Unfinished: How to Fail at Avoiding Your Ex (Songbird Ridge: A Year in the Life #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Ewan

The break room is too crowded for me. There’s one other person in here besides me, and they’re feeling chatty.

“Plans for the weekend?”

I slurp my cup of noodles. “Nah.”

Debbie, who works on the refiner machine, asks a lot of questions. I usually try to take my lunch break at odd times to avoid nosy people like this one.

But Debbie, who’s relatively new here, seems to have timed her breaks to overlap with mine.

She chuckles and says, “You always say that. I bet your wife gives you a honey-do list a mile long.”

I cut my eyes at her, and she’s glancing at my naked ring finger.

“Nope.”

“Well, if your wife doesn’t mind, why don’t you come out for drinks with me and the girls?”

She does this kind of thing. Debbie asks questions with a sideways angle that sounds innocent at first. But she’s trying to pry information out of me.

My wife would have no say in the matter because she doesn’t know where I am.

I know. It sounds bad. I might be a garbage husband. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m also fucking miserable.

But that doesn’t change the fact that I have no desire to go out with Debbie and her friends.

“Thanks for the offer, but no,” I reply.

Again, she laughs her dry, strange laugh. “You’re a tough nut to crack. Do you know that, Ewan?”

I bristle at the way she says my name. “Just call me Hayes,” I say.

That’s my last name, and it’s right there on my patch.

The boss lets us put whatever we want on our work shirt patches, as long as it’s not vulgar.

Lots of people go by their nicknames. And nobody really cares.

But it seems like Debbie has been asking around and found out my first name. For what reason, I can’t imagine.

I say nothing else and eat my noodles. She’s finished her salad and has just been sitting here yapping while I’m trying to mind my own business. And if I’m not mistaken, she’s about five minutes late to go back to her shift.

“Well, if you change your mind, you can always come out with us. Or, you know, bring your wife, I guess.”

Another voice cuts across the room. “Debbie, you’re supposed to be on the refiner.”

In the doorway stands the floor boss, Clover.

She’s glaring at Debbie. Debbie gets the message, packs up her shit and scoots back out to the floor.

“Pops says he wants a word,” the floor manager says, turning her attention to me.

“I was fending Debbie off just fine, but thanks.”

Clover smiles. “I know. But Pops still wants to talk to you about something. Don’t ask me what, because I don’t know.”

I ditch the rest of my lunch in the trash.

Most days, I’m not that hungry. Or I choose to appreciate the pangs, because it lets me feel something other than the barren wasteland of my emotions.

I know the way to Pops’ office, heading through the maze of hallways that lead off the factory floor through the room of cubicles, then up the stairs to the executive suites.

I’ve been here before, several times.

Pops does not look up from his monitor as I hang out in the doorway.

“Have a seat.”

I pop down into the fine leather chair, aware that the grease on my jumpsuit is going to leave a mark. This chair is more comfortable than anything in my studio apartment.

“What’d I do now?”

Pops grunts. Finally, he turns away from his monitor and pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

“Hayes, how long have you worked for me?”

“Seven years today, sir.”

“And how many promotions have I offered you in that time?”

“Seven.”

“And how many have you turned down?”

“Seven, sir.”

Some people call this man Santa Claus, only without the white beard. I think it’s the grandfatherly way he treats everyone. “I’m not your commanding officer. You don’t have to call me sir.”

“Force of habit.”

“And why have you turned down seven promotions?”

I give the same answer I’ve given before; it’s a nicer way of saying I don’t like people. “Others are better suited for it. I don’t want to be in charge of people. I make enough to live on, and anything beyond that, I don’t care.”

Pops peers at me over the top of the glasses.

“I’ve heard the same thing over and over again. But your military record makes you perfect to manage a team.”

“I’ve heard that before. But I like where I am. And I like the company.”

Pops leans on his desk.

“And as much as I tried to get good people into leadership, the best leader I have in the plant prefers working the floor.”

I don’t take this as a question, so I stare back at him.

He points to his monitor. “I’ve been looking at your records, and you’ve been contributing the absolute maximum amount into your retirement fund the entire time you’ve been here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know, the contribution will be a hell of a lot bigger if you would let me pay you more. If that’s what you’re interested in.”

“I don’t want a promotion. I don’t want to be a middle manager, getting reamed by upper management and hated by the people who report to me. I just want to do my job and go home.”

He leans forward. “And where is home?”

He has to know that already, if he’s been snooping at my file.

I answer with my literal address.

“I know where to send your mail, kid. But that ain’t home. You weren’t meant to be where you are right now.”

“Are you trying to recruit me to church or an MLM or something?”

Pops sits back and laughs. “No, kid. I think I’ve taken an interest because you remind me of my oldest son. He was a lot like you. Quiet. Hard worker. Had a lot of walls. Not a lot of friends.”

I noticed the verb tense. “He…was a lot like me?”

“Sadly, John passed about ten years ago. He was a good kid, but deeply troubled, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

I understand the meaning. “God, I’m so sorry, sir.”

He nods. “Thank you. So, I’m asking you, what do you want to do with the rest of your life? Where is your true home? Your true north, in your heart of hearts, because I want to help you get there.”

Is this a therapy session now? But I can see that he’s not having it with my bullshit.

The word home, the way Pops says it, the way it appears in my mind, is only one thing. And it can only ever be one thing.

Home is long, dark waves, slipping through my fingers. Sea-green eyes. Freckled shoulders. Nimble fingers from playing the violin and piano for hours on end.

The fiery spirit and determination, bursting with ideas.

Maddie. Maddie is home.

Pops has a trustworthy way about him. That’s one reason I’ve stayed at this job since my active duty ended. “Songbird Ridge. That’s my home.”

Pops smiles. “I didn’t know you were from there. I bought a cabin out that way as a central gathering place for everyone in my family. It’s beautiful out there.”

As I understand it, this man owns cabins all over the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Smokies, and properties in the Outer Banks, but now’s not a time to point that out.

I nod my head. “I haven’t been back in a while.”

“You should take a long vacation and go back there.”

I scoff. “I don’t need a vacation. There’s no one there who needs me.”

Pops looks at me for a long moment and says, “Surely someone there misses you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He stares at me for a long time. I swear to god, if he makes a “tough nut to crack” comment, a phrase I’ve heard more than a hundred times in my life, I’m gonna set this whole factory on fire.

“You have never taken a sick day in 11 years. You pick up every minute of overtime you can. You work every holiday, and I mean every Christmas, New Year, Fourth of July. You don’t participate in any of the company picnics or family days.

You don’t use any of the perks offered, like box seats at sporting events. You don’t socialize with anybody.”

Pops employs 800 people, and somehow I keep standing out. This is the opposite of my plan to lay low and keep grinding.

“I always order Girl Scout cookies from Dan’s kids,” I say.

“Kudos to you. You can pick up your boxes of thin mints on the way out the door for your mandatory one-month vacation.”

I stare at him. “But I don’t need a vacation.”

“And I don’t need a man on my floor collapsing from a heart attack at 32 because all he does is work. Go to Bermuda for all I care. Go home to Songbird Ridge. Do something. I don’t want to see you back here for one month.”

Have I done something wrong by working my ass off every day for seven years?

“Why do I feel like I’m being fired?”

Pops reaches into his desk and pulls out an envelope. He opens a second drawer and slips something else inside the envelope, all the while muttering to himself. Finally, he turns to me and slides the envelope across the desk, and I pick it up and open it. Inside is a set of keys and a lot of cash.

“What’s this?”

“Your vacation fund. And the keys to my cabin at Songbird Ridge. That should be enough cushion and sanctuary to help you figure out what you really want.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do for a month?”

“I don’t know. Write a book. Start a project. Start a business. Marry the girl.”

I stare at the empty spot on my ring finger. “I’m already married.”

I don’t say any more, and my eyes communicate the fact that I will not say any more.

Pops doesn’t seem fazed by this new information. Clearly, he’s seen everything.

“Then that should be enough time for you to figure out how to get your wife back, or get a divorce. Either way, it’s forward movement.”

I hold in my hand more money than I’ve ever had in cash in my life. And the keys to what I have no doubt is a luxurious cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, all to myself.

Pops knows how to speak my language. He knows all I care about is saving money and minding my own business, so he’s made it easy for me to say yes.

I know I’ve been an idiot, or I seem like an idiot for turning down one promotion after another, but this offer would be true stupidity for me to turn down.

And I’m truly grateful for him. “Thank you, Pops. I’ll see you in a month.”

I stand up and go to the door, and he says, “Somehow, I doubt it.”

I guess we’ll see.

The moment I arrive home from the plant, I kick off my work boots, toss Pops’ envelope on the bed, and go to the sole window of my studio apartment.

There, I open the lid of the tiny wooden box I keep on the sill.

Inside, the faded silver wedding band gleams dully in the afternoon light.

It’s silver in color only. It’s basically cheap metal that has been known to turn my skin green.

But I don’t care. I slide the band on my ring finger anyway.

Workers are not allowed to wear jewelry at the plant. Some guys get tattoos on their fingers, which is admirable. But I’d rather get through my day without thinking about her. I save up that kind of thinking for when I go home at night.

The cheap band fits differently than it did years ago.

I make a fist and close my eyes. The memory is still so fresh and feels like a knife in the gut. I married Maddie on spring break at Sunrise Beach. We had just turned 18, and all we could afford were a couple of shitty, cheap rings from the gumball machines on the pier.

As I do every day, I grit my teeth and bear the pain. Just for sixty seconds. And then I reach for the whiskey.

This time, though, something switches in my brain.

The pain that I usually feel is still there. Maybe it even intensifies.

Something else is there with the pain, too. Like a ghost from the other side, trying to get my attention through a medium. It’s trying to tell me something important.

I don’t want to drink to forget this time. I don’t want to shut up the proverbial ghost.

So then, what is that feeling that’s following the pain?

My eyes glance at the envelope that sits on the bed.

I know what the feeling is. It’s something I haven’t dared to feel in years.

Hope.