Chapter 30 River
Thirty
River
Two years later
“Hello?” I said, pushing open the door to Dad’s house. “I have pizza.”
I juggled the box and the six-pack of Coke on top and shut the door behind me. The house was quiet.
“Hello?” I called again.
“In here,” Dad’s voice came from the den.
My father had the blinds drawn and sat in his recliner, feet up, watching the 2003 Niners-Giants wild-card game.
Dad smiled as I came in. “Smells great. Let’s eat in here, okay?”
I frowned. “Where’s Amelia?”
“Out. She met some loudmouth in a Camaro, and he took her to the boardwalk.”
I sank down in the chair beside his. “She knew I was coming, right?”
“Who knows what’s going through her head,” he said, his eyes on the screen.
I gritted my teeth. I’d moved out of the house six months ago to my own apartment not far from the shop. Amelia hadn’t taken it well but had never missed my twice-weekly dinner visits.
“What’s this guy like?” I asked, setting the pizza box on the coffee table and handing my dad a napkin and a Coke.
“You know the type—bad boy, leather jacket, no ambition to speak of.”
My jaw clenched. My sister was on the verge of dropping out of high school and had recently added a parade of lowlife guys with “no ambition to speak of” to her downward spiral.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“What can we do?”
“You could try talking to her, Dad,” I said, trying to keep the bitter accusation out of my mouth.
“I have, but she doesn’t listen. She doesn’t want my advice, son. She needs her mom.”
So do I.
I buried the thought. I had enough shit to deal with without diving into that black pit too.
Dad and I ate pizza and watched the game.
“Look at that,” Dad said as Jeff Garcia evaded a half dozen tackles and ran for twenty yards.
“You had moves like that, River. A sixth sense about where the defenders were coming from. You could see running lanes before they opened while still keeping an eye on the receivers. All options on the table.”
“Yeah, I did.” I swallowed a lump of pizza that tasted like clay.
“I was talking to Sam Blaylock the other day. He says both Chance and Donte Weatherly are likely to go early in this year’s draft. Isn’t that something?”
“Great,” I said dully.
Three years later and my dad was still holding tight to my imaginary football career the way he held the remote, playing and replaying it in his mind.
I cleared my throat and put on a smile.
“But hey, I have some good news. I secured the loan for another garage extension. Construction can start as soon as next month. Already have two clients lined up and two more hires to help run the rest of the shop.”
“That’s fantastic, son,” Dad said, his eyes on the game. “You’ve really taken the business way beyond anything I’d imagined for it. I’m proud of you.”
“I wish you’d be there more, Dad. Sitting around here isn’t good for you.”
“You have things in hand. You don’t need me.”
“Yeah, I do. It’s still your shop.”
“Nah, it’s yours, River. With all the additions…”
“That’s the restoration. We still need you in the garage. The customers ask for you all the time. Dropping in once or twice a week isn’t enough.”
“We’ll see.”
I sighed and cleaned up the dinner.
“I’m sure Amelia is sad to miss you,” Dad said when I returned from the kitchen. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow. Never hurts to see your ugly mug around these parts.”
“I can’t tomorrow.” I cleared my throat. “I’m going out.”
“With friends?”
“On a date. With a guy.”
Dad’s smile froze, and his gaze darted back to the screen. “Anyone I know?”
“No. Someone I met at the shop.”
My father nodded and said nothing else, and suddenly I knew how Amelia felt—lost and scattered. I wished I had Mom to talk to about a first date with someone who wasn’t Holden. My guts twisted with nerves but mostly with an ugly feeling. As if I were betraying us.
But there is no us.
After I’d left him in Paris, Holden had seemingly pulled his life together.
Late last year, he’d published a book, Gods of Midnight, that was now topping bestseller lists and garnering major acclaim from every corner of the literary world.
According to an article in Vanity Fair, he was about to embark on a thirty-city book tour.
Book tours and interviews, but not one fucking word to me.
I’d promised Holden I’d wait for him no matter how long it took, but the years were getting longer. With every passing day, it seemed clearer that he’d moved on. Maybe met someone else. Or lots of someone elses, while my heart was firmly locked on his.
I’d rented my own apartment to have some privacy, but every night, I came home to an empty space. Ate alone. Slept alone. Irony of ironies, I now had privacy coming out of my eyeballs.
That’s called loneliness.
So when Brad Martin, with his easy smile and nice eyes, asked to grab some dinner at the Mexican restaurant down the road from the shop, I said yes.
I had to do something that wasn’t reading Holden’s book cover to cover every night until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
I’d sent his journals back to him—they were never mine to keep—and dove into the words he shared with the world. Because that was where he was.
That was all I had left of him.
I blinked out of my thoughts and patted my dad on the shoulder. “What about you, Dad? Ever think about getting back out there?”
“Oh no, no,” Dad said gravely, shaking his head. “Your mom… She was the one for me, River. She was something special.”
“Yes, she was,” I said gruffly.
Dad’s eyes on the TV turned glazed and distant. “A woman like her doesn’t come around but once in a lifetime. We were living in Alabama when we met, you know.”
I knew. He’d told me this story a hundred times.
“She would’ve moved with me no matter where I was drafted, but she loved the ocean.
When I got injured, we came here. Easiest decision I ever made in my life.
I was hurting real bad. Not just my knee but from missing my shot at the NFL.
Seeing her face light up when I told her we were moving to Santa Cruz…
” His eyes filled. “That was worth everything.”
His voice cracked, and his body bent with sobs. I put my arm around him as best as I could, lending him my strength. But his tears tried to draw out mine; I teetered on the edge of that black pit of grief but couldn’t let myself fall in. Too much was riding on me keeping my shit together.
The roar of an engine sounded from the driveway, followed by a rattle.
“Someone’s got a hole in his exhaust system,” I said.
“That’s Amelia’s Prince Charming,” Dad said, pulling himself together, wiping his nose on a napkin. “Go kick his ass, would you?”
I smiled. “I gotta get going, actually. I’ll see Amelia before I go.” I stopped at the door. “You’ll be okay?”
“You don’t worry about me.”
Too fucking late.
Worry compounded on top of worry for him and my sister. Instead of holing up like Dad, Amelia was running around but not going anywhere. I hurried down the stairs just as she was coming in. She stopped short when she saw me.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Who was that?”
She immediately rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”
I caught her arm before she could head upstairs. “Hey. Talk to me. I just want to know he’s a good guy.”
She snorted. “No, he’s a serial killer. Dad got to you, didn’t he? Told you all kinds of shit about Kyle?”
“I don’t want to hear it from Dad. I’m asking you.”
Amelia’s hard expression softened for a second, as if she felt the distance between us and hated it just as much as I did. Then she hardened again.
“Who I date is none of your business.” She yanked her arm out of my grip and stomped up the stairs. “Go home, River. You don’t live here anymore, remember?”
Her door slammed. I scrubbed both hands over my face and sagged against the wall in the entry where Holden and I had once kissed. We’d mauled each other’s mouths until I couldn’t think or breathe and didn’t want to so long as I had him.
But that was a million years ago. Another life.
I went out, back to my little place that was dark and empty.
***
The next morning, I was at the shop with Julio and three other guys, a new team I’d hired as both the car restoration and the general repair business grew. Dad didn’t show up though he was on the schedule.
Julio gave me a commiserating smile. “He’ll snap back.”
“When? It’s been three years.”
“When he’s ready. How you doing? You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that every time I ask.”
I mustered a smile. “Then stop asking.”
“No can do, boss. You’ve been working to the bone, after hours, weekends…”
“Dad’s not showing up. Someone’s got to be here.”
“You’re always here. In the three years I’ve worked with you, you’ve never taken a day off.”
Not true. I flew to Paris. To Holden.
I pushed the thought away, but it stabbed me in the heart anyway.
Julio frowned. “I’m just saying, I’m here, bro. If you ever need some time off, take it.”
“Thanks, man. I will.”
I was lying, and we both knew it. There was nothing left for me but the work.
Julio went to handle a customer who’d driven up, and I went to assess a full body panel fitment for a ’67 Mustang GT500 when a familiar voice sounded from behind.
“Yo, Whitmore.”
Donte Weatherly stood in the drive, hands in his pockets.
He looked good—tall and packed with the lean muscle of a wide receiver.
He was dressed in expensive jeans, top-of-the-line basketball shoes, a leather jacket.
A thick gold chain hung around his neck.
His smile was as charming as ever; if he ever got tired of football, he could switch to Hollywood, easy.
“Hey,” I said, my stomach tightening. I set down my clipboard and pen and stepped out into the sun. “Can I help you with something?”
“Nah, man, I’m not a customer, though that Mustang looks pretty sweet.”
“It’s coming along.” I crossed my arms. “How’s football life? The draft’s coming up, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re saying I could go in the top ten.”