Chapter Twenty-Seven
Atlas
How could such a good day turn to shit so quickly?
I woke up this morning, feeling a lot better than I have in a long time. I didn't have a single nightmare last night, which I haven't been able to say in a very long time.
Wendy and I are communicating really well—the phone call after I had that nightmare warms my chest. My wife just stayed with me through it, talking to me even though I just woke her up in the middle of the night.
It just makes me feel that much more motivated to fix things, because how could I ever let go of this kind, caring woman? I'm the luckiest bastard on this earth.
And today is the day I can start repairing the relationship with my sons. This is the first weekend that I'll spend with them.
The court gave me a couple of weeks to adjust to being back home, but my therapists think that it's time, and that it will be good to start repairing things.
No way in hell will this be my future—divorced from my wife, only seeing my kids on the weekends and every other holiday. I know divorce isn't necessarily a bad thing for some people, but... it's not happening for Wendy and me.
I love Wendy.
I know I didn't show it this last year, but I know to the very marrow of me that Wendy is the only woman I'll ever want.
I'm going to show her that. I'm going to rebuild my relationship with my sons. I'm going to earn back my family's trust. I'm going to prove myself to them.
To do that, I need to be present more. I can't bury myself in work to hide. I can't escape on the weekends with Trace at whatever house he's working on.
I already texted my best friend that I was home and doing better, which he was happy to hear. I know he was concerned and had no idea how to express it, as he keeps his feelings incredibly close to his chest.
I've been going to work, attending every therapist appointment, taking my meds, and spending time with my parents.
And things have been good.
Michelle is the assistant manager my dad hired at the shop. She's my mom's age, with short black hair and a no-nonsense attitude.
When my dad initially talked to me about taking over the business one day, I firmly told him that I needed my hands to remain greasy, that working on cars is comforting to me. Especially now.
He said a good boss always leads by example and never asks his employees to do something he wouldn't do.
Thankfully, Michelle has taken a huge burden off my back with handling the mind-numbing paperwork.
Unfortunately, it is Friday, her designated day off and my dad called me and told me that my mother is in the hospital.
Shit.
"Aubree!" I call out and hear the click-click of her heels as she walks into the office. I barely glance up from the laptop, already pulling up the schedule.
"Everything okay?" she asks me with a smile on her face.
"We have to move all my afternoon appointments," I tell her, already moving the ones I know won't have a problem. Some of our clients are older and only trust Durant hands to work on their cars. "I have to leave early."
She blinks. "...early?"
"Yes. Can you start moving them to the other guys?" I tell her, not even glancing up. "Move them to Jason or Pat's schedule for tomorrow. Bryce can handle the brakes on the Toyota this afternoon, that'll take him like twenty minutes."
Aubree doesn't move, still looking a little confused. "...you…you’re leaving early?"
"Yes," I say, irritation bleeding into my voice. This isn't her fault. It's the norm for me to stay late, to avoid leaving early as much as possible. I glance at my watch, "I need to be out of here in an hour."
The next fifty-five minutes are spent finishing up my jobs, while Aubree works on calling and smoothing over upset clients by using whatever customer service magic she naturally possesses.
I'm checking our numbers for the final time when Aubree walks in and stands in front of my desk.
"Everything good?"
She nods. "Uh, yes, but Mr. Redmond called and said his car is acting up again. He says he needs Durant eyes on it ASAP."
I snort a laugh. Old man Redmond has been a thorn in my father's ass for years.
"I would be less surprised if you said the sky was falling. That Buick has been acting up since Carter was in office, and he refuses to just let it die."
Aubree throws her head back and giggles, "Atlas, you're so funny!"
I frown, because I wasn't trying to be funny, but I still force a laugh.
"Yeah, I—uh... just tell him we have a family emergency. If he tries to call my dad right now while my mom's in the hospital, my dad will shove that car off the ridge and then his foot up his ass."
Aubree laughs again, but it's cut off when the door bangs open abruptly, making me jump.
My son stands in the doorway. His dark eyes are narrowed, his jaw locked, and he’s glancing back and forth between Aubree and me—alone in my office.
Oh, shit.
It all comes together instantly: what Liam thinks this looks like, especially as I see Wendy rush in after him, a confused Noah still holding onto her hand.
"Hi, Dad! Mama's just dropping us off... or should we just leave you and her alone?"
Aubree's eyes widen at those words, and fuck—this situation has just gone from bad to worse, because now I have to explain some difficult things to my wife and sons, whose trust in me is less than fragile at the moment.
Things like why none of my employees know of their existence, and why none of their pictures are up in the office anymore.
The answer to those questions go back to when I was spiraling, taking down their photos because I couldn't stand to look at them without picturing my wife dying.
And then, when I came back weeks ago, I was distracted by catching up the backlog of work that built up while I was out. Michelle has been using this office to organize our filing and set up spreadsheets on the computer into a more cohesive system.
I've been spending less and less time in this office, which has been good for my mental health, for keeping my hands working, and for being around my employees.
My father had told them I was sick and needed to go away for a month to recover. I know they probably suspect drugs or alcohol, and isn't it odd that somehow that feels less shameful than admitting it was for mental health.
The pictures are still in my drawer, hidden away from the world. I hoped this week I would be able to take them out, proudly put them all around my office again.
I want to open up more. I want to be a better boss to my employees, to show them that I care about their lives. I want to share with them that I have the most beautiful wife in the world, that I have two sons who are turning into the greatest little men.
But it's odd when you've gone so long without telling anyone anything about yourself, there's no real segue to say, "Oh, by the way—I'm married, and I have two kids.
I know it's weird that I haven't mentioned anything personal about me, and those reasons make sense in my head, but sound insane whenever I try to speak them out loud. "
Why did you hide them? Because I have compulsive nightmares about my wife violently dying.
Why don't you talk about them? Because I constantly worry that if I talk about them, I'll manifest my worst fear.
Are you ashamed of them? No, I'm ashamed of myself, but I worry that they're ashamed of me.
My mouth opens to explain to Liam, to explain to Wendy, but my wife cuts me off.
"Liam Emmett!" She grits out through clenched teeth, her green eyes burning into him. "What the hell are you doing?"
Aubree still looks shell-shocked, glancing back and forth between all of us—Liam glaring at me, Wendy glaring at Liam, Noah looking very lost, and me trying to process a way out of my mistakes.
"Oh my God... you're... and she's... oh my God..." Aubree mutters, looking at me and Wendy, the pieces all coming together for her. "I'm just gonna—"
Aubree practically runs out of the room, skirting around Wendy with a wide berth.
When the door closes behind her, Wendy gestures for Noah to sit at the desk. I stand up and motion him over, and with a moment's hesitation and a reassuring glance from his mother, he walks over to me and sits in my chair.
"Headphones on, baby," Wendy says, and Noah smiles at that, nodding as he slides his headphones over his ears and puts on music.
When she sees that he's thoroughly distracted, she turns back to Liam. He crosses his arms, taking on a defensive stance as Wendy tiredly tosses her purse on the chair in the corner.
"Mama—"
"Liam, I am not done talking," she hisses as she holds up a hand. He snaps his mouth closed and I blink in surprise.
I've seen Wendy discipline our kids, adopting a more talk-it-through approach. This is different. I've never seen Wendy actually angry like this.
"I know you feel like you have to protect your little brother and me—"
"Mama, he's with another woman—"
"—his employee, Liam. I trust your father—"
"Has he even given you a reason for that?" Liam’s dark eyes flashing to mine. "Because I don't trust him."
"I know!" Wendy snaps, Liam jumping back at the volume in her voice.
"I know you don't trust him. I know he hasn't given you a reason to trust him, but that is your father's employee; this is his job. Your grandfather’s business.
You cannot just react with anger first and lash out because you're hurting.
I'm trying to be understanding, but you're toeing a very thin line, Liam Emmett. "
Liam's face flushes, and he looks chagrined at that, glancing down at the floor.
"Look at me."
His eyes snap back up to Wendy, and her face softens. "What does Dr. Stone say? About our anger?"
Liam's shoulders deflate and his eyes meet mine for half a second before darting away.
"That... when I react before thinking, I let the anger control me, instead of me controlling it," Liam mutters. "I could end up hurting someone who doesn't deserve it."
"Does she deserve your anger? Has she done anything wrong?"
"No."