“Do you need some help?” I nod to a small box that has a few of his things in it. A watch, an old photo of his wife, and a couple records.
She picks up the box and clutches it to her stomach. “No, I got it.” She turns back to study the humble living quarters of the man who loved her but didn’t have the balls to get his shit together and missed out on half her life. “Actually . . . I don’t know what to do with his boat. Could you help me sell it?”
Sell his boat? This thing meant more to him than anything, which might be the reason Becky looks like it’ll bite. The resentment makes sense, but damn, it’s fucking sad. “Sure.”
“Oh, and his ashes. He didn’t have a will, but I think he’d want to be spread out over his favorite fishing spot? I don’t know where that is, and I have to get back to my family in Denver.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
She smiles sadly. “Thank you.”
“Please, let me take that.” I scoop the box from her arms.
“You don’t have—”
“I know, but your dad would’ve given me shit for not being a gentleman to his little girl.”
She frowns, and ducks back inside to grab a few more things. His Padres hat, his antique copper maritime telescope, and his tackle box that’s faded and covered in close to fifty years of dirt, grime, and fish blood.
When she’s finally ready to go, the box is almost overflowing with things. Staring at it, all I can think is that life is too short to live with these kinds of regrets.
She hands me Jenkins’s fishing pole. “Here, I was going to give this to my son, but I can’t fly with it. I think you should have it.”
“No, I can’t take that.” I grab the pole and take in the torn grip and rusted reel. “It was his favorite. Your son should have it.”
“It’s too much trouble.”
“I’ll send it to you. Really, it’s no big deal. Jenkins would haunt me forever if he knew I was using his lucky pole.”
She smiles, but it’s shaky. “Thank you.”
About an hour later I’m loading the back of a rental car with two small boxes of Jenkins’s stuff. That’s it. All he’ll have to be passed along to those who never got the chance to know what kind of man he was. Two boxes. And as much as the items they contain will shed light on the subtle things about Jenkins, they’ll never tell stories of his love for his wife, his love of country, and the demons that held him back from being the kind of father and grandfather I know he could’ve been.
Just like the children of the men I buried.
Watching their wives at the graveside, clutching a folded flag to their chest as their sons and daughters clung to them. So young, and they’ll never know the kind of men their fathers were. That they sacrificed their lives for someone so undeserving, someone who is right on track to make the same mistakes Jenkins did.
I’ve pushed away my family.
Alienated myself from the world.
I hole up in my boat just like Jenks did.
At this rate I’ll die alone like he did too.
The sound of Becky’s car door pulls me from my thoughts.
She hands me a business card with her name on it. “I’ll call the morgue and have them contact you when his ashes are ready.” Her eyes give away a hint of sadness, the truth that she’s struggling more with her father’s death than she’s letting on. “If you could text me your number.”
“Sure.” I pull out my phone and hit the text icon when I notice I have a new text from Celia.
I’m all packed up and missing you.
My pulse quickens and I quickly fire off a text to Becky.
Her phone pings. “Thanks.”
I nod and step back. “I’ll let you know what the ship brokers say about selling his boat.”
“I appreciate that.”
After a few silent seconds she nods and gets in her car and I turn to my truck.
Life can change so quickly and in such abrupt ways that we never get a chance to see it until it’s over.
I’ve let one too many suns set on my feelings for Celia without telling her what she means to me, how she calms the war in my soul and silences the screams.
I can tell she’s hesitant to rush into something.
But I live with enough regret as it is.
Last thing I want is to regret never trying.
SAWYER
It’s been almost an hour since I sent Aden the text about missing him and because he hasn’t texted back I’m second-guessing the logic behind sending such an honest message. I should’ve thrown some kind of sexual joke in there to lighten the seriousness, maybe? My worst fear is that he’s staring at his phone wondering how to respond appropriately.
This whole thing between us went from casual to something so much more really quickly. Too quickly.
Statistics have proven that the best relationships develop out of great friendships. That patience in getting to know one another is more lasting. Does that mean this urgency and intensity I’m feeling is nothing more than misplaced lust?
Mark and I were friends first. We took things slow. And I never felt even a fraction of what I feel when I’m with Aden, hell, I don’t even have to be around him to feel the pull toward him.
What does it all mean?
I dial my sister’s phone number for what seems like the hundredth time today and after two rings it goes to voicemail.
“. . . volcano diving in Hawaii and it’s too hot for—”
I hit END and dial my mom’s cell.
“Hey, Sawyer.” She sounds tired.
“Mom, I’ve been trying Cece’s cell all day but it goes straight to voicemail.”
My mom sighs.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. We had a doctor’s appointment.” There’s the sound of a door shutting in the background and I imagine my mom tucking away somewhere so she won’t be overheard. “It’s her vision. The tumor is growing rapidly; she’s only able to see shadows.”
I swallow hard and fight the urge to cry; after all, this isn’t something I didn’t know on some level was coming, but to think she can no longer see makes everything so . . . real.
“What . . .” I clear my throat. “What does that mean?”
“It means that the pressure on her brain stem is increasing. They can’t tell us how long she has because there’s no telling what the pressure could affect.”
“Is she in pain?”
“No, honey, she’s lost a little of her spunk, but that’s about it.” She sniffs followed by the sound of something rubbing against the phone, as if she’s dabbing a tissue on her cheeks. “When will you be home?”
“The movers come day after tomorrow, first thing. My flight leaves at seven o’clock in the morning.” Everything behind my ribs hurts.
“Okay, that’ll be good.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Sure. Hang on.” There’s more shuffling in the background and the opening and closing of doors. “Cece, honey, Sawyer’s on the phone.”
More muffled sounds like sheets rustling. “Mom, could you grab me a glass of water? Hello?”
“Hey, Cece.”
“Finally a little privacy. Mom’s been hovering.”
I chuckle at the irritation in her voice. “Mom told me about your vision.”
“It’s not that bad. I can still watch TV. How about you? Have you ruined my reputation over there yet?”