Chapter Six
“Is now too soon to text her back?”
It’s only been four days. I’ve been out of the dating game for far too long.
Is that too soon? Will I come off as being too clingy if I text her first?
I should wait for her to text me… right?
Right, yeah. She did mention she had her son's birthday party she needed to focus on anyway, so me reaching out would just be too much on her plate.
Cameron rolls his eyes at me. “I’m not real sure why you’re asking me that,” he snarks.
I toss my exasperation laden hands up in the air before signing, “Because you’re the sixteen-year-old who is supposed to be down with the times here!”
He grins, switching over to SEE to respond—fed up with vocalizing for the day, I guess. “I’m pretty sure the tides are supposed to be going the opposite direction here. A son is supposed to go to his dad for dating advice, not the other way around.”
“I know. Trust me, I feel awkward enough about it. By the way, are you sure you’re okay with me trying to get back out into the dating world again?”
He nods, then sighs. “Yes. It will take a bit of getting used to, I suppose, but it’s not like I expected you to hold out hope that Papa will magically get better.”
I clasp my hands together and bring them up to my mouth, unsure of how to respond to that.
For months Cam and I both were convinced that, if we just gave Aaron long enough, he’d eventually regain functional enough brain activity that we’d see glimpses of his former self, but to no avail.
No amount of tears shed and constant pleading with him—hoping that on some subconscious level he’d find his way back to us—brought him back.
He’s completely bed bound and has been in a minimally conscious state since the accident—a shell of his former being, once so vibrant with life and laughter.
It kills me that I’m no longer allowed to see him, to help care for him.
Hell, if I’d had the means, I would have fought so damn hard just to bring him here with Cam and me.
But I’m afraid that on some deep, dark level, his parents were right.
I caused this. I’m at fault here. I deserve to have this hanging over my shoulders.
Cameron’s thumb brushing away a stray tear, that I didn’t know had fallen, startles me out of my self-loathing. “You still love him. I know that, Dad. That doesn’t mean you need to continue to beat yourself up over what happened. You don’t need to resign yourself to misery.”
I don’t even respond with words, I just pull my son into my arms and squeeze him tightly. Together, we share a few silent moments just mourning the loss of the life we could have—we should have—all had together. One that, in just one mere moment, was shattered for us forever.
I don’t know what I’m doing, trying to move on. I feel like such an asshole. I shouldn’t have such an opportunity when nothing like that exists for Aaron anymore.
As if he can sense me spiraling out, Cameron pulls out of the embrace and encourages me to sit down at the kitchen island.
“I think you should text her back,” he rasps, passing me a box of tissues after nabbing one for himself.
“I think if she gives you some spark of life back, you should do it. I don’t want to lose you too. ”
He clears his throat, sitting on the stool next to me. “Nothing about you finding happiness again makes you a bad person, Dad. I promise you, you’ve gone through enough hell.”
What on earth have I ever done to deserve a son like him?
Seriously. Aaron gave me a hell of a gift when he brought Cameron into my life.
Not sure I believe in God, when there’s so much shit that would give me reason to be mistrustful, but damn—I have to believe that fate or something had their hand in giving me the opportunity to raise such a gentle human.
“Am I still a cool dad if I tell you ‘I love you’ right now?” I ask, blinking away more tears.
He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess so,” he snarks, shrugging. “I love you too.”
He slides off the stool, causing me to look up at him. Hell, even when I’m standing I have to look up at him, since I’m five-foot-ten, and he far surpassed my height with that growth spurt he had a couple years ago. Big ol’ six-foot-two giant that he is. His basketball team loves him.
“I’m gonna go take Pepper outside to touch some grass before I leave for work. Thanks for giving me a cry-puffed face, by the way.”
I snort. “Happy to help. Being a harbinger of tears isn’t an easy job, but someone has to do it.”
“Speaking of jobs,” Cam starts, “I heard some ramblings around town that this lobsterman is looking for a couple of crew members. Do you know Gannett Waters?”
I shake my head. Well, I know of the guy, but do I personally know him?
No. I know more about his older brother, Evan, than I do him.
But, even then, I only know about Evan because it was big news around town when he came out of the closet.
I don’t even think he lives around here anymore, to be quite honest.
“Gannett comes into the lobster pound almost every day. Duh, I mean he is a lobsterman, so that makes sense, right?” He snickers at his own joke. “Anyway, so yeah—he’s looking to hire.”
“So, do I just follow you into work and see if he’d be willing to employ me? I don’t know shit about lobstering… or even if that can be done without being able to speak. What are the odds he knows how to speak Sign?”
Cam shrugs. “I could be there to interpret, just to get the ball rolling and see…”
“What time do the boats usually come in?”
“Right when I get there, most days. If not, I guess he hangs out at Portside Pub a lot.”
“Okay. I’ll swing by when you head in then. Anything is worth a shot at this point. I wonder if there’s an employee discount or something. Can you picture us peasants living large, dining on lobsters every night?”
Cam laughs. “I wouldn’t complain. Do you know how hard it is to serve them to tourists every day and not want to just devour their meals in front of them?”
I smirk. “Alright, go let Peppa Pig out, and I’ll go get changed out of these sweats.”
“‘Bout time,” he teases, heading into the living room to rouse his sunbathing skunk. “And, uh, don’t wear whatever it was you wore a few days ago. I dunno if you were trying to look like an eighties gym teacher or what, but those shorts were—sussy.”
“Oh my lord, you kids and your ignorance over the fitness guru that was Richard Simmons.”
“Who?”
“Never mind…”
I discover that this Gannett fella has already unloaded his boat for the day, and has come and gone from the lobster pound by the time I get there and Cameron starts his waiting shift.
I do happen to overhear, however, another older gentleman—Wagner, I think—talking to someone about how he’s about to go meet Gannett up at the pub, so I guess I will just have to resort to conducting this impromptu interview of sorts via my notes app.
The pub isn’t more than a short walk away, so I scramble my way there, abandoning my car down at the marina.
When I finally make my way inside Portside, I scan the somewhat crowded pub, looking for any sign of Gannett. My eyes finally land on him, sitting on a stool in front of the bar… and he’s not alone. Sitting on the stool next to him, yukking it up like they’re good buddies, is Marcus.
Fucking Marcus Antonucci.
I almost walk right back out of the pub, despite knowing how badly I need to buckle down and get a job. Christ, I’ve lived in Ternbay full-time for nearly a couple of years now, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy trying to find a job as someone who is mute… but I never imagined it would be this hard.
Still though, I don’t need another run in with Marcus. The only guy to ever break my heart so damn hard that I thought I would never get over him—that is, until I met Aaron. Aaron helped put the broken pieces of myself back together again and made me believe in love once more.
Ugh, so now what do I do? Sit and wait for those two to stop chatting so I can somehow weasel my way over to talk to Gannett? Or should I just wait and try again tomorrow?
I’m about to spin on my heels and walk out when the bartender catches my attention. “You look lost,” the heavily tattooed—sinfully muscled—man grunts. “Can I get you a drink, or are you about to go hunt demons and ghouls?”
I scrunch my face, raising my eyebrows in question.
“You look like that fool from Supernatural,” he explains.
I sigh, having gotten relatively used to being likened to Dean Winchester. Not that it’s a bad thing, by any means. I used to fanboy all over Jensen Ackles myself, and if that makes me weird for having jerked off to my celebrity lookalike, then I guess we can call a spade a spade here.
I saunter over and pull up a stool, keeping a fair distance down the bar from Gannett and Marcus. I pull out my phone, type up a note, and show the bartender my screen.
“Man of few words, I see,” he notes, starting my drink order.
I nod, showing him my scar.
“Yikes,” he grunts, grimacing at it. “Fight a bear?”
I snort, then type out my reply:
“Shit. I’d probably just stick with the bear story,” he teases, chuckling as he slides me my drink.
From a few stools down, I notice Gannett glowering at the interaction between the bartender and I, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s jealous.
Certainly appears it, anyway, but now that I have his attention, I see my in—despite Marcus also clearly glowering, but his ire is directed at me.
I pick up my drink and stroll down to the empty stool on the other side of Gannett, settling in there.
I clear the last message from my phone and type up a new one.
Then, I show Gannett the screen, asking if he has a job opening he’s hoping to fill.
“Actually, I do,” he replies. “Why, you lookin’?”
I nod.
“You know anything about lobster fishing?”
I shake my head.
“Do you speak?”
I shake my head again, pulling down my collar to show him my scar too.
“Oh, shit!” He winces. “The fuck happened?”