I’m the idiot who said I wasn’t the keeping kind, and now I’m the one acting like I’ve been benched for a playoff game.
I tighten a bolt too hard just to feel something other than the tug in my ribs.
About ten minutes later, footsteps crunch on the gravel that leads from the office out to the garage. They’re sharp, quick, irritated.
Honey.
My daughter walks in like she’s coming to arrest someone. Typical hot rod t-shirt, jeans, black Chuck Taylors, hair pulled back, and eyes sharp as glass. She inherited the worst parts of me and made them look good.
“Pops,” she says flatly, crossing her arms. “You’re in a mood.”
I grumble without looking up. “You always start conversations like that or just the ones where you want something?”
“I don’t want anything,” she states. “Except for you to stop growling at everyone like a wounded bear.”
“I’m not growling.”
“You’re absolutely growling.”
She’s not wrong.
She walks further in, inspecting the place like she’s looking for contraband. “You snapped at Boots yesterday.”
“He shorted the wiring again. Nearly fried his damn eyebrows off.”
“You yelled at Tom earlier?”
“He rearranged my tools.”
“And Country Boy?”
“He deserved it.”
She arches a brow. “Did he?”
“No,” I admit.
She blows out a breath, pacing once before stabbing a finger toward me. “You’re impossible.”
“Runs in the family,” I shoot back.
“You’re being a brat.”
I finally set the wrench down and glare. “I’m your father.”
“And I’m thirty-two,” she fires back. “Adult children get to call out their dad’s when they’re being brats. It’s one of the perks. I mean if you prefer I’ll just tell you that you’re being an asshole and frankly go get laid or get your ass beat, I don’t care which but I’m sick of this man period you’re on.”
I groan and rub my forehead, feeling every bit of exhaustion that two weeks has layered onto me. Honey watches me with that perceptive stare she’s had since she was ten—back when her mama was sick and I was trying to pretend everything was fine for her sake.
She knows when I’m lying better than anyone.
She walks over slowly, planting herself right in front of the bike lift, blocking my view.
“Alright,” she studies me. “Who is she?”
I freeze.
“I—what? Who?”
