Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
TAI
Iwatch Hawke and Kasen drive away together before I return to the rink to pack away all my gear. The staff here are great and let me use one of the storage rooms for the bulkier items, but my sticks, skates, and change of clothes are something I take with me every day.
Call it needlessly pedantic, call it superstitious, whatever works. It just doesn’t feel right to leave any of it behind.
Having Hawke with me all day has gone a long way toward distracting me from Dad and his big plans.
The whole way home, my anxiety over talking to him about it amps up, and I almost wish that Hawke needed a lift again today so that I could put off the moment for as long as possible.
I want to talk to him, but I don’t know the best way about it, and if I think about how I’d prefer to be spending the afternoon—it’s with Hawke.
But he has his own shit, and I have mine.
He’s not the person I can lean on for everything anymore, and I like being self-sufficient, but damn, his hug healed something inside me earlier.
I know I need to balance out this craving for everything Hawke and remember that the only person I can really rely on is myself, but it’s been so long since I had anyone in my corner.
It’s one thing to talk to my colleagues and the friends I see every other week; it’s another for me to break down my feelings and be vulnerable with someone.
I haven’t done that in a long time. Not with someone who doesn’t tell me everything will be okay, with no way of knowing that’s the case.
Not with someone who knows that sometimes words won’t cut it, and I need the safety of arms instead.
I used to have Dad and Hawke I could go to.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve had anyone.
I pull up in our driveway, ignoring the peeling paint and the missing fence panels, and head inside.
I’m immediately met with a pile of shoes near the front door, a haphazard stack of boxes that I’ve completely forgotten what’s inside, and a dusty hall table covered in letters, keys, tools, and coins.
Normally, it’s easier to shut off to the mess and pretend like I don’t feel as though I’m drowning in it, but as I stand there and look around, I’m hit with that same feeling I had in my room: shame.
How the fuck have we let it get this bad?
Tears prick at the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them loose. This is our lives, and Dad and I are doing fan-fucking-tastic, considering what we’ve been through. So the place is a bit … messy. And doesn’t give me room to think or feel or breathe.
We’ll get there. We always do.
“Dad?”
“Through here.”
I follow the sound of his voice, past where the baseball is playing on the TV and into the kitchen. He’s wearing an apron I didn’t even know we had and turning on the gas burner. My panic immediately jacks up high, and I have to wrestle it down again.
“What are you doing?”
“Cooking dinner.”
My gut tightens as I move closer. “Do you need help?”
“Nope.” He picks up a cutting board covered in roughly chopped onions and pours them into the pan. The sizzle as they hit the heat and let out an amazing smell—but it doesn’t help me relax.
“I could stir for you?”
“You can sit over there and watch. I’ll let you know if I need you to jump in.”
He’s asking the impossible, but I do what I can. The whole time I’m watching him, it’s like this burrowing urge to get up and help. I don’t feel right staying still, especially when I know that I can do things faster than he can, but I force myself to stay put.
I can’t remember the last time Dad cooked a meal. He’ll make sandwiches or force me to down a bowl of cereal before work, but after the time he burned his arm badly while I was out, he sticks to the microwave and anything he can eat directly from the fridge or pantry.
The question of why is growing heavy between us, and I’m too chickenshit to bring it up.
So he does.
The smile he throws me over his shoulder tells me he can read exactly what’s on my mind. “No one’s getting hurt with tacos,” he says.
“You sure about that?”
“Reasonably. But I can’t test that theory unless I put it into action.”
I bite back my response about not needing to test it at all.
“I’m fine, Tai.”
“I know.” I don’t know.
He laughs. “Tell that to your face.”
“Can you blame me for being worried?”
“Of course not. You’ve had to deal with a lot.” He turns down the heat, meat simmering, and shuffles around to face me. “Maybe I’ve relied on you for too much.”
“You’ve relied on me exactly enough.”
He sets his hands on the counter and studies me.
“You’re the best kind of stubborn. What did I do to deserve you?
” Most of the time, I’m not even conscious of his slow words, I’m so used to them by now.
But tonight, it’s more exaggerated than usual, and I can’t help wondering what he’s been pushing himself to do while I’ve been out.
“You are solely responsible for turning me into this person, so you only have yourself to blame.”
His eyes twinkle across at me. “Then you know how capable I am.”
“Yes, but …” My gaze strays across the oven. “Things have changed. And I’m glad you want to do this, but I’d prefer that you wait until I’m home before you take any big steps.”
“Big steps? It’s dinner.”
I point to the scar on his dominant arm. “Do we want a repeat of that?”
“It was five years ago. I’ve been doing really good, and I can manage to cook up a bit of ground beef.”
His voice is bordering on impatient, and I don’t want us to end up in a fight.
The thing is, this is good. Dad being motivated to make changes in his life is supposed to be something that makes me feel hopeful, but I’m scared to death.
I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want the anxiety to eat at me or to feel three steps away from screaming into my pillow, and what I really want is to be encouraging and supportive.
Instead, this change, this house, my life are suffocating. I need to get out, go for a walk or something, but I can’t leave while the oven is on.
“Belli said you’re going to work at the cafe.”
He hums, turning back to check on dinner. “Yeah, we worked something out.”
“When were you going to tell me about it?”
He pauses in stirring the meat. “Not sure.”
Suspicion prickles up my spine. “Were you going to tell me about it?”
If he’s planning on going in there during the week, I’d be at work, so there’s no way I’d find out if he told people not to mention it.
He finally turns off the burner, and the pressure in my chest eases. “I didn’t want to say something in case I’m thrown out of there on the first day.”
“You really think Belli would do that?”
“I really think Belli wants to give me a chance, but it’s her shop. If I fuck up, she won’t have a choice.”
“People always have a choice.”
“And I didn’t want you to hold it against her if she has to kick me out of there.” He hands over two plates. “Put these on the table, would you?”
I jump up to help, and just as we’ve finished setting everything out, there’s a knock at the front door. “Expecting visitors?”
“Not me.”
Considering Dad has more people stop around than I do, I’m still expecting it to be for him, right until I open the front door.
“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” Hawke asks.
Something flips over in my gut. “Sorry. Forgot to turn it off silent once I finished work.”
“All good. I was only asking what your plans were this evening, anyway.”
“Ah …” As much as I’d love to take off with him, Dad cooking for us for the first time in years is sort of a big deal. “Just about to sit down to dinner with Dad.”
“Oh.” Hawke takes a step back. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“No, all good.” I want to invite him to stay, but the reminder of everything our house is hiding stops the words from getting free.
I’m so glad we did the lawns last week, but I don’t think it’s made all that much difference.
So the words grow heavy on my tongue, and eventually, Hawke smiles awkwardly.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“If you can handle all that attention again.”
“Somehow, I think I’ll manage.” He laughs and starts down the stairs before I remember to ask him how the drive home was.
“How did things go with Kasen?”
His smile tightens. “He didn’t say a word to me.”
“Not even to tell you to shut up?”
“Nope.” He’s forcing his tone to stay upbeat. “But there’s always next time.”
We stare at each other for a beat, and I swear right now, he needs me as much as I probably need him. But before I can give in to that want, I say, “Good night.”
He gets the message. “Good night, Barrett.”
I watch him leave before joining Dad back at the table.
“Was that Hawke I heard?” he asks.
“Yeah. He helped me out with training today.”
“Really?” Dad’s happiness fills his face. “You should have asked him to stay for dinner.”
There’s no way in hell I’m telling Dad the real reason I wouldn’t let Hawke step foot inside. It will only make him feel bad. “Please. I need to make sure you’re not going to poison me first before we start having guests over.”
That distracts him. “It’s ground beef. How am I supposed to poison people with that?”
“We’ll see, I guess.” But despite my teasing, I fill up my plate with tacos and wolf it all down. They taste exactly like they used to, and the familiarity, the joking around, the way Dad excitedly talks about work … I ache for the days when this used to be normal.
I finish up with a groan, stomach stretched to capacity. “So can I expect your homemade apple pie tomorrow night?”
“Maybe not tomorrow,” he says, wiping his mouth. “But one day. I can promise you that.”