3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
WESTON
T he engine of my 1965 Ford Mustang Shelby GT350 reverberated through my home garage, a testament to the successful tweaks I’d made. This space, my personal sanctuary, stood as the only completed room in the house I had ambitiously bought as a fixer-upper last year. The rest of my home was still a work in progress. But here, among the scattered car parts, tools, and half-completed projects, I found a sense of peace, doing something that was purely for me.
Turning this garage into my workshop had its downsides—like parking my truck on the curb until my additional garage was completed. But that was a small price to pay for the hours of contentment this place offered me .
Not wanting to risk a repeat of Saturday, I’d skipped my scheduled run this morning and opted to work on my car instead. The way Mom and Brenda had coddled me yesterday at church made me wonder if Brenda had somehow found out about the incident. Did she talk to the officer? Never mind. There was nothing I could do about it now. But I could fix this ignition .
Crouched beside the Mustang, I gave the engine another listen. It was better, but not right, a wheeze replacing the earlier grumble. The rolled-up sleeves of my black button-up shirt dug into my triceps, just annoying enough to disturb my concentration. I shrugged, attempting to loosen my shirt. With a twist of the key, I turned off the engine and lowered myself back onto my red mechanic creeper, rolling underneath the vehicle with a familiarity born from countless hours of tinkering.
As I once again emerged from under the car to test out my modifications, an unexpected ringing cut through the silence. I wiped my hands on an already soiled rag and walked to my workbench to retrieve my phone. A reminder about a meeting today flashed across the screen. But my heart faltered as the date caught my attention—tomorrow would’ve been my dad’s birthday .
Suddenly, I was lost in a whirlpool of guilt. Thoughts of his insurance company, his dream that I had to continue, cascaded over me. I’d taken over Trust Insured when I was nineteen, abandoning my degree and aspirations of becoming a mechanical engineer.
Everyone assumed I’d step into his shoes and uphold his legacy. They expected me to run the company he had painstakingly built over decades, not indulge in creating furniture or restoring classic cars.
It wasn’t a matter of money. Between Dad’s life insurance payout and my shares in Trust Insured, I almost had more money than I knew what to do with.
But I took over his company for personal reasons. In the quiet aftermath of Dad’s departure from this world, the bones of the business he’d built were held together by the board members. They were like custodians, ensuring that the heart of his legacy kept beating, but they weren’t committed the way I was.
For me, it went deeper. Each day, I intertwined my fingers with the pulse of the company, feeling its rhythm, its lifeblood. It wasn’t just a business; it was a part of him, a part of us. In the intricacies of deals and decisions, I sought a connection to Dad.
Yet, amidst the responsibilities and the relentless drive to honor his memory, there was a part of me that longed for something different. I cast a last glance at the Mustang. I saw not just a car, but a tangible manifestation of the life I yearned for. A life away from my desk job, a life where I could freely work with my hands, solve problems, and create.
The time on my phone glared at me, a silent reprimand. Enough. The company, the last lingering connection to my father, needed me.
Reluctantly, I scrubbed my hands with a pumice hand cleanser, the citrus liquid cutting through the pervading oil and grease. Once clean, I rolled down my sleeves, my fingers clumsy as they buttoned the cuffs. I slipped on my suit jacket, the weight of it suffocating.
When I arrived at the office, I found Demi, our company receptionist, leaving as I approached the entrance. She paused and held the large glass door open for me. Her short auburn hair was neatly styled, as always, and her new engagement ring sparkled in the sunlight.
“You’ve been scarce around here,” she observed, a gentle teasing in her tone. “Training for the Ironman again? Isn’t that just around the corner?”
Her words nudged at a hidden tension. The race looming over my thoughts like a black cloud. I forced a small smile, trying to mask my apprehension. “Actually, it’s in two weeks,” I said. I traded places with her and took hold of the door.
“Well, Freddie and I are praying for you,” she said with a sympathy that grated on my nerves.
“Thanks,” I replied, as she made her way down the steps.
The workday dragged along. Everything seemed more tiresome than usual. Eventually, I gave up trying to be productive and left at lunchtime to go home and train. Well, not home. I was staying at my best friend Gray’s house while he traveled for a year. My house was currently a shell, under extensive renovations, so this was just temporary, but it was better than a hotel. He owned a large modern family home next to a gorgeous strip of the beach, so at least my run would be scenic. I arrive at his place and decided to skip lunch. I changed into my running gear and hit the beach.
Two hours later, I stumbled back into the house, exhausted. My body didn’t seem to have my back like it used to. What was wrong with me? Would I even be ready for this race?
Kicking off my shoes, I went in search of water. As I moved into the open plan lounge, an array of earth tones greeted me. The wooden and leather furniture that filled the room had an unmistakable masculine air. I chuckled to myself. Gray would have to agree to more color in this space when Elle, his more eclectic wife, moved in with him after their kayaking trip.
Uninvited thoughts of Elle’s younger sister, Rebecca Knight, invaded my mind. On paper, Rebecca was faultless—kind, vibrant, a beacon of positivity. Yet, she grated on my nerves. She seemed too polished, always ready with a smile, always eager to lend a hand. It felt rehearsed. I was convinced that behind the mask lurked the real Rebecca—a person I had yet to meet. Maybe it was for the better that she was so fake. Because she was beautiful . A fact even I couldn’t ignore. If she had been both authentic and attractive, the old me might have been drawn to her. Either way, it didn’t matter. I was a different person now.
Marriage? That ship had sailed. I’d seen firsthand how unfairly life could snatch away those you love. To me, happiness was a cruel illusion, and I had no intention of being its next victim. I’d rather stay alone than endure another loss. Solitude had become my shield, my haven. It was a point of contention between me and God. I believed in Him, in all the important stuff, but I honestly struggled to wrap my head around why He’d put me through so much suffering. I couldn’t understand it.
Similarly, Rebecca couldn’t understand the concept of ‘just acquaintances’. At our first encounter at the church summer camp last year, she’d got it in her head that we could be friends. But I could never relate to someone like her. It was clear she didn’t know pain—not the kind that hollows you out and leaves you gasping for air.
So, I’d kept my distance, put up walls, and hoped she’d think I was just some jerk who couldn’t stand being around her. That way, she’d give up, right? Wrong. She breezed right past my boundaries like they were made of cobwebs, not concrete. At Gray’s wedding, I tried every trick in the book to avoid the maid of honor and best man dance, thinking it would be the final straw for her. But she didn’t back down, not even a bit. And then, there was that surprise birthday party. I never wanted it, never asked for it. It was an intrusion, an unwelcome gesture. Thankfully, she lived in Atlanta, so dodging her wasn’t a full-time job. Just an every-now-and-then kind of torture.
A grumble from my stomach interrupted my thoughts and propelled me to the kitchen. I inhaled the food left in the fridge. It was just three pickles, a few slices of cheese, and stale bread. A part of me felt like it was appropriate for me to eat stale food after a day like today .
While chewing on the last tangy pickle, I checked my phone. Darcy had sent over a snapshot that captured Eeyore’s “Who, me?” expression. He sat beside the remnants of what used to be her shoe, looking innocent as ever. I chuckled, even though the picture was yet another unwanted reminder of Rebecca.
The woman who thought apologizing with a puppy was normal. The day she’d showed up with that stray bundle of fur, I was ready to march it straight to the pound. I remember staring at her, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and frustration. She’d found a stray, and decided that I, of all people, needed a dog. A dog is a lifetime commitment, not a peace offering. I’d told her as much, too, with all the irritation I could muster. Fortunately, Darcy went absolutely gaga over him and begged me to let her adopt him. Of course, I’d agreed.
I’d never pictured myself as a dog person. Yet, now I embraced the label of dog lover every Saturday. While Darcy worked, I played dog-sitter. There was something about the little pooch, with his boundless energy and quirky antics, that began to grow on me. In fact, for such a small dog, he had more personality than half the people I know.
But I’d never told Rebecca that. No, she didn’t get to know that her presumptuous ‘apology’ actually worked out. Yet, every time I said his name, or I saw his tail wagging, I couldn’t help but think of her and that annoying, unexpected way she had of getting under my skin.
My phone pinged once more, and a message from Gray’s rental agent popped up. She mentioned she had placed the keys to the garden cottage in the birdhouse outside and instructed me to pass them to the new guest arriving soon. Yikes, I need to take a shower.
I rushed to the front door, frustrated that I had to cut my shower short. My T-shirt stuck to my back as it soaked up the water that my towel didn’t have time to dry. The incessant knocking hurried my steps. I fumbled to undo the latch and open the door.
I shook my head, half-convinced I was trapped in some vivid dream. There she was, Rebecca Knight, planted firmly on my doorstep as if my mind had willed her into existence. I drank in her appearance. She was as breathtaking as ever. But reality hit when she spoke.
“Weston,” she said, her tone infused with a hesitant reluctance. There was a sheepishness in her demeanor, a bracing for the chilly reception she expected from me. Part of me felt a pang of regret at her wariness, an unpleasant reminder of the distance I had put between us. I quickly quashed that sentiment though, I was happy alone. Argh. I couldn’t deal with this.
“No. Just no,” I said. My survival instincts kicked in and my arm shut the door. Before it closed, I caught a glimpse of utter disbelief on her face.
“Weston Hubert Foster, you open up this door this instant!” Rebecca shouted from the other side of the door.
I couldn’t suppress an eye roll. Did Gray have to put my full name on his wedding certificate? I heard Rebecca start up with the knocking again. Gray has got some explaining to do . I grabbed my phone and searched for his number. I didn’t bother greeting him.
“Dude, why is Rebecca Knight at my door?” I blurted out.
From the other end, Gray’s hesitation only added to my confusion. “Um, she’s the guest. The one who needs the keys.”
“The what now?” I stammered, my brain struggling to keep up. “Why didn’t you tell me she was going to be staying in the cottage?”
“Chill out, bro. I didn’t tell you because you wouldn’t have agreed to her staying there if you knew about it. But I promised the space to her long ago. It’s only two weeks, you’ll survive. ”
“Only two weeks?”
“In the bigger scheme of things, two weeks is nothing. Plus, if you ask her nicely, she may even be willing to be your support team for Ironman. I’m not there to meet you at the checkpoints and keep tabs on you. She’s an assistant to a sports nutritionist, you know,” Gray said, as if what he was suggesting was the solution to my every problem.
“Very funny. Not going to happen.”
“Then who? Your sister can’t help you on a Saturday. Weston, you don’t have any friends.”
“Don’t go there, Gray,” I warned and glanced toward the door because the knocking had stopped. Rebecca was now wildly gesturing at one of the lounge windows. I turned away from her because Gray was calling my name.
“Hello… Earth to Weston?”
“What?” I asked, annoyed at how Rebecca absorbed so much of my attention.
“I said, who’s going to help you, then? You can’t race without a support team.”
“Josh will help me. I told you I’d make a plan, and I did,” I said firmly. I didn’t tell Gray that Josh hadn’t exactly confirmed, but I was sure he would do it .
“Either way, Becky is staying in the cottage. I’m counting on you to be the bigger person and deal with this maturely. Wait a second... bro, Elle says you locked Becky outside? What gives?”
“I just needed a moment.”
“Not okay. Come on, man,” Gray said and groaned into the phone.
“You’re right. I’ll deal with this.”
I ended the call and took a few moments to process my conversation with Gray. Rebecca had been out there for five minutes already. What were a few more?