Chapter Two
Two
Dax: Dude, stop ignoring me.
I groan and quickly read through the onslaught of messages my best friend sent over the past two hours. He knows if I don’t answer, I’m busy with a project. I swear I chose the most high-maintenance guy in the world to be friends with.
Me: I’m not ignoring you. Cedarwood Mansion has my immediate focus.
Dax: The real one or the replica?
Me: The replica IS real.
He sends me a fuckton of eye roll emojis. Sometimes I wonder how two completely different guys like me and Dax Summers could ever become and stay friends. We’re so different it’s almost hilarious. Dax drives a tricked-out matte-black Beamer, plays football for PMU, and has a jock style that makes every girl in the vicinity drool over him.
Meanwhile, I drive Pops’s old 1988 Land Rover Defender 90, which is the complete opposite of Dax’s chick magnet. I certainly don’t play sports like him. And my style? While I think it’s cool, Dax has told me numerous times that it’s not.
What’s not to love about an olive-colored M-65 field jacket from the Vietnam War? It’s vintage and was a badass find. No one, and I mean no one, is wearing this jacket.
Dax: Do you want help?
Me: No.
I tear open a brand-new bag of butterscotch hard candies. They’ve been my favorites for as long as I can remember. Once I’m armed with a candy on the inside of each cheek, I turn on the dust-covered Magnavox CD player boombox and toss in one of The Rolling Stones albums I own. Classic rock isn’t my favorite, but it’s Pops’s and he’s the one I inherited this thing from.
Dax: You need an intervention.
Me: I just need to finish this piece.
Dax: Dude, this is why you don’t have a girlfriend.
Now it’s my turn to blast him with middle finger emojis.
Me: Remind me again, what’s your girlfriend’s name?
I chuckle before tossing my phone back down on my shop table. Dax dates girls here and there, but he hasn’t ever kept one long enough to call her his girlfriend. And he wants to give me shit.
Pushing away all thoughts of Dax, I lose myself once more to the intricacies of my small-scale replica of Cedarwood Mansion. It’s created completely with salvaged materials from one of the historical sites Pops recently did a job at. The real Cedarwood Mansion sits on the outskirts of town, neglected and forgotten. Pops and Dad complain weekly about what a waste the historical site is. They’ve approached the owners many times about a restoration or even purchasing the property from them, but are always met with a simple, “no.”
At least my replica will look like the original. I spent months researching photos on the internet and in the Park Mountain Library to get a sense of what it should look like in its pristine condition. My replica is a twelve-by-twelve-inch version that opens the mansion up like a book so you can view all the intricacies of each room. I’m about seventy percent done, which means Dax will have to stop bugging me because I won’t stop when I’m this close to completion.
I quickly become engrossed in my project, ignoring time and all thoughts that don’t pertain to Cedarwood. My neck starts to ache and my stomach growls violently, but I’m not ready to quit for the evening.
“Two, kiddo, time to eat.”
Groaning, I sit up and blink several times to clear my daze. Swiveling around in my ancient, rusty barstool, I find Dad standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
Great.
He’s giving me the “you’re in trouble, buddy,” look that I always hated as a kid. But, to my dads, despite being in my third year of college, I’m still that strange child they brought home with them one day and decided to let stay.
“What?”
He purses his lips and slowly walks into my workshop, gaze scanning the chaos that is my happy place. Once, a couple of years ago, he and Pops cleaned it out and organized it to surprise me. I freaked the fuck out because all the things that had a place were now gone and in some other place. It took forever to find everything again.
“You’re awfully hyper focused on this project lately,” Dad says, coming to stand near me. His neatly manicured eyebrows pinch together. “Everything okay with you?”
I cringe at the thought of him worrying about me. Last time he and Pops worried about me, I ended up with a prescription for Prozac and a higher dosage of anxiety meds.
“I’m fine,” I assure him with a huff. “You sound like Dax now.”
“Dax, God bless his birdbrained soul, knows you better than anyone. If he’s worried, then there’s a need to be worried.”
Dad takes one of my hands that’s crusted in plaster and warms it between his hot ones. “Did you even realize your space heater isn’t on? It’s well below freezing out there.”
My head jerks to the left, and sure enough, the thing isn’t on. Probably explains why I have the sniffles and my fingers are numb.
“I got hot,” I lie, meeting my dad’s stare with a defiant one of my own.
Worry softens his expression and he nods. “Well, I’m pulling rank now. Time to get your crazy butt back inside. Pops made ribs in the crockpot.”
My stomach grumbles again and Dad laughs. I’m not laughing, though. Sometimes I still feel like a small child with massively big emotions that no one else understands. At least when I’m focused on my projects, I can just be for a little while without overanalyzing everything and everyone.
I slide off my stool onto weak legs. A quick look at my watch—a vintage Timex piece from Pops’ dad, my gramps—to learn I’ve spent the better part of eight hours in my shop at the back of our property without food or even a restroom break.
Okay, so sometimes, my dads and Dax have a point.
I obsess a little.
Dad leads the way out of my shop, waiting for me to close it up and lock it. I’m closer to Pops’s height at six-foot-two. Dad, despite being closer to five-foot-six, is definitely the boss in our family. What he lacks in height, he makes up for it in attitude.
“Your hair is getting long, Two,” Dad says as we walk briskly, hurrying to get out of the harsh cold. “Want to go see Aunt T and get a cut?”
I fling my head back, which makes the hair that was drooping into my eyes bounce away for a second before it lands right in the spot where it was.
“Maybe,” I say with a noncommittal grunt. “I’m busy with class all next week and I have to get Cedarwood Mansion done.”
Dad stops right before we reach the back door. He places his warm hands on my cold cheeks, bringing me down so we’re at eye level. “The second it’s done, you’re marching yourself over to her house for a cut. And you’re taking a much-needed break. Your classes will demand a lot of your time and winter break is over.”
I roll my eyes, which makes him smirk.
“I’m serious, Tristan.” He kisses my nose like he used to when I was little. “Love you, kiddo.”
He turns and heads inside while I examine his words. I do believe my dads love me. I feel it down to my soul. Sometimes, though, I can’t help but pick apart the reasons why and how they love me. When did it happen? Was it days, months, or years after they had to take literal option number two over their precious little girl?
My therapist doesn’t know about my feelings.
No one does.
It feels selfish and ungrateful to bring to light my emotions regarding the love of my parents. They did take care of me even if I wasn’t their first choice. I’ve never hurt for a thing and know I fared better than those other kids who started in the same predicament I was in.
Plus, my therapist makes me feel like a child. Technically, she’s a pediatric therapist and I’ve just been grandfathered in, so it’s not her fault. But I don’t have to open up to her. She’d probably just tell my dads and it would hurt them.
I’m not in the business of hurting the two people I love most.
It’s easier if I’m the one doing all the hurting. At least I can handle it. Dad would cry. Pops would do that thing where his jaw works and he swallows hard but otherwise looks like a stone statue. I don’t want that shit.
Inside the house, it smells of barbecue and steamed corn. Pops is pouring glasses of sweet tea, his muscular back turned to us. When I was little, I thought Pops was an actual giant or a lumberjack. He’d pick me up and fly me around the living room while I squealed with delight. Sometimes he’d even let me touch the ceiling. Dad would freak out the whole time, panicking that he’d drop me.
“Hey, Pops,” I say, coming up behind him and resting my head on his shoulder. “Smells good in here.”
He reaches up one of his calloused hands and pats my head. “You know I love an easy dinner that tastes better than anything you can grab in town. How’s Cedarwood?”
I light up at his question. “I worked on all the crown moulding today.” I hold up my plaster-covered fingers for him to inspect. “It’s taken the longest because it’s so intricate, but I’m loving how it’s looking.”
Pops chuckles. “Can’t wait to see when it’s finished. Wash up, Son. You’re not licking sauce off those crusty fingers.”
My sullen mood improves as I get cleaned up and take a seat at the table. Dad regales us with a tale of this woman who asked for a bid to redecorate the front room of her house. Apparently, she’s a hoarder and didn’t mention the piles of bullshit everywhere. Dad said he nearly croaked from horror at the mess, gave her an outlandish bid, and then ran so fast out of there you’d think his ass was on fire.
“Maybe me and Dax can start a hoarder clean-out business,” I say with a grin. “Think of all the treasures I could find.”
Both dads shout, “No!” at once.
I’ve been teased a time or two about my hoarding tendencies. I just like cool shit and there’s lots of it out in the world. Who needs to go to the mall or big box stores when you can find everything you need in someone else’s trash pile?
“Good luck getting Dax to do that,” Dad says, shaking his head. “I thought he was going to medical school after PMU.”
I snort. “Dad. His grades are just good enough to keep him eligible for football. He’s going to have to take what he can get.”
“There’s always positions open at LGS,” Pops says. “We could use a couple of big guys like you two to carry lumber around.”
“School comes first,” Dad reminds us. “If Two wants to work this summer for you, that’s fine, but I don’t want him getting distracted.”
My grades are fine. Not perfect but not below average like Dax’s. School is just something for me to do and not something I love. Because of my love for architectural salvage and exposure to my dads’ restoration and redecorating firm, I could easily work for them full time one day and be happy.
“Oh,” Dad says, absently picking at his ribs. “I forgot to tell you. Dr. Wynn is retiring. She emailed me a few names of therapists, but I actually met a pretty nice guy who recently opened a new clinic. He’s not a dinosaur like Dr. Wynn, either. I’d say he’s in his late twenties and someone you could connect with easier. Felt like divine timing.”
A new therapist?
Dr. Wynn is a dinosaur, but she’s the dinosaur I know.
“Do I have to?” I ask, voice small, reminding me of when I was little and learning my place in my new family.
“It would make us happy if you’d try,” Pops adds, giving me a sympathetic smile. “If you don’t like him, we’ll try someone else.”
“Maybe I don’t need therapy anymore,” I suggest, voice rough and resigned.
Dad shakes his head. “Sorry, kiddo, that part’s not up for debate.”
Kiddo.
“And if I say no?” I challenge, a flare of anger sparking inside. “Are you going to kick me out?”
Pops grunts and Dad rolls his eyes.
“You’ll go because it’s what’s best for you,” Dad says in his bossy tone that leaves no room for argument. Then he flashes his winning smile that charms everyone in his vicinity. “Who wants baklava for dessert? I picked some up at the coffee shop earlier.”
As my parents happily move on to other subjects, my mind is still turning over this new revelation over and over again.
New therapist.
I’m going whether I want to or not.
I hope my new therapist enjoys hearing about my historical replicas and my love for architectural salvage because one thing’s for sure, if I didn’t open up to Dr. Wynn, I’m not opening up to some random stranger.