Chapter 7
Collin
When I return to the loft after a drive to clear my head, I’m in no way surprised to find my dad waiting for me.
Tank is leaning against his truck, arms crossed, looking smug, like he’s caught me doing something. I know that look because I’ve seen it a lot over the years.
But right now, the only thing I’m guilty of is wasting gas while driving aimlessly, trying to make sense of my day.
Which, given the circumstances, is impossible. I’m just as confused as when I dropped Molly off down the street.
“How long have you been waiting here, Pops?”
He only grins. “Let’s take a ride,” he says, escorting me to the passenger side of his truck like a prison warden who expects me to make a break for it.
I almost do. But I’m honestly not sure I can outrun my dad.
Lately, I’ve been slacking with my workouts because my own gym is no longer a happy or safe place. Too many stares. Too many rumors. Too much makes me think of Liza.
Meanwhile, I’m not sure what Tank has been doing, but he looks almost as good as he did when he was in his prime, playing pro ball.
It’s really not fair. Though I guess I should just be happy I have a healthy dose of his genes.
Tank is silent as he drives out of downtown and past the festival grounds, which are starting to clear out as the day wanes.
Sitting in silence with my dad behind the wheel brings back long-ago memories of middle and high school.
Whenever one of us got in trouble, Dad would take us for a drive.
I think both because it meant having a captive audience but also because in a car, you don’t have to make eye contact.
Talking is always easier when you can stare out at the road rather than directly into someone’s face.
So is confessing.
The longer Tank would drive in silence, the more likely we were to admit to something we’d done. I’m convinced now that half the time he only suspected we’d done something and he used the drive to scare us into admitting it.
I don’t say a word now.
Neither does Tank, and his silence is loud. When I reach over to turn on the radio, the look he gives me has me tucking my hands back in my lap.
He doesn’t know you lied to Jo, I remind myself. He probably doesn’t know what to think.
Though I’m sure Dad is wondering how, exactly, I would have gotten a girlfriend today. Especially considering who Molly is to our family. After the relationship I just got out of, none of my family would believe I hopped into a new one without warning or preamble.
When Dad pulls off the main road a few miles past the festival grounds and up a narrow gravel road, I start to get nervous. It’s all I can do not to bite my nails, a habit I broke years ago.
This ride in every way is giving me childhood déjà vu. It’s also giving me true-crime documentary vibes.
Tank parks the truck in the middle of the narrow road between two fields. Nothing for miles but me, Dad, and some lazy cows. They’re black with a white band around the middle and make me think of Oreos.
Glancing over at me, Tank asks, “You ready?”
“Depends. What are we doing out here in the middle of what looks to be a cow pasture?”
Tank opens the car door. “Take a walk with me, son.”
Again, it’s more command than request.
Warily, I join him, our respective cowboy boots crunching over the gravel as we make our way to the weathered fence.
A few grasshoppers hurtle out of the way, and over the distant tree line, the sun is starting its lazy slide, though we’re still an hour or two from evening.
The light is a little gentler now, the heat more bearable.
When Tank leans on the top rail of the fence, I do the same. He looks out over the fields, but I’m watching his face, waiting for the lecture.
After a long few moments, he gestures past the fence and says, “Well, what do you think?”
“About … this field?”
“Yes.”
I look out over what’s probably twenty or so acres of pasture.
Maybe more? I’m not usually guesstimating acreages.
A cow returns my gaze. It shouldn’t make me more uncomfortable but somehow, the bovine’s dead-eyed stare is too much when I’m still waiting for my dad to reveal why he’s brought me to the type of location perfect for burying a body.
I scratch the back of my neck, wondering how long it’s been since I got my hair trimmed. Too long by the feel of the unruly strands. The cow seems to agree, his big stupid face broadcasting hair judgment as he chews.
“It’s, ah, nice? Peaceful,” I add. “The word bucolic comes to mind.”
Tank chuckles. “You always did have an extensive vocabulary. Second only to Pat.”
Of course. One more event where I walk away with silver instead of gold in the brother Olympics. I don’t even get to win at wordplay.
“Would you mind telling me why we’re out here discussing this field and my extensive vocabulary?”
Tank’s quiet, scanning the field again like he’s looking for something. A particular cow or maybe a pot of gold underneath the stretch of muted rainbow sky.
“Since your mother died,” he starts, and an immediate lump forms in my throat.
Maybe for him too, as he’s quiet for a few beats before continuing.
“I’ve thought a lot about legacy. Her legacy and the marks she left on me, on our family.
What legacy I’d leave you kids, and how I could encourage each of you to carve out your own path, make your own impact on the world. ”
Guilt is a swirling specter, settling around my shoulders as the daylight fades.
My legacy was supposed to be Grit, my gym. I poured my savings and a bunch of my family’s money into the place.
Now, just a few years later, I’m ready to abandon ship. What kind of legacy have I been building?
I know Thayden has a few buyers lined up as well as some thoughts on the potential legal issues my family still doesn’t know about. Yet.
I owe it to my family to be honest. Especially when they’ve got money tied up in Grit.
And I will tell them. Once I’m sure I can repay every penny. Even if that means there’s none left to replace what I put in—though from what Thayden said, I should be fine. Despite my own desire to run far and fast, the place has grown a solid reputation.
So why don’t I want to stay?
It’s not just Liza, my employee turned girlfriend turned thief turned vindictive ex. She was maybe the nail in the coffin, but I was mentally checked out long before that. She just made me realize it.
“Son?”
Apparently, Tank kept talking while my brain got tangled up in worrisome thoughts. “Sorry, Dad. What did you say?”
“I asked what you think about your legacy.”
“Oh.” I swallow and try to keep an even tone to my voice. “The gym is, uh—”
“I don’t mean the gym.” Tank shakes his head, then reaches out to give my shoulder a squeeze with his big hand. “That’s not your legacy, is it?”
Relief courses through me at the kindness in his voice, though there’s still the little twinge of guilt. “Why would you say that?”
He assesses me, shadows growing long on his face as the hush of evening spreads. “I know the look of a man still restless for something.”
I muster up a grin that doesn’t fool Tank. “I thought I was doing pretty well hiding it.”
He raises a brow, then chuckles. “You boys still think you can keep things from me. It’s cute. But I’ve learned a few things raising you kids. And you aren’t happy.”
He says it so simply and without any kind of judgment. Instantly, I feel a weight release from my shoulders. When Tank leans on the top rail of the fence, I do the same. Together, we watch the sun take its bow and lower down beneath the tree line.
“So, son—what would you like your legacy to be?”
The silence in the car felt tense, but what stretches between us now is an easy lull. A gentle silence. Tank is waiting, but he’s not rushing me. I no longer feel the urge to confess but rather an invitation to share.
Ripping off the Band-Aid seems like the best option. “I’m selling the gym.”
Tank doesn’t react, and I continue.
“I thought it’s what I wanted—a place to train elite athletes. But it turned into just a regular gym. People come to show off and be seen rather than to grow or push themselves. I’ve got more people wanting to date an athlete than actual athletes now.”
“I get it,” Tank says. Then, because he’s too good at seeing me, he adds, “What else?”
I sigh. Then let the words pour out of me in a rush.
“Liza was helping with the books, and it turns out she was skimming money. Not a ton, but enough. I’m not sure I can prove it, but I know.
And I think to keep me from doing anything about it, she’s threatening to sue me for discrimination and …
sexual harassment. She’s been posting about it on social media, trying to stir up trouble.
Or win me back? I’m not sure which. Maybe both. ”
This part—the sexual harassment bit—is much harder to admit, and when I glance at my dad, his jaw is tight. I abhor everything about what Liza is doing. Dragging my name through the mud. Damaging the credibility of women everywhere by crying wolf about something as serious as this.
“I didn’t do anything, Dad.”
His blazing blue eyes meet mine. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I just want you to know I wouldn’t do that. Ever.”
“Of course, I know that, son. I know you. And I know Liza. She wasn’t hard to figure out. First time I met her, I thought she’d be trouble.”
“You never said.”
Tank’s voice is kind but firm. “We all tried to tell you in different ways. A few of us more obviously than others.”
I think of James’s disapproving scowl and Pat outright telling me Liza wasn’t good enough for me. I wonder now how much digging in of my heels I did just to show my family they were wrong.
Stupid. So stupid.
It’s high time I stop making choices because I’m trying to prove something. Or simply as a way to distinguish myself from my brothers. I need to decide what I want and make choices based solely on that.
Legacy—like my dad said. I don’t know what mine is, but I feel certain the gym is not it.