5. Caleb
CHAPTER FIVE
Caleb
The day I’ve been dreading for weeks is finally here. I planned it all out in my head—running through the different scenarios and directions this conversation could go, practicing my lines in the mirror hundreds of times until I had every possible argument memorized.
Except now, my mind is just empty, and the nerves are creeping in, threatening to swallow me whole.
My plan was foolproof: pick up coffee and pastries for the staff to put him in a good mood, then sit down and have a civilized conversation about my future plans. Plans that do not include continuing to work for my father and training to take over the family business like he expects.
This morning’s routine started out like any other. Wake up, take the dog out, get ready for another day resenting myself for getting this far into my life without making a choice for myself. Each passing day becomes harder and harder to do so.
What I didn’t factor into today’s routine was verbally sparring with a beautiful woman over horror movies of all things.
I had no intention of even stopping at Wicked Brews this morning since Island Coffee Co.
is along my commute, but I’ve always been partial to Art’s home brew, and something told me to stop there instead.
It’s always worth the detour and the extra expense and today was no different.
The moment I entered Art’s coffee shop and saw her standing at the counter, I was drawn to her.
The smooth lull of her voice fluctuating with fervor as she spoke to Art.
Her fiery red hair—a perfect outward expression of that internal passion—was a stark contrast against the sharp blue stripes and pale tones of her attire.
The command in her body as she dropped a dollar in the Slasher jar, so sure of herself and her argument.
I had to know just how committed she was to it.
I don’t really favor paranormal horror movies. I just wanted an excuse to talk to her—I needed to know how far she would go just to be right. And, if I’m honest, it was hot to listen to her put me in my place.
This entire drive, I have not been able to get “Arnie” out of my head. Our interaction replays in my head so vividly that I feel like I’m watching that play out in front of me instead of watching the road. Her matter-of-fact tone, the way she crossed her arms in challenge.
Whoever she is, she’s not a local. Perks of being raised on an island: you know everyone. And everyone knows your business. Privacy? Nonexistent.
So, whoever she is, she won’t be here long. Best to stop thinking about her now. This morning’s coffee shop encounter was a welcomed distraction, but now it’s time to face reality.
I turn into the parking lot, passing the same sign that I have every morning for the last eight years: Hansen & Hansen Construction.
The truck screeches as I pull into the spot beside my father’s.
I inhale deeply, running my hand over my jaw as I come face-to-face with the matching sign on the door. The pit in my stomach opens again as I pull the door open.
My whole life has been about inheriting that second Hansen name and nothing else. I suppose I should be grateful that it is not called Hansen & Son, because then there would be no mistaking my role here. That would make it much more personal.
From the moment I was big enough to hold a hammer, my father has been carefully molding me into his successor.
Not that I ever wanted it . . . or even had a choice in the matter.
It’s been a known fact since my parents found out they were having a boy that I would one day join and eventually take over the family business—my birthright.
I still remember my first tool kit. I was five and begged my parents for one for my birthday—it came with a belt that matched my father’s and had all the tools he used, just in a smaller, safer, kid-friendly form.
I would pretend to build things alongside him and even traded up to a real kit a few years later.
As it turns out, I was a natural, which quickly earned my father’s approval.
Each week, my father brought home scraps of wood for our never-ending projects.
After homework and sports, my evenings were spent using those scraps to build anything and everything: birdhouses, a mailbox for my room, a workbench to store my tools.
Once I got a little more confident, I even built a picnic table for my friends to sit and enjoy time in our backyard hideaway.
Despite my mom wanting me to have other interests and hobbies, at the end of the day, it all circled back to this. I really enjoyed the process of building something out of nothing and getting to put my own creative spin on a project—until I didn’t.
At fourteen, my father started bringing me along to job sites so I could learn the ropes.
At fifteen, he showed me the books and began teaching me the basics of how the business operated.
At sixteen, he gave me my first lead on a small project that I could complete at the office since I was still a few years from obtaining my contracting license.
By age seventeen, I was self-sufficient enough that I could handle tasks on my own and didn’t have to interact much with my father at work.
At the time, I was grateful for the distance and the ability to handle projects independently.
But now, I see how much of a strain that summer put on our relationship, neither of us attempting to fix it in the years since.
Somewhere along the way, working together stopped being fun. My father stopped seeing it as a way for us to bond and just started expecting the work from me. I lost all creativity and imagination in the process, and it just became a chore.
I’ve felt this way for a long time now.
I’ve played my role well, and without complaint—mostly. We’ve been in this strange limbo where we are civil at work but our personal relationship is almost nonexistent. We only truly get together outside of work once a year, and even that is not without its struggles.
At work, I’ve fallen into a monotonous routine that feels like I’m trapped in an endless loop. All the jobs bleed together. Nothing stands out anymore. Nothing excites me. I’m in desperate need of a challenge.
The office feels oddly quiet the moment I step through the door.
The usual lively chatter is replaced with an eerie silence.
I forgot most of the guys are out at the job site this morning, meaning they won’t be back until around ten to load up the trucks when the weekly supply shipment arrives from the mainland.
We try to support as many local businesses as possible for our various jobs around the island, but there are some things we have no choice but to order from off-island, like when a client wants very particular light fixtures or a custom backsplash.
Our staff is relatively small, consisting of about twenty year-round employees, but we bring in almost another two dozen seasonal workers for the spring and summer to help with the extra workload.
A few of us—including myself and my father—are general contractors who are heavily involved in each project we take on.
Most of the guys have specialties ranging from masonry to plumbing to carpentry, which allows us to take on several projects at once and not subcontract out to other businesses and take away work from our own company.
Placing the pastries and coffee in the break room, I continue down the hall towards the office that I know all too well. It will be mine one day, after all, if this conversation goes poorly.
Nerves wrack my body, my heartrate skyrocketing with each step I get closer to his office.
I’ve wanted to say something for a while, but when I broach the subject, my father finds a way to artfully dodge the conversation, shutting me down before I even truly start, trapping me in this endless cycle.
No more. I’ve avoided it long enough.
The door to my father’s office is open, but he’s facing his computer with his back to me. I knock twice on the doorframe to announce my presence.
The chair squeaks as he spins around, and I see myself in thirty years. Same brown hair, just a touch shorter with flecks of gray sprinkled throughout. His eyes are a darker shade than mine, but harder, more seasoned—the eyes of a man who has lived through some difficult times.
I wonder how many years I have left before mine also start to reflect the scars I bear on the inside.
“Hey, Caleb,” he greets me.
“Hey,” I reply. “There’s coffee and breakfast from Art’s in the break room.”
“What for?”
I shrug. “Just because. I was in the area this morning. Thought it might be nice for the staff, but they all seem to be at the job site.”
The summer additions started a few weeks ago and have been a huge help so far.
It’s all hands on deck for this current job.
Our company has been hired to oversee the construction of a new bed and breakfast in Edgartown that overlooks the harbor.
We started working on this a few months ago, and the whole island is excited for it to open this fall.
“So…” I begin, my carefully constructed, well-rehearsed speech now dying on my tongue under the weight of his stare. We’ve never had the easiest relationship. Less so in recent years. When my mother died, I thought working together would bring us closer, but it’s done the opposite.
He dips his chin, beckoning me to continue.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about my role here.”
Lately, I’ve been envisioning myself doing anything other than contracting—operating a fishing charter, dabbling in landscaping, selling seafood to local restaurants.
Something I could do all by myself, a company I could call my own.
The possibilities are endless. Anything other than what has been predetermined my entire life.
I know I sound ungrateful. So many people would kill for a stable income and good job security.
New projects are popping up all over the island, and no one is going to fire the boss’s son.
Being groomed to take over is just what you do when you come from a family-owned business on the island. It’s what everyone expects of me.
But I don’t want to be like every other islander.
“What about it?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“I want more for myself.” There. Now it’s out in the open.
He chuckles darkly, and I brace myself for the pushback.
“You don’t think I wanted more for myself when I was growing up? You don’t think I had other things I would’ve rather done than this? Sometimes, you don’t get to do what you want. Sometimes, you have a responsibility—no, an obligation—to something bigger than yourself. Call it familial duty.”
Something tightens in my chest at his response. I expected nothing less—he’s been giving me the same speech since he first brought me around the business as a teenager.
No point in arguing with a brick wall.
I just wish I could make him see. Make him understand that I’m not happy anymore.
“I guess I just wanted a change, that’s all.”
“This is not the time for change. You know how busy we get with projects in the summer. We can revisit this in the winter when things slow down.”
But things never slow down. Sure, the warmer months are our busiest time of year. Tourist season and the spring leading into it means we are double-booked to finish jobs and ensure that homes and businesses are prepared for the population swell.
He leans back in his chair. “Speaking of summer projects, I have another job for you. Starts next week and should last you most of the summer, so I am going to pull you off the bed and breakfast job to focus solely on this.”
The tightness in my chest turns into dread. My window of opportunity is closing, and I have to put a stop to this now.
I open my mouth to speak but his phone rings. He holds up a finger in my direction as he answers it. It’s a short call, but by the way he swears under his breath, I know it’s not pleasant news. He hangs up and tosses the phone on a stack of papers between us.
“Everything alright?”
He pinches his brows together, massaging his forehead.
“Can you go meet Mark at the house over in Tisbury?” he asks, fingers pressing harder into his temple.
“The builders need someone to look over the measurements again. Some of the supplies we ordered came in wrong and we need to see which ones are still usable as is, which ones we can salvage by resizing, and which ones we need to return.”
I’m not ready to back down from this inevitable fight, but I need to choose my battles wisely if I’m going to win the war. Judging from his physical reaction from that phone call, this is one of those times I have to concede. “Yeah, sure.”
“Thanks. When you get back, we can talk more about this new project I have for you. I think it’s right up your alley.”
I humor him with a smile and head back to the break room to collect my keys.
Whatever this new assignment is, it will be my last. That will give me enough time to get my ducks in a row and figure out what I am going to do next. Maybe if he knows I have something lined up, he will come around to the idea of me doing my own thing.
One last project. Make it count.