Chapter 7
7
William Andino
T he last thing I want to do after working all day is be at the hardware store, along with every other person in Copper Lake, apparently, but when my father called me earlier and told me the toilet on the main level was malfunctioning and he was having to go all the way upstairs to use the bathroom, I knew I had no choice. I don’t love him having to climb the stairs without me there. He’s not necessarily unstable, but it’s an older house and the stairs are on the steeper side. It's why when I moved in, we moved him into the room on the main level. He’s not getting around like he used to.
It’s hard to witness your parents getting older. It’s something we all know will happen one day, but knowing it’s coming and watching it happen are two very different things. Witnessing my mother’s deterioration not that long ago is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. The cancer hit fast; one day, we were learning about her illness, and the next, we were saying goodbye. It was like the blink of an eye, and my father hasn’t been the same since. I truly think the death of my mother is the reason for his decline. Not necessarily because he's consciously not taking care of himself, but because his heart is broken and the one woman he's spent his whole life with is gone. Whether he realizes it, I think his light, his reason to live, has withered away without her here with him.
I can’t imagine loving someone that fiercely.
Annie and I loved each other; we spent many years loving each other, but it wasn’t this time-stands-still, my-world-is-bleak-without-you type of love. I’ve always admired my parents for the way they so clearly and effortlessly adored one another, and I’ve, on more than one occasion, wondered if that type of love even exists anymore or if it’s just one for the books.
After I grab the items I think I’ll need based on the information my father gave me over the phone, I get in line, check out, and head home. It’s been raining off and on all day, and now there’s a rainbow painted across the sky. I know as a man in his mid-forties, rainbows are silly things to find joy in, but I can’t help it. Ever since I was a kid, when my mom told me there was gold at the end of rainbows, I’ve always loved them. Glancing up toward the sky, where the showery prism shines, I’m reminded of how beautiful the natural world can be when we stop and take the time to notice.
Pulling into the driveway, I park my car in the garage beside my dad’s truck. I grab the bag off the seat before climbing out and strolling inside. The door in the garage that leads into the house opens into the laundry room, which is connected to the kitchen. My senses awaken as I toe off my shoes and step farther into the house, a savory and sweet aroma filling the kitchen.
“Hey, this smells great,” I say to my father as I empty my pockets into the dish on the counter. “What are you making? ”
It’s not often my dad does it anymore, but he used to cook for us almost every night. When I was a teenager, my mom went back to work as a nurse—not because we needed the money, but because she loved it so much—and oftentimes, she would work a later shift than my father, so he would get home and start dinner so she had something hot to eat by the time she made it home too.
Growing up, I loved seeing it because, especially during that time, it was common for the women to stay home and do the cooking and cleaning while the men worked. It was refreshing to see them share those roles and do it so willingly. Never once did I hear my dad complain about my mom wanting to go back to work, or the fact that he had to pick up some of the slack she couldn’t handle by doing so. They were such a strong team, and I vividly remember always wanting to have that strong team feeling with somebody, and how it never felt quite right with Annie.
“Just some spaghetti,” he grunts as he stirs the sauce. “How was your day at the office? Anything fun happen?”
Breathing out a laugh, I say, “If by fun you mean sick babies, then yes. I’ll be back. I’m going to take a look at the toilet and see if I can’t fix it.”
“Don’t take too long,” he calls out after me. “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
“Got it.”
I’m in and out in less than five minutes; the lift chain was broken, but that’s an easy fix. After I place the lid back on the back of the toilet, I jog up the stairs and squeeze in a quick shower before the food’s done. Once I toss my dirty clothes and wet towel in the hamper, I join my dad in the kitchen again, getting a couple of plates down, grabbing the silverware out, and pouring us each a drink. My dad drinks milk with dinner every single night without fail, so after I get him some of that, I pour myself a glass of the pinot noir I picked up at the store this past weekend.
After we dish up our plates, we take a seat across from each other at the table in the dining room and dig in. As I knew it would be, the pasta is incredible, and my taste buds are singing their praises with each bite.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask my dad.
“A bit better,” he replies gruffly. “The sore throat and cough I had earlier this week have seemed to subside.”
“That’s good.”
“I think I’d like to get a dog,” he says, seemingly out of nowhere.
Brows furrowed, I stop mid-chew to glance over at my dad, confusion swirling around in my mind as he continues to eat. “I’m sorry?”
“I’d like to get a dog,” he repeats. “I get bored during the day when you’re at work, and I think I’d enjoy having a furry companion around the house. We could watch television together, play fetch in the backyard. We could even go for short walks around the block for some exercise.”
Where is this coming from? “You hate dogs.”
“I do not.”
“Dad, every single time I asked for a dog growing up, you told me they were nothing but nuisances who track mud through the house and get into shit.”
He scoffs. “I did not.”
I bite down on my molars, not wanting to argue with him about something so menial. “Do you know what type of dog you want?” I instead ask.
Nodding, he brings his napkin up from his lap, patting his mouth. “I was looking on the shelter website earlier today, and saw they have a cute Dachshund available.”
“How old?”
“Only a couple years old.”
“You know, that’s a big responsibility,” I say. “Are you sure you’re up for that?”
“Oh, Will, can you not talk to me like I’m a child, please?” he grumbles. “I’m a grown man, and I’m fully aware of what goes into caring for an animal. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m decrepit.”
Clearly, he’s feeling extra spicy tonight. “Would you like me to go down to the shelter with you so we can take a look?” I ask softly. “The free clinic isn’t until next weekend, so we could go this Saturday if you’d like.”
“Maybe. I’m going to call down there in the morning and see if he has anybody interested in him. I don’t want to risk him being adopted before Saturday. That’s three days away.”
“We’ll need to go to the pet store before bringing an animal home, Dad.”
“I know that.”
Heaving a breath, I say, “Okay, give them a call in the morning, and let me know how it goes. I should be home fairly early tomorrow if we need to drive up there earlier than Saturday.”
To be honest, having a dog around the house may be nice. I’ve always loved the idea of having one, but it’s never worked out. When I was younger, my dad refused, and once I got married and moved to Seattle, Annie and I worked entirely too much for it to make sense.
Once we’re both finished eating, I clear the table and get started on the dishes while my father heads into the living room to watch the news from his recliner. It’s a nightly thing for him; dinner, news, bed. Roger Andino is nothing if not routine. I’m not exactly one to talk, though. I find comfort in my life of structure too. After I finish cleaning the kitchen, I grab my book and stroll out onto the porch, where I sit in the rocking chair and read as the sun sets. Sometimes I’ll do crossword puzzles instead of reading, but almost every single night, I enjoy sitting outside as the light of day fades, the same way I enjoy sitting out here with my coffee in the morning and watching the sunrise.
By the time I finish reading a few chapters and head inside, my dad has already gone to bed. I amble up the stairs, going into the bathroom to brush my teeth before climbing into bed for the evening, all while making a mental note of everything I need to do if we really are going to bring a dog home. There’re about half a dozen things we’ll need to pick up at the store. Maybe I’ll stop there on my way home tomorrow.
Grabbing my phone off my nightstand and unlocking it, I scroll through social media. Typically, I try not to mess around on my phone right before bed because I notice those are the nights I find it harder to fall asleep, but I have a handful of emails and messages that I want to get to before the day is done. On Instagram, I see that Max posted a story—something he doesn’t ever do. Clicking on his little circle icon, the story pops up, and I can tell it’s a reshare of a story Colt posted and tagged him in. It’s just a photo of them together that Colt took. The two of them couldn’t look more opposite. They share the same bright green eyes, but that’s where their similarities end. Colt has thick, dark brown hair, whereas Max is more of a dirty blond. Colt has Trish’s full pink lips where Max’s are on the thinner side—something I never even noticed until I looked at this photo of them side by side .
Against my better judgement—something I always seem to lack around Colt—I click on his profile, surprised by how many followers he has. Close to a hundred thousand, but I suppose that’s not all that wild considering how well known he is in the rodeo world. I may not keep up on the professional rodeo circuit, but I’m not blind; I know what an icon he is. One of the youngest world championship winning bull riders at twenty-three, Colt is practically a household name, just like Max was during his time.
Memories of our conversation we had at the diner come back to me. The way he admitted to feeling compared to his dad, and how hard that is for him. From where I’m at, he’s not exactly wrong, but he’s not right either. Yes, he’s compared to Max. He always will be, that’s just a fact. But he isn’t just Max Bishop’s prodigy. Colt’s been pro for only a few years now, but he’s already made a name for himself, and that’s coming from someone like me, who, again, doesn’t keep up with this world.
Just from that one conversation, I can tell he’s incredibly hard on himself, but he has no reason to be. He’s talented, he’s committed, he’s got what it takes to bring his career even further than his dad did. I meant what I said to him when I told him this injury doesn’t have to define him. It’s not nearly as severe as Max’s was, and I think deep down, he probably knows that, but I’m sure it’s easier to give in to the doubt when you’re already discouraged.
His Instagram is filled with pictures and videos from the circuit or at the arena when he’s training. He has a large social media presence, it looks like. Even now, when he’s home and unable to compete, there’s at least a dozen stories posted just today. I watch them all, wondering why the hell I’m doing this. Why do I care? Why am I now so curious and intrigued by him? I’ve known Colt his entire life, and never once did I look at him in any sort of inappropriate way until that night.
That night changed everything for me, and I’ve never quite forgiven myself for it. I was weak and lonely, and he was there and willing, and so damn hard to resist. It could’ve been anybody that I ended up naked with that night, but it wasn’t anybody. It was Colt Bishop, the son of my best friend, and now I can’t stop seeing him in that light.
Frustrated with myself, I close out of the app altogether and plug in my phone, setting it back on the nightstand. I’m a strong, mature man who doesn’t have to let a few indecent urges change anything, and he’s one guy in a world of billions. Who cares if the night was incredible and one of the best I’ve ever experienced. There will be other men and other nights.
Colt Bishop cannot be on my radar, and I need to figure out how to get off of his. I have enough on my plate now that I’m back in Copper Lake. I don’t have time to develop feelings for a man half my age.