Chapter 2
pants on fire
Rowan
The doorknob clatters to the beaten wood floor. I stare down at the offending ball of brass and grit my teeth.
“I can fix that.” Add it to the ever-growing list of repairs necessary to get this house ready to sell.
“I’m sure you can, Mr. Shaw,” the realtor replies as she moves to the dining room where I’m sure we’ll find another irksome piece of hardware that hasn’t seen a screwdriver in five decades.
Judging by the state of this place, I don’t think Pops has been here much since Nana died.
Following a couple paces behind the realtor, I pass the tired picture frame on the hall table. A layer of dust coats the top—probably hasn’t been moved from this exact spot for the past twenty years.
Pops sits frozen in time on the edge of the dock at the lake house, his arm wrapped around my scrawny ten-year-old frame. I can hear Nana behind the lens, hollering, “Say cheese.”
“Well, I think I’ve seen enough,” the agent’s voice snaps me back to the moment. “Make the repairs we’ve discussed, fresh paint on the walls, clear out some of the bulky furniture. Should have no problem selling at or above market value.”
“Great,” I sigh.
“How much time do you need to get the property ready?”
I scratch the overgrown hair along my jaw. Three weeks doesn’t seem long enough, but it’s all I’ve got. “Can the sale be finalized without me here?”
“Sure. I can arrange for all the paperwork on your end to be taken care of wherever you’re at.”
“Good. Then I’d say give me a couple weeks and then we can schedule that photographer to come out like you mentioned.”
“That works.” She digs through her purse and pulls out a business card. “All my numbers are here. In the meantime, I’ll collect some comps for the area so we can begin discussing asking price.”
I stick her card in my back pocket and open the front door to see her out.
“If you change your mind on that lake house, Mr. Shaw, you let me know. That property would sell before it even hit the market.”
I offer a mirthless chuckle and thank her once again for her time. Pops and Nana’s lake house is not for sale.
As her SUV backs out of the cracked concrete driveway, I settle on the porch swing.
Nana with her morning cup of decaf and Pops with his hot chocolate—their imprints forever dented into the dingy cushion beneath me, a sunrise ritual memorialized in the creak of the chains that hang from the ceiling.
Pops hated coffee, but he loved his wife.
A mission then ensued to find a tolerable hot beverage he could share alongside her in the mornings.
He passed down his affection for the sweet drink to me—his only grandchild.
A taste preference I received relentless grief for by my squad mates whenever a Swiss Miss care package arrived in whatever no-man’s-land location we were stationed in.
As though the god of stubborn asses has summoned him, my phone vibrates with a call from my best friend and squad mate, Walker Willis.
“Dubs.”
“Shaw, did you make it there alright?”
“Yeah, got in day before yesterday.”
Dubs and I met in the Army’s 75th Ranger Regiment.
He’s a few years younger than me, but we’ve always served side by side.
He and I have skirted death, lost brothers in arms, and seen each other through all the crazy mess in between.
His roots may be in Texas, but we never lose touch when we’re not on post together.
“Say the word and I’ll be there to help you.”
“I appreciate that, but I got it.”
He heaves a long breath, both of us knowing just how stubborn the other one is. “I can’t believe you’re hanging your hat early, man.”
I lean back, run a hand down my face. “You know I had to.”
“Yeah, I’m just sorry it’s all played out this way. Life dealt you a crappy hand this year.”
“Yeah,” is my only reply. Not much else to say beyond that.
“Rowan, let me come help.”
“Listen,” I say, pushing off my foot to set the swing into motion. “I love you for offering, but I’m good. I’ve got a list of fixes to make to the Boulder house and a realtor all lined up. I’ll be headed back to North Carolina in a few weeks.”
He grumbles something in Spanish, and I can’t help but smile.
Dubs may have been raised a Texas cowboy, but he’s also a full-blooded Puerto Rican.
When he’s in protective mode, a switch flips and he’s all fast-talking and dramatic hand gestures.
Frankly, I’m thankful for it even if it’s only because my obstinance annoys him.
The incoherent verbal lashing continues for several beats before he composes himself. “How about your mom? She and Bri doing alright?”
I stretch an arm over the back of the seat. “Good as can be expected, I guess. Doctors say Mom’s still got several months, maybe a year or more, to a full recovery. Bri’s residency starts in August, so I have to be back to relieve her by then.”
Nobody plans for their mother to be in a horrific car accident that leaves her with extensive spinal damage and enough broken bones to make you question the validity of X-ray technology as a whole—I’m still convinced those first images had to be a hoax.
Most people couldn’t survive such injuries.
But my mom isn’t most people. With her multiple surgeries, physical therapies, and two-steps-forward-one-step-back progress, I was lucky to be near the end of my current military contract so I could request an honorable discharge from service.
It was years before I planned to retire, but the choice had to be made—Mom needed me.
Pops’ passing wasn’t on my bingo card for this year either.
If my grandfather were here, he’d tell me to stop wallowing.
He’d say he’s dead but I’m not, so get moving.
That life’s tough shit sometimes but feeling sorry for yourself won’t change what’s already been done.
Then he’d wrap me in a hug, tell me he loves me, and push me out the door with instructions not to come back just because I think he needs my help. Because he doesn’t, he’d say.
And that’s why I haven’t been back to Colorado in five years. Because every spare minute of leave I’ve had has been spent in North Carolina helping Mom.
I shouldn’t have listened to a word he said.
I shouldn’t have let myself believe weekly phone calls were enough.
I shouldn’t have convinced myself there’d eventually be enough time to make it out here to see him.
I should’ve outsourced some of the repairs back home and gotten on a damn plane, especially after Nana passed.
I pause, shaking my head. “Bri texted earlier. One of the gutters fell off the house.”
My childhood home has been in a constant state of disrepair for years. Now that I’m home for good, I’m painfully aware of how much needs to be done. And despite my best efforts and offers to pay for it, I can’t convince Mom to move. For reasons unbeknownst to me, she says she’s not ready to leave.
My hat comes off and I rake a hand through my hair.
“You’ll get through this, man,” Dubs says.
Knots pull tight in my chest. “It’s so much.”
“Shaw, you’re an Army Ranger! Where’s the dude with the badass bravado who goes toe to toe with a terrorist like it’s just another Tuesday?”
I guffaw. “Is it weird to say that actually sounds easier than...all of this?”
Dubs laughs unashamedly. “To a civilian? Maybe. But I get it. Just take it one day at a time. Tess is Wonder Woman. She’ll get through this. You all will.”
He’s right.
Teresa Shaw-Evans is a saint that could put all other single parents to shame. And my stepsister? She may not share Mom’s hyphenated last name, but Bridget Evans is basically her twin.
My friend’s tone shifts, all scheming and mischief. I brace myself for a subject change. “You know what you should do? You should find your runaway bride. Have another lake-house rendezvous.”
Hannah.
The woman who flipped my world on a dime five years ago.
Hazel eyes. Legs for days. Body that fit perfectly against mine.
The woman who etched herself into my memory the moment I laid eyes on her.
One night together and all I had to show for it was a note, the stained wedding dress she left behind, and my suspiciously absent gray hoodie. Damn, that was a great night.
“I never should’ve told you about that.”
“Told me? You told me nothing, Shaw. I pressed you for details, if you recall. Where’d you go? What’d you do? How many times? You were freaking Fort Knox!”
A smirk forms, but my lips remain sealed.
“Seriously? Five years and you still won’t tell me anything?”
“Nope.”
“That girl really must have done a number on you. That or she was the one.” He laughs, but I choke back the pins and needles scouring my throat.
If circumstances were different I think she could have been.
Dubs barrels on, playfully sparring as he presses for more. “What was her name again?”
Nice try. “I don’t remember.”
“Careful, Shaw. I think your pants are on fire.”