggle to think about the boys I gave away.” I can’t even imagine the inner turmoil that must be rocketing through her. Giving a baby up for adoption is one of the most selfless acts a human can perform. “And every year, I tell myself it was for the best. I wasn’t able to give him kisses every night, but I was able to give him the gift of a better life.”
And it’s the same sentence she says to me every October seventeenth and every June twelfth, the days my brothers were officially given to another family. It’s the same few words that hold such precious meaning to show how selfless she was. But they are also the same words that slay me every single time . . . right to my fucking core.
She gave them the gift of a better life.
But what about me? What did she give me?
I swallow hard, trying not to go down the dark path I seem to take twice a year when my mom calls to talk about the opportunity she gave my brothers.
I clear my throat, the lump in it feeling like the size of an apple. “Yeah, they’re doing well.”
“They are.” She coughs some more, causing my back to tense. Fucking cigarettes. She always promises to quit, but never does, probably never will. “Runt started his freshman year at Princeton. Gah, Princeton, can you believe it?”
“Yeah, Runt’s a smart kid, at least from what his adoptive parents have said.” I only know about my brothers through pictures and emails. I had one in-person visit with Tyke when he was in middle school and I was in high school. I stayed with him and his family for a week. Worst fucking week of my entire life.
Fuck . . . don’t think about it.
My hands tighten on my steering wheel as I turn down the road leading to my destination.
“And last I heard Tyke was doing very well.” Tyke is always doing well.