Page 23 of Stud

Not much had changed, but it all felt smaller, the ceiling lower. Her tiny frame barely met my shoulders.

Etta James crooned from the CD player I’d bought her. She reached into the sink, suds swishing as she washed the dishes. “What’s the latest from the hussy?”

Nana never minced words. She’d also never liked Tessa. “The usual.”

Her rough scrubbing nearly sent the water sloshing on the floor. “Don’t pull that tight-lipped nonsense with me, Owen Phillips. You may be all mum with your friends, but I’ve seen what happens when your frustration festers.”

That she had. When she’d first taken us in, I didn’t talk much. I thought I was fine. I said I was fine. But I’d felt numb. Nana had us doing chores, hours of homework, and she’d get to flicking our ears if we cussed. I’d tell myself I just missed the lax rules of our commune. It wasn’t until she’d sat me down and stared at me in silence for hours that I opened my mouth.

What came out surprised the heck out of me: anger. Outrage. Frustration I’d never voiced about my mother’s selfishness, all spewed in a choking rant…and Nana listened. She didn’t defend her daughter. Didn’t talk me down or wind me up.

She just listened.

When I’d had snot dripping down my face, my chest sore from heaving, she’d said, “It doesn’t matter who your mother is. Your father could be James Dean for all I care. What matters is the boy you are. The man you become. Be good to your family, your brother. Treat women right. No one is responsible for your behavior and personality but you.”

Simple words from a simple woman. I’d still spend time playing make-believe in my head, imagining myself a wrangler, Fred Astaire, a soccer star. Roles and stories that weren’t mine. Trying to figure out how to be a good man, someone who wouldn’t abandon his kids one day. I’d also worked hard to rid myself of my Southern twang and the memories that came with it. But Nana told me what I’d needed to hear at the time. A reminder now she’d always listened to me without judgment.

I still hadn’t told her how off the rails Tessa had gone. The details would worry her and ratchet up her already-hateful feelings toward my ex. But I’d been slipping lately, getting down about the state of things. Maybe it was time to unload. “Things are rough with Tessa.”

“Because of the assets? Selling the house?”

“Yes and no. Every time we have an offer, she refuses it. Claims it’s too low, that she has no intention of giving it away. We have a few things that need appraising, too. She goes through the same routine each time. At this rate, we’ll be divorced in three years.”

“That woman doesn’t need the money, so why drag things out?”

She passed me a wet plate to dry. More like rammed it into my hand. I eased it from her grip. “Because she’s angry. Wants me to spend all my cash on lawyers.”

“That little—”

“Yeah, I know.” I cut her off, needing to say the rest. Get it out and off my chest. The way Tessa had dragged things out the past eight months, I’d heeded the judge’s warning and hadn’t discussed the proceedings. When my lawyer suggested I not date until it was all tied up, I’d listened, too. I hadn’t been ready for a while, as it stood. Until Ainsley, even though her mixed signals were sending me for a loop.

It was time I regained some control.

Etta James’s raspy voice vibrated through the room, the swish of the dishwater comforting. I flipped around and parked my ass against the counter. “Tessa’s claiming I cheated on her. Telling everyone we know.” Nana froze, and I hunched forward, the words tasting as bitter as they sounded. “She’s a damn good actress, so most believe her, which hurts. But not as much as her vindictiveness. It’s like she can’t understand how I could have left her, was blind to the fact that we hardly talked anymore. Never spent time together. She believes, or claims at least, I was off having an affair. Blames me for us falling apart.”

Lungs shrinking, I twisted my dishtowel until I’d tied it in a knot. Exactly how my insides felt. “I’ve been worried about telling you, didn’t want you thinking less of me. And I just don’t get how I could have loved her once. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I got lost in feeling like I belonged to someone.” I huffed out a defeated laugh. “When did I become so oversensitive?”

Nana paused at the sink. She waited. When she was sure I’d said my piece, she squeezed my bicep. “You’ve always been the sensitive one. And I would never think less of you. Would never believe filthy lies. You and your brother are stuck with me in your corner, like it or not. I just don’t want this to taint your feelings toward relationships. You’re a good man. A kind man. You deserve a sweet woman, and there is a lucky lady out there who will be deserving of you. Now let’s wash these dishes.”

She returned to the sink, dipping her wrinkled hands in the soapy water, swaying to the music. I dried the dishes and let her words wash over me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to tell her about Tessa’s accusations, hear her indignation and know she’d never buy into that slander. Another reminder this divorce was barely progressing. Maybe I’d fly back to D.C. soon, see if face time could hurry things along.

“Is there mint chip in the freezer?” Emmett’s booming voice blasted in from the living room.

“Get your lazy butt in here and check for yourself,” Nana bellowed back.

A moment later, Emmett snuck up behind her and planted a kiss on her cheek. “You’re scary when you’re bossy.”

She patted his ass. “Just keeping you in line. Speaking of which, have you found a nice man to settle down with longer than a week?”

“I’m having fun. Isn’t variety the spice of life?”

“For now, maybe. Eventually it’s the ingredient for a TV dinner cooked for one.”

An hour later, she sent me home with leftover meatloaf and the soap she sold at a local market. Apple spice, she called it.

Before long I was hunched over the dinner table in my workshop. It had been my project the past month, a stunning slab of tiger maple. Perfect width, its live edges rustic yet clean. I’d kept the legs simple and elegant. They allowed the top to shine. I sanded every inch methodically, working from 120-grit paper to 220.

Tonight was when the magic happened. My first coat of Tung oil. The astringent, barnyard smells burned my nostrils, and I said a silent thank you for the wide garage doors.