8. War
CHAPTER EIGHT
war
Trail Creek, New Mexico
March
I plop down next to my sister, where she sits with Bond—her fiancé—his sister Charli, and their friends, Griff and Dane. I’m not exactly feeling social, but meeting up at The Bee and The Bean, the local bakery and coffee shop Bond’s other sister, Clairy, owns has become part of my new normal.
With bloodshot and bleary eyes, I study my pecan coffee as if the delicious dark roast can give me the answers I’m searching for. My phone vibrates in my pocket again. I already know who it is—and who it isn’t—and it’s no one I want to talk to.
“War?” My name registers, but only barely. “Earth to War!” This time, Tuesday snaps, her voice cutting through last night’s bourbon fog.
I grin despite her scolding. I love that she’s growing comfortable enough to yell at me. “Sorry, what?”
“Have you thought any more about Bond’s offer to come on permanently at Davis Designs?” The man in question kisses the top of her head.
The bell above the door tinkles as another patron enters the busy shop. “No.” I drain my coffee, hoping the caffeine will kick in sooner if I drink it fast enough.
“Care to elaborate?” She gives me an expectant look.
Shrugging, I say, “I’m enjoying the day-to-day work, and I appreciate you offering, but construction isn’t my future.”
“Davis Designs isn’t Phillips Construction.” She says it gently, as if mentioning our father’s company will send me into a spiral. The single buzz of an incoming text is the more likely culprit of any potential meltdowns, though.
I slide the phone out and glance at the lock screen.
Warren Phillips
It’s been three months. You made your point. Now stop being a disappointment and…
The message preview cuts off there, but it’s more of the same. Another not-so-subtle demand I return to Dallas. Return to my rightful place at PC.
Clenching my hands around my mug, I mutter, “Fuck that.”
Every head at the table swivels, staring me down.
“Shit, I, uh, I mean, I know.” Sighing, I lower my shoulders away from my ears and loosen my jaw. Tuesday doesn’t know about the constant calls or messages.
Because you’re keeping it from her. The annoyingly perceptive voice is right. I am keeping it from her. Not telling her is easy to justify with the rapid escalation of contact. Tuesday is happy here. The last thing she needs is to hear how Mommy and Daddy Dearest are attempting to stack the blame for my dissension on her.
Giving her hand a quick squeeze, I clear my throat. “The entire Davis Designs business model is the antithesis of every tenet Warren Phillips ever held. Not only do you care about your employees and customers, but your focus is on building beautiful homes, not soulless skyscrapers.” Or anything that will make you money regardless of the cost.
“Then what’s the problem? You’ve made friends here, and we…”
I swallow the lump in my throat at her unsaid words. We’ve made so many strides forward in our relationship. I’ve learned more about my sister in the past twelve weeks than I had in the prior lifetime of being her twin.
“Anyone need a refill?” I ask, looking for an excuse to step away. I stalk to the glass counter and snag the coffee pot from Clairy, taking my time topping off everyone’s drinks.
Why don’t I want to stay here and buy into the business Tuesday and Bond are growing? There are tons of reasons. I don’t want to encroach on the life she’s built. I don’t want to be in construction.
It’s certainly not because I’m holding out hope that a chestnut-haired cowgirl will ride into town, begging me to run away with her. Nope. Not hung up on the woman who ghosted me after one amazing night at all.
I don’t realize my palm is rubbing over the sting in my chest until a small hand lights on the crook of my elbow. “You can talk to me, War.” I meet eyes that mirror my own. “You seem so, I don’t know… adrift, maybe?”
“I’m exploring my options.” I try for a cavalier smirk, but I can tell from her reaction it comes out as a grimace.
“Promise you’ll consider it, okay? We’d love to have you stay. The whole town would. Everyone adores you, even with the depression beard.”
I scrub a hand over my thick facial hair while Tuesday tuts.
“Seriously, if your goal is to go back to Dallas incognito, you nailed it,” Bond calls from our table.
I match Bond’s teasing tone. “First, I’m not going back to Dallas. Second,” I continue, gesturing to where Griff sits, eating a sea salt croissant, “a lot of the guys around here have beards.”
Tuesday’s nose wrinkles. “Yeah, well, the Viking can pull it off; you look like a yeti.”
“Damn, sis, how do you really feel?” I turn to her friends. “Clairy, Charli, be honest. Is it that bad?”
Clairy laughs. “I like it. It’s very mountain man chic.”
Charli thinks before she gives her diplomatic answer. “It’s definitely different from the way you looked when you showed up in Trail Creek, but it’s growing on me.”
Tuesday sighs. “Fine, leave it, but at least put some beard oil on it or trim it or something.”
I catch my distorted reflection in The Bee and The Bean’s window. My flannel shirt is unbuttoned over a plain, fitted white T-shirt, half tucked into a pair of worn jeans. My shaggy hair and shaggier beard conceal a portion of my face. The watch on my wrist is the only part of me that resembles the War of old.
The past few months have been… challenging. When I woke up that December morning to an empty bed, no Laramie in sight, I understood what rock bottom felt like: unemployed, estranged from my parents, needing to reconcile with my sister, and left in a cold motel with the faint memory of a whispered “ I’m sorry.”
There was nothing left for me in Dallas.
In a move that would have made Laramie proud—while climbing to the top of my impulsive behavior list—I packed up my high-rise condo, sold it and most of my belongings, and hit the road.
Despite the distance between us, my sister opened her home and arms to me without question—proving again how wrong I was for the way I treated her all those years. She and her circle of friends, the family she built around herself when my parents—and I—forced her out of Dallas, have welcomed me as if I belong.
Guilt swarms my gut, souring the coffee that sits there. Another reason I can’t join Davis Designs? I don’t belong here. I’m a single dark cloud in an otherwise clear sky. A reminder of the life Tuesday left behind and the pain that went with it.
“I’m heading out. I was supposed to be at one of the new sites ten minutes ago,” I say, ignoring the protest that chimes around the table as I wave goodbye. The fresh mountain air slips into my lungs when I step out of the cafe, and the sun catches on the face of my watch. I frown at the timepiece, one of the few things from Dallas I couldn’t part with.
The bespoke suits, the hand-crafted Italian shoes, all the trappings of my old life—I packed them away, hiding them in the closet of the small A-frame style cabin I’m renting here in Trail Creek, everything but the watch. The Breitling was an extravagant gift from my father on my 30th birthday, but the damn thing feels like a part of me. So even though it’s a marker of my former life and doesn’t match my mood or clothing, I wear it daily.
Laramie’s assertion that I fiddled with it when I felt out of control plays in my mind, triggering memories of that night—and me wearing nothing but the watch as I made her come. “Fucking hell, War, it’s been three months. You’ve got to get over her.” I curse myself, stomping to the Bronco I purchased after selling off my sleek sports car.
Once I’m behind the wheel, my phone automatically connects to the Bluetooth, and as if it knows, it rings. I don’t know why I do it, but for the first time in twelve weeks, I hit answer on my father’s call and brace myself for his condescension and anger.
“War? It’s about time you answered my call. I’ve been trying to reach you for months.”
“I noticed.”
“And you thought that was appropriate? To ignore me? To abandon your responsibilities? I expect this sort of behavior from Tuesday, but not you.” When I don’t respond, he blows out a long breath. “I’m, um, I’m sorry.”
If my truck were moving, I probably would’ve driven into a ditch at his half-hearted apology. “What?”
“I made a…” He pauses as if whatever he has to say is caught in his throat. “A mistake. I’d like to see you. To meet in person. For the two of us to talk things over. See if we can’t figure something out.” His voice breaks, and for a fraction of a second, I almost believe he means it.
“Figure what out? You told me you’d disown me over helping my sister after you tried to push her into a marriage with the man who released pictures of her without her consent. You backed him over your daughter.”
“So did you at first,” he snaps, sounding much more like the Warren Phillips I know.
“Yes, and I was wrong. So fucking wrong.”
“I’m not going to be around forever. Phillips Construction is your future. It was always meant to be yours.”
I sidestep the guilt trip. “If I remember correctly, you said there was nothing that said the company had to stay in the family.”
My father clears his throat, and I can picture him in his ostentatious study, fingers drumming on his expensive desk, my mother fluttering around him, eavesdropping. “It was the heat of the moment.”
My mother’ s muffled words come through the line. “Ask him again, Warren.”
“Your mother and I feel it would be best for us to talk in person. I’m sure you don’t want to come to Dallas, and I won’t be coming there.”
The scoff is out of my mouth before I can stifle it. “No, I can’t imagine you would.”
There’s a brief shuffle, and then my mom’s voice rings over the speaker. “War, baby, please. Meet your dad in Lubbock. It’s halfway between you. Neutral. The two of you can talk things over, and we can move forward and put this whole ugly… situation behind us.”
“A conversation isn’t going to solve anything.”
“Don’t say that! We’re a family,” Mom pushes. When the silence stretches between us, she can’t help but add, “Do you know how embarrassing this is for us?”
And there it is.
“So none of this is actually about Tuesday or me. It’s about you. Like always. Let me guess: the shareholders want to know why both of your children left the company? And your friends at the club are asking why they didn’t see us over the holidays?”
When neither of my parents answer, I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. My bitter laugh sounds in the quiet of my car. “So, thanks for the call. It’s been great chatting, but I have to get to work.”
“Warren!” The desperation in how my father says my name keeps me from ending the call, but I don’t answer him. He quickly fills in the silence between us. “Dinner. A drink. Lubbock, four days from now. Just give me a chance to talk things through.”
The tightness in my chest that eased over the past few months comes roaring back, gripping my lungs like a vise. The first thrums of a headache pound in my temple, but I don’t hang up. In a stranger’s voice, I say, “Drinks. That’s all.”
And I hate myself for it.
Tuesday
Hey, where are you? The crew is going to The Great Dane for karaoke and Flocked Up Flamingos
I’m in Lubbock
???
Why on earth are you in Lubbock?
I scrub a hand through my messy hair. It hangs limp, almost covering my eyes. Shoving it out of my face, I replay the many practice conversations I had with myself preparing for this. None of them are good enough.
I’m sorry. I’m meeting Dad.
…
The dots bounce and disappear until I can’t take it anymore.
It’s not what you think. I promise. He begged me to hear him out. I’m here for one drink to see what he has to say. That’s all.
…
Again, the bouncing dots taunt me.
Tuesday, please, don’t hate me.
I don’t hate you, War. Just be careful.
I suck in a ragged breath and type words I’ve only said to her a handful of times.
I will. Love you.
I tuck my phone away when she doesn’t reply. No sense in adding to my already strained nerves. This evening has all the makings of a gigantic clusterfuck. I should have told her about this before I left Trail Creek.
When I got into town about an hour ago, I drove to the bar where we agreed to meet. I picked one I knew he’d hate. It reminds me of Stir-ups—a ramshackle building with blue-collar clientele. Several TVs behind the bar play clips from a rodeo. The woman on a horse running at a dead sprint around metal barrels snags my attention.
When the bartender sets a second bourbon in front of me, I incline my head toward the screen. “Hey, is that live?”
“Yeah, it’s night one of the High Plains Stampede.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask for more information, but then a throat clears behind me.
Turning on the barstool, I come face to face with my father for the first time since early December. He’s aged in the time apart. Three months looks like ten years. He has bags under his eyes, and his pristine hair is far more salt than pepper. His suit is wrinkled, and his tie is loose around his neck. But there’s not a part of me that feels sorry for him. Maybe that makes me a bad son, but my loyalty to Tuesday outweighs any regret I have about the state of my relationship with my father .
I catch him studying me in much the same way. I’m sure my appearance is as much of a shock to him. My rumpled, practical clothing, my unkempt hair and beard. The extra pounds I’ve put on.
“Son.”
“Father.”
After that warm greeting, our stare-off continues. Neither of us speaks, waiting for the other to move first. Like predators watching prey.
He breaks first. War, one. “Shall we find somewhere to talk?” He eyes the bar with disdain.
Grunting in reply, I drain my glass and signal the bartender for two more. Once I have the drinks, I lead Warren Phillips to a small booth.
“So, you wanted to meet. Why?” I ask as I shove a bourbon toward him.
“Straight to the point. I can respect that.” He takes a long draw of the cheap alcohol, grimacing as he swallows. “Your tastes have certainly changed; no longer a top-shelf man?”
Without looking away, I say, “A lot of things have changed, and it gets the job done. Now, why did you want to meet?”
My father levels a calculating gaze on me. I can see when he decides not to bullshit me. “Come home. People are talking, and it’s been bad for business. Shareholders are balking that you aren’t there, and many of the clients you brought in don’t want to work with your replacement.”
I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “No.”
“What do you mean, no? I’ve been more than patient with you. This ridiculous tantrum you’re throwing. Grow up; you’re a thirty-two-year-old man, for god’s sake.”
“I’m thirty-three.” Is it petulant to call him out for getting my goddamn age wrong? “It’s not a tantrum. It’s me doing what I want for the first time. I’m sorry you can’t respect or understand that. But, no, I won’t be coming back.”
“Think of your mother. You ran off without a word. For all we knew, something terrible could have happened to you.”
“Given that I’ve been in contact with HR to take care of my off-boarding and final paycheck, I’m certain you were aware of where I’ve been.”
My father snarls out his answer. “Yes, with Tuesday in that hellhole of a town. How could you turn your back on the company? On our family? You’ve taken everything I’ve provided for you and tossed it in my face. You and your sister.”
I grit my teeth and force my knuckles to release their death grip on my glass. “Don’t talk about Tuesday. You don’t deserve her name on your lips. And the little hellhole, as you call it, has been a fucking sanctuary compared to what I left behind.” My temper flares, and my voice rises. “I thought I made it clear in December that I was done. And again, now, when I said no. But in case it wasn’t, I’m done with Phillips Construction. Done with you. Done with this pitiful excuse for a family.”
“You think you’re so goddamn smart, don’t you?”
People say Tuesday and I have our father’s eyes, but I don’t see it. Our eyes resemble golden whiskey, a warm brown; his are nothing but hard, frozen amber. Unyielding. Unchanging.
“This was a mistake.” I say it as much for myself as him.
“No, the only mistake was you siding with Tuesday and then running away from the consequences of your actions. As if the two of you matter to one another.” He keeps going, his face twisted in a hateful sneer. “You can make me out to be the bad guy all you want, but you stood by me for years while your sister was pushed aside. Do you think she’ll ever forgive you? Really?”
I sit in stunned silence as he continues his tirade. “Look at you; you’re a disgrace. A mess. Throwing years of schooling and connections away and for what? You’re no one’s hero.”
He leans back, radiating superiority. Shame roils in my stomach, churning alongside the bourbon. I don’t have a counterpoint because he’s right.
My phone quietly hums in my pocket. Grateful for any excuse to look away from my father’s cold, wolfish face, I pull it out.
Tuesday
Love you too, War. We miss you. Good luck tonight.
Attached is a picture of Tuesday, Bond, and their friends smiling and flashing thumbs-up signs.
Without saying another word, I rise from the booth, take off my watch, and lay it and a couple of twenties on the table.
“Wh-what do you think you’re doing?” My father sputters, red dots coloring his cheeks.
“Whatever I want. Maybe I’ll catch a rodeo.” And with that, I walk out of the bar.