Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

23

If only you knew - Alexander Stewart

S ome days, shit just crawls out of the past and sits on your chest like it owns the place.

Today’s one of those days. But it’s because of the events that lead up to this. It started with the supplier screwing me over, not having the parts ready for a job. Then I get a call from Dain—a here-and-there customer—asking when the last time I saw my old man was. The words hit like a punch to the gut, every hair on my body standing on end.

And yesterday? While I was out, I could’ve sworn I saw him. My father. Just a glimpse—enough to set my heart racing and my mind spinning. The same worn-out leather jacket, the same slouched posture. It wasn’t him; I know that now. But for those few seconds, it didn’t matter. The damage was already done.

And it’s fucked with me real bad.

My hands are slick with grease as I swipe them on a worn rag, eyes fixed on the engine of my Subaru Impreza—my pride and joy. This car has been my project for years, a transformation from a neglected heap of junk to a roaring beast. Joe handed me the keys one day with a shrug and said, “If you can fix it, she’s yours.” It wasn’t easy. It took countless hours, buckets of sweat, Michael’s constant smartass remarks, and more swearing than I’d like to admit. But piece by piece, I rebuilt her, and now, she’s everything I imagined—a testament to stubborn determination and a hell of a lot of patience.

“So, you gonna tell me why you’re acting like such a dick today?” Michael strolls up, cigarette hanging off his lip, flicking his lighter. He offers me one, and I wave him off.

“Why are you here?”

He squints at me through the smoke. “What’s your problem?”

“Don’t start.”

“Too late,” he says, dragging on his cigarette. “Imogen? Trouble in paradise?”

“Fuck off, Michael.”

Does he, though? No. Of course not. He chuckles, plants his boots on the ground like he’s taking root. “Oh, ho, ho! He’s feisty today.” He’s laughing, but he’s still not moving. “I’ll just stand here till you spill. Got all day, mate.”

I yank the toothpick out of my mouth, snapping it in half. “This’ll sound fucked, but I could’ve sworn I saw Gary.” Michael freezes, cigarette pausing midair.

“The fuck?” He shakes his head like that’ll erase the thought. “No way. He’s locked up.”

“Was,” I mutter. “He’s been in long enough. Could be out by now.”

His face hardens. “Where? When?”

“Yesterday. Picking up a part for Joe. Saw someone walking by. I thought it was him, Mikey. Could’ve sworn.”

“You’re imagining shit.” A long pause stretches thick between us, a weight neither of us wants to hold.

Michael sighs. “So, this is why you’ve been in one of those moods?”

“Yeah,” I shrug. “And no.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Care to share?”

“No.” I toss a wrench at him, and he catches it without missing a beat. “So, you either help or fuck off.”

Slamming the hood of my WRX, I steal one last look. Timing belt’s done and the exhaust manifold swapped. She’s purring now, ready to eat up the road. Should feel like a win, right?

Keys in hand, I head inside, but the idea of going home? Yeah, that’s sitting heavy. Imogen will be there, probably dissecting every damn mood swing I’ve had this week. Can’t even blame her—she’s got every reason to wonder. Hell, I don’t even have answers. Some days, my brain’s a smashed-up gearbox—grinding, racing, stuck in neutral all at once. No map for that mess.

And fuck, I hate it. Hate being like this, especially now that she’s in my space to see it up close. Every rough edge, every glitch. I can’t fucking help myself. It’s not like I’m trying to be an asshole, but that doesn’t make it any better, does it? The shop phone rings, cutting sharply through the quiet. I snatch it off the hook, voice clipped. “Joe’s Auto Shop.”

“Harrison,” a voice on the other end says, smooth, casual. Too casual.

The world slams to a stop.

It’s him.

The blood in my veins turns to static, my grip tightening on the phone. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Easy, son. Just thought I’d give you a call, catch up.” His voice oozes that same slimy charm, like this is normal. Like we’re normal.

A call? Is he for real? “How the fuck did you get this number?” My heart’s going ballistic, pounding out of sync. He better not have called anyone else.

“Asked around,” he says, like it’s no big deal.

The rage starts simmering, and my hand’s twitching with the urge to slam the phone through the wall. Nobody else is in earshot—Joe’s in the office, Michael’s back outside. Just me and this piece of shit invading my airspace. He sighs like this is hard for him. “Look, Harrison. I’ve changed. People can change, you know.”

“Bullshit.” The word snaps out of me.

“I’ve been thinking about you boys. About your mother.” His tone shifts. It’s laughable. “Maybe we could put the past behind us. Y’know, move on.”

“Move on?” The laugh that comes out is bitter. “Yeah, I don’t fucking think so.” I don’t know what pisses me off more—the fact that he’s saying this, or the fact that part of me is still listening.

“Harrison!” Joe calls out suddenly, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Me. Fucking startled. What the hell? That never happens.

“What?” I grit out, but Joe doesn’t even blink.

“BBQ tonight,” Joe raises his brow, unfazed. “Tell Imogen.”

Great. An evening where Imogen gets a front-row seat to the shitshow that is dinner with Mum. She’ll see exactly how things usually go—too much noise, bitter comments, and me barely holding it together.

Yeah, that’s the last thing I want her to see. Perfect.

“Fine,” I mutter, and Joe nods.

“Harrison? You still there—” The phone slams down onto the hook, cutting him off mid-sentence.

I glance up just in time to spot Michael walking from the office. Fuck. He can’t know. Not yet. Maybe I imagined it? Maybe I’m just so sleep-deprived that I’m losing my mind. I smack my cheeks once, twice.

It’s all still there. Still fucking real.

The tension at the table’s thick, suffocating. Joe’s trying to keep it light, cracking jokes, asking Michael about the latest shop job, but even he can feel the strain. Imogen’s quiet next to me, tense, and I can’t shake the feeling it’s my fault. Things were actually going smooth for once, and then I had to open my mouth. Tell her something real, and now she’s acting all weird—tiptoeing around me like I might break. Ironically, she’s the one who grounds me, my soft spot.

Mum interrupts the conversation, her voice slicing through the silence. “So, how’s everything going? How’s the baby moving along?”

I shrug. “Going fine.”

Imogen clears her throat, a small smile forming as she glances my way. “All good. Baby’s kicking up a storm.” It pulls a grin out of me before I can stop it.

Mum nods. “Anything new?”

Imogen shrugs lightly. “Did my glucose test the other day. That wasn’t exactly a highlight.”

I smirk, the memory flashing in my head. That god awful sugary drink she had to chug—I’d been too curious and took a sip myself. It tasted nothing like ‘sugar’, just pure thick chemical nastiness. No wonder she’d been gagging. I’d barely swallowed mine without spitting it out, and she’d downed the whole thing while swearing under her breath.

“And actually, I had my first Braxton Hicks the other day,” she adds, glancing at me before turning back to Mum. “But other than all that, everything’s fine. As it should be.”

Wait. What the hell? “Braxton Hicks? What’s that?”

She glances at me, quickly. “Practice contractions.”

“When did this happen?”

“At work,” she says, like it’s no big deal. But that only makes it worse. Makes my heart start to fucking race.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not a big deal, Harrison.”

“Any sort of contractions sounds like a big deal.”

She sighs. “They’re completely normal. Baby’s fine, I’m fine.” Normal. Sure. Except it doesn’t feel normal to be the last one to know.

Mum must catch the shift in the air; she turns to Imogen. “Is Harrison driving you up the wall yet, living together?”

Imogen smirks. “Uh, surprisingly, no.”

“Hm, maybe not yet,” Mum says with a chuckle, but there’s a bitterness to it.

Joe clears his throat. “So, Harrison, think we’ve got a chance this weekend?”

“Only if they finally get their heads in the game.” I shrug, grateful for the shift.

Mum doesn’t back down. “You know, you’ve been living out back for months, and not once have you come in for dinner. We have to practically beg to see you. It’s ridiculous.”

Michael coughs, trying to drown the awkwardness in his drink, while Joe’s voice cuts in, an attempt to douse the fire. “Nancy, give it a rest—they’ve got a lot on their plate—”

She waves him off. “No, I mean it. Michael’s never home, and now you’ve got her back there, too, and suddenly, it’s radio silence. Not a single word.”

“ She’s the mother of my child, and her name is Imogen.” The words snap out sharper than intended, but fuck it.

Imogen’s hand brushes my arm, a small move, her voice soft. “It’s fine, Harrison.” She turns to Mum like she’s defusing a bomb. “Sorry, Nancy, things have just been crazy—work, events, doctor’s appointments. We didn’t realise you were feeling this way.”

Her apologising? Hell no. “You don’t need to apologise,” I cut in, tone hard. “She doesn’t owe you anything. We’re busy, but like you said, we’re just out back. Nothing’s stopping you from knocking on the damn door.”

Mum’s lips pull tight, but before she can wind up again, Michael groans loud enough to rattle the plates. “Mum, give it a rest. Can’t we just eat in peace for once? For fuck’s sake.”

I should’ve known better than to say yes to dinner, thinking she’d actually let it go. She’s only gotten worse over the years. So fucking senile. The air in the room stiffens. Her voice slices through it. “Gosh, you’re all acting like I’m attacking him. You know, I rang the pharmacy about your tablets. Know what they said? Haven’t been picked up in over a year.”

The fork bends under my grip. “That’s none of your business.”

“The doctor says you need them,” she snaps back. “Too damn stubborn for your own good. No wonder you’re so on edge.” The words land like a slap. Eyes glued to the plate. Breathing sharp.

“There’s no need to say it like that, Nancy. Maybe he’s stubborn, but he’s got every right to be after everything he’s been through,” Imogen says calmly. I turn to meet her eyes.

“Oh? So he’s told you everything, has he?”

Imogen straightens, doesn’t flinch. “I know enough.”

“And what exactly has he been through? What do you really know?” Her tone is so fucking condescending I grit my teeth.

“Enough!”

The table falls silent, everyone’s gaze fixed on me. Imogen’s hand moves toward mine, but I’m too keyed up to really feel it. “Go on, then,” she snaps. “Storm off. Prove me right, like you always do.”

Joe’s voice drags across the silence. “Nancy, leave him be.”

“Fuck’s sake, Mum,” Michael groans.

“You don’t know the first thing about me.” All eyes are on me now—Michael, Joe, Mum. Imogen. She’s seeing all this.

“Oh, don’t I?” Mum grumbles. “Who was there every time you got in trouble? Who smoothed things over with the police when you were out in those street brawls?”

I’m on my feet before I even register it. “Yeah, you were there—when he was, too. And what did you do then? Fucking nothing. You let him treat us like shit, and now you want to act like you know me? Like you’ve got the right to judge me?” My words pour out fast. “And then you wonder why I don’t come around. Why I avoid this place like the fucking plague?

“I’m fucking SICK of being dragged over the coals every time I walk in here. Haven’t we dealt with enough?” I gesture at Michael, bellowing. “Haven’t I?”

Mum’s eyes well up, tears sliding free as she stares, stunned. “When you decide to act like a real parent, maybe we can have a normal conversation.” Her voice wavers as she stands, mutters something, and rushes out. She’s gone, and the silence she leaves behind feels suffocating.

“This has to stop. You two need to sort this—for everyone’s sake.” Joe’s demand hangs heavy in the air. Imogen’s hand rests on my arm. I can’t meet her eyes. Everything’s piling up—Dad’s call, Mum’s constant digs, dragging Imogen into this mess. It claws up my chest, tight and sharp, each breath harder to drag in. The last time it felt like this, I’d hit him—hit that bastard after what he did to Michael.

I shove back from the table, the chair scraping loud against the floor, and head for the door. Each step’s heavy, deliberate. I don’t stop until I’m past the granny flat, past the fence, straight to the shed. The door groans as I push it open, slamming shut behind me. My pulse hammers, pounding through my skull like a drumbeat. The shelves blur as my hands start yanking through them. Something heavy. Something to throw. My fingers land on two boxes shoved high up. The first one barely budges. The second I drag down with a grunt. It hits the floor with a dull thud.

The cardboard flaps tear as I pull them open. Junk . Old shoes, moldy and crusted. A deflated football and… snow globes. Cheap ones. Plastic bases scratched up. Souvenirs from petrol stations.

My hand hovers, then grabs one. The plastic feels gritty under my fingers. I stop all movements, and just stare at it. I know this one. I was seven. Mum bought it for me the day after he hit me for the first time. Said it’d make me feel better. Like a fucking snow globe could fix that.

The snow globe flies from my hand, smashing against the wall. Shards scatter, and fake snow drifts down like ash. My chest heaves, breaths ragged, but I’m already reaching for another. This one’s bigger, heavier. My grip tightens until the edges bite into my palm. I know this one, too. It was that week I couldn’t go to school because of the bruises. Bruises too dark, too swollen to hide. She’d left it on the kitchen table like a peace offering, like an apology.

My arm swings. The globe crashes against the wall, bursting apart in a spray of glass and water. Tears blur my vision, streaking down my face. I can’t stop fucking shaking. My hands, my chest—everything trembles.

This is so fucked. Why couldn’t my life be normal? Why couldn’t I be normal?

I press my back against the wall, sliding down to sit in the wreckage. Hands trembling, breath hitching. The bruises. The lies. The noise in my head that never stops. It’s too much. All of it. It twists and tears through me, leaving nothing but a hollow, broken mess.