She sends me off with a thermos of coffee. Dad nods, then thanks me. I hate when he does that. I don’t want him to thank me. I don’t want him to have something for which to thank me. I want my dad back. The way he was before the neurons in his brain started wreaking havoc. I didn’t know how much I liked watching him walk up the driveway with his toolbox until it became an image I’d never see again.
I finish putting the new tools in their spots, and close the toolboxes that line the bed of the truck.
“Connor, honey, hang on a second,” my mom calls, just as I’m climbing into the cab. She makes her way across the yard, to the end of the driveway where I’m parked. She wears a sweater even though it’s May. Always cold. She has a sweet smile and a caretaker’s heart.
“What’s up, Mom?” I close the door, roll down the window, and lean on the window frame.
“Are you doing okay, Connor? You didn’t say much this morning.” She lifts a hand, shielding her eyes from the bright morning sun.
“Just tired,” I tell her. I stayed up late, daring the rush of creativity to come flowing in. It never did.
“Do you want to hang on a second? I can make you a lunch. I have leftover chicken from dinner last night. It will make a good chicken salad sandwich.”
“No, thanks, Mom. I need to get to Old Lady Linton’s. You know how she is.” I give her a knowing look and she laughs, then puts a hand over her mouth because she feels bad for laughing.
“She’s lonely, that’s all.” Mom steps closer to the truck. “Something I imagine you know a little about.”
Lifting my gaze to the ceiling, I take a long, slow breath.
“Don’t get bent out of shape,” she scolds. “It was just an observation.”
I look back at her, remembering she only wants the best for me. A little of my irritation evaporates.
“You know,” she says, smacking my forearm once with her palm. “It might not hurt for you to hire a helper. I have you booked for the next two weeks already. Things are picking up. Getting a lot more business now that it’s summer.” Her lips twitch as though trying to hide a smile, but she’s terrible at it.
“What?” I ask, fiddling with the dial on the radio. It’s not on, but I want something to do with my hands.
“Oh, nothing. Just that a lot of those calls are coming from families with girls home from college. Some for the summer. Some have graduated. You never know—”
“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” I say, turning on the truck and putting it in reverse.
She takes a step back. “You’ll have to get over her sometime,” she shouts, cupping her hands around her mouth.
“I am over her,” I yell back, reversing into the street.
* * *
I drive on through town,and out on Route Four to Old Lady Linton’s.
I sip my coffee, and when I’m not sipping, I’m muttering. Mostly about what my mom said. She doesn’t know anything. It took a long time to get over Desiree, but I did it. It helped that once she left Brighton, she never came back. She called twice, each time she was drunk, crying and carrying on about how hard it was to make it in L.A. She was mistaken, thinking she was going to receive sympathy from me. The second time was eight months ago, and I asked her not to call back. She hasn’t.
I haven’t dated because I haven’t had the desire. By the time I was over Desiree, my dad was diagnosed, and I started working the longest days of my life. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for dating. Not to mention this is a smallish town, and I know nearly everyone who lives here. Mostly, anyway. The people in the summer crowd are strangers to me. Many of them are families, and many of them have college-age daughters. Those girls, paired with Brighton girls coming home from college, are the ones my mother would love to see me going on dates with, but she must think I’m still twenty-two and interested in girls like that.
Every summer they arrive, and every summer they do the same stupid shit. They walk through town, staring down at their phones, and nearly walking into traffic. Or sit in the coffee shops in their tiny shorts and talk loudly. Not that I have anything against tiny shorts. It’s the people filling the shorts that bother me. They are shallow. I don’t think they could ever experience the kind of emotion I feel when I paint. I’m twenty-six years old, and I want someone whofeels.
I’m perfectly content with where I am right now. I’d love to paint more, but other than that, I’m fine.
Happy, even.
I’m not lonely.
Not at all.
* * *
Old Lady Linton was a handful.She wanted to talk to me about Rufus. How he jumps from his cat stand and hides behind her chair. Of course I needed to see it firsthand, but she couldn’t catch Rufus, so I had to do it for her. Reaching down, I run a fingertip over the new scratch on the back of my hand.Damn cat.
I couldn’t finish the second job I went to, not without a visit to the hardware store. Before that, I need lunch. I need a Cuban, and I need it from Mary. She’s been at the diner for as long as I can remember, and she’s my mom’s best friend.
