“You better not be getting grease inside the house again,” my mother spits, completely ignoring his question.
“Sorry, Dad. That was just me.”
“I thought I heard your voice. It’s good to see you, Kaden. Everything’s well?”
“Yeah. Everything’s good. Were you just in the shed?”
“I was. I’m still working on the Jag.”
Restoring classic cars is one of my dad’s few passions, and something I loved watching him do as a kid. It’s a skill we both share—bringing things back to life or building them from scratch. Right now, he’s working on his 1986 Jaguar XJSC, which he bought at an auction and for which my mother later gave him hell for, claiming he was wasting money on ‘useless junk.’
These days, he spends more time in the shed than he does inside the house. He built it as a workshop for his and his friends’ cars, but I suspect it served more as an escape from my mother whenever he couldn’t bear being around her.
“When do we get to take it out for a spin?” I ask.
He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m just waiting on a few more parts. Hopefully, it’ll be finished and out on the road before my birthday next month.”
“Well, I call shotgun!”
He lets out another low cackle and shoves the dirty rag into the pocket of his greasy jeans. He makes no move to join us on the couch—probably to avoid another tantrum from my mother if he gets grease or oil on the furniture.
“What brings you here today?”
“Thought I’d spend the afternoon catching up with you and Ma, seeing it’s been a while since I last visited.”
“That’s nice. Why don’t you stay for dinner? I can run to the supermarket, grab some burgers and beers, and whip out the old barbie.”
“Do you even remember how to use that old thing, seeing you hardly lift a finger around here?” my mother says with a sneer.
“That sounds good,” I reply, deliberately ignoring my mother’s jab. “Though, I might pass off on the beers if that’s okay?”
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot about your sobriety. I’m proud of you, by the way.”
“Thanks. I’m going over two months now.”
“Good for you, mate! I’m really happy for you,” he says, pride shining in his voice. The wide smile spreading across his cheeks tells me he genuinely means it.
“I honestly thought you would’ve caved by now,” my mother says.
“Fuck’s sake, Susan. Do you ever just think before you speak?” my dad snaps.
“You know I’m not wired that way.”
“Yeah, I’m also starting to think you’re a few wires short.”
“You mother—”
I quickly shoot up on my feet. “Okay, that’s enough you two. Mum, just turn around and watch your stupid TV show. Dad, I think I’ll go with you. Just in case you need some extra help carrying everything.”
“Thanks, son. You’re a good kid.”
And before my mother can utter another snarky word, my dad and I rush out the door as if our lives depend on it.
If I’m going to survive a barbecue with my parents tonight, I’ll need to grab some Advil first. Because whenever you’re seated across from Susan Grant, a pounding headache is practically guaranteed before the night is over.
Chapter 16
Kaden
