He chuckles and pats my back like we’re having a good laugh at my expense together. And honestly, if Dryden had been the one to say that, Iwouldhave laughed. But my father doesn’t say things like that in good-natured joking; he says it because he actually believes it. I’m so incredibly tired of being on the receiving end of the barbs, my armor long eroded from years of taking shots. In front of a room full of his colleagues and friends, no less, because my father talks at a volume that ensures he will always be the center of attention. Despite myself, my face burns.
“Actually, Mother, I’m seeing someone. Smith is safe from me.”
She gasps. “Oliver James, how dare you. When were you planning on telling us?”
Next year. Ten years from now. Never. Clearing my throat,I glance longingly toward the door. I want to go to my hotel room and text Nils. I want to be lying in bed, watching videos of how to properly apply caulk. Actually, what I really want is to not stay at the hotel at all. I want to drive back to Siren’s Point tonight, take a deep breath of salty ocean air, and then crawl into bed with Nils for a deep breath of man.
Before I can reply, she adds, “Tell us about him. You should have brought him along! Shame on you.”
She squeezes my arm to let me know we’re meant to be kidding around. Luckily, her version of jokes is a degree less poisonous than my father’s.
“Uhm, he was busy. His name is Nils Lee. We actually work together on theDrifter.”
“A fisherman?” Father clarifies, voice disdainful as though one of the two people standing in front of him isn’t also a fisherman.
“Yes,” I agree firmly, hackles already rising. There’s something particularly distasteful about hearing him put down other people. I may be weak and spineless and allow the abuse when he does it with me, but I won’t stand for it with Nils.
“Well, I’m sure you have a lot in common,” Mother says. “I hope he’s supportive of your dreams to be a chef.”
“He would be, if that was still something I was going to pursue,” I reply, fingers worrying at a loose thread in the cuff of my shirt.
The conversation after that devolves into the usual spiral of guilt-tripping as they remind me I’m wasting my life, ruining any chances of a career, and mostly just making heaps of mistakes.Before I can finally escape to my hotel, Father reminds me to forward any bills his way if I’m “unable to handle things at home myself and need to hire someone.” I pass Smith on my way out the door, ignoring thehello, who are you?look he sends in my direction and slipping out into the night.
Exhausted, I bring the evening full circle by sitting in my car in silence for a few moments. When I think to check my phone, there’s a text from Nils waiting. I smile down at the chicken photograph, throat a little tight. I always walk away from my parents feeling like a punching bag and a little ashamed that I’m not tough enough to take it. The reminders always do the job they intended, recharging the voice in my head that feeds my low self-esteem and reminds me of all the ways I’m a failure as a son and a person. They would have been so much happier with a Smith as a son instead of an Oliver.
Going back to the hotel is the last thing I want to do, but I’m in such a rotten mood it’s better than driving home to Siren’s Point. Waking Nils up in the middle of the night just to be a grump seems unnecessary. Besides, I haven’t really been in a bad mood around him yet, and I don’t know that we’re far enough along in our relationship for me to do so. I’m well aware of how unattractive it is for a grown man to still have daddy issues. Responding to the chicken photograph with a heart emoji, I drop my phone into the cupholder and leave the parking lot.
I sleep like crap at the hotel and wake up with a headache. I didn’t drink any alcohol at the party, but neither did I drink enough water. After a shower, which unfortunately does little in the way of helping me feel better, I get dressed in the plain boxerbriefs I brought and scowl. I feel like only half of me is here right now, and the better part is back in Siren’s Point, waking up in Nils’ bed, satin slip smooth on my skin. I can close my eyes and picture it—feel it, almost—the warmth of Nils’ back against mine, the slow pattern of his breathing, and the dip of the mattress when he rolls over to wrap an arm around me.
But when I open my eyes, it’s not that Oliver I see in the mirror but the other one. The one whose hair is a little too long, underwear too boring, and eyes too dull. Swiping the fog from the mirror, I blow out a breath and get ready. The sooner I leave, the sooner I can get home. Hopefully, the bad mood will stay right here where it belongs, in my parents’ town and not mine.
Singing “Business” by Eminem under my breath in an effort to pump myself up, I toss my bag in the trunk of my car after checking out. Texting Nils that I’m on the way back, I finally point the vehicle in that direction. Fifteen minutes later, a text message from my mother comes through, asking me to join them for breakfast. I ignore it. I’m driving, I reason, and texting while driving is dangerous. Because of this, I also ignore the three other texts she sends, as well as the one from my father. I’ll meet them for breakfast next year. One annual visit is all my psyche can handle.
Still feeling out of sorts, I opt for the scenic route instead of the straight shot. I really don’t want to be cranky when I get back to Nils’ house. I just want to be myself. Rolling down the windows, I take my foot off the gas and let the car coast down to a slower speed. The road winds lazily through the trees, frost clinging to the grass where the sun hasn’t reached yet. Adeer watches me pass from the side of the road before leaping gracefully off into the trees. Checking that nobody is behind me, I slow my speed further. Deer are a big road hazard around here, and I really, really don’t want to start the day with an accident. I also don’t want to kill any animals.
Rounding a bend, my phone buzzes in the cupholder. I glance down at it right when the vehicle lurches and a gunshot cracks through the air. Flinching, I overcompensate and wrench the wheel. Slamming on the brake, the car skids in the loose gravel on the side of the road before coming to a full stop.
“Crap,” I mutter, unwrapping my fingers from the wheel and putting the vehicle in park. Almost immediately, adrenaline floods my system. Heart pounding and stomach fluttering, I look around. Is someone hunting in the woods? Did someone shoot that poor deer?
Hands shaking, I turn off the ignition and open my door. I need a minute to stretch my legs and calm down. My pulse is hammering far too quickly to get back on the road right now. Humming, I straighten my arms down by my sides and shake them out. It’s not until I check and make sure that my car is far enough off the shoulder to not get hit if someone drives by that I see the flat tire.
Immediately, I feel like a fool. Nobody was shooting at me or the deer at all; it was the sound of the tire blowing.Always the dramatics, my father’s voice whispers in my ear as I crouch down and inspect it. The rim is sitting on the ground, tire shredded like it exploded. Which, given how loud it was, feels like a possibility. Straightening, I stare down at the wheel in dismay.I don’t have a spare.
“You are so useless,” I mutter to myself, wrenching open the driver’s door and popping the trunk. I’m almost certain I don’t have a spare back there, but I’m also certain that I’m an idiot, so I’m going to check anyway.
Sure enough, the spare tire compartment is empty. Slamming the trunk, I tip my head back and drum my fingers on the cool metal. I’m frustrated and annoyed and, oddly, feeling like I might cry. It’s just a flat tire. Not a big deal, really, especially since it’s during the day and not as though I’m having to handle this late at night.
“It’s not a big deal,” I repeat to myself, once more approaching the driver’s door, this time to grab my phone. I’m going to have to call a tow because, as usual, I’m unable to properly handle anything by myself.
Wayne Cabot tells me he’ll be up my way within the hour, hopefully, but to get comfy. There’s an accident on the north side of town, and he’s got to deal with that first. Glumly, I thank him and pace up and down the shoulder of the road a few times, still trying to lower my pulse. After a few laps, not feeling any calmer, I lower myself down to the gravel and sit with my back to the vehicle. It’s a beautiful morning. The kind of morning I’d usually enjoy with a mug of coffee in my hand and, more recently, standing on Nils’ porch, breath fogging in front of me as I appreciate the view and the peaceful, crisp winter air. Usually, I’d admire the way the frost is clinging to the trees, sparkling in the early morning sun, how everything in winter always seems so fresh and sleepy.
Not this morning. This morning, I stare sightlessly into the trees, elbows resting on my raised knees, fingers tapping on the side of my phone. I’m so spaced out I don’t even notice a car pull to a stop behind mine, rocks crunching under tires, until a door slams and I startle. Craning my neck, I watch as Dryden Roy’s tall form comes around the back of my SUV, only a sliver of his Porsche visible, parked behind my vehicle.
“Accident?” he asks, kicking a toe against the rim of the flat tire and glancing around. I shake my head.
“No, just blew it on the curve. What are you doing out here?” He lives back in the woods, pretty far outside of town, but in the opposite direction. He’s also not dressed for hiking, in a pair of dark jeans that look designer and a cable-knit sweater that definitely is.
“Driving,” he replies, pulling off his sunglasses—also designer, I’m pretty sure—and hooking them in the neck of his sweater. His eyes narrow on me. “Is there a reason you’re sitting on the ground?”
