Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Rhett
Irolled out my shoulders as the sun was setting at my back. There was only another hour tops of daylight, but I was just about done anyway.
When his car rolled down the driveway, I peered around the hood.
Kylan, or Ky as I’ve been calling him since we were ten, walked up, a six pack of some new craft beer in his hand, wings in the other.
We were too old to be living like bachelors, but at this point our Friday night tradition has been going on for so long, neither of us were going to say shit to each other about it.
“Damn man, weren’t you working on this thing last Friday, too?”
I paused, scowling from under my greased-up baseball hat. He knows how I feel about this truck, even if I'm fixing some shit on it every weekend.
“She just needed some fluid. Routine maintenance.” I tightened the cap and lowered the hood gingerly.
“That’s why I went electric.” Ky nodded towards his new car that probably cost more than what I made last year.
“Yeah. You know that’ll never happen. She’s good as gold.” I slapped the hood and whistled for my dog.
Ky makes good money, lives in a new-build condo on the edge of town and is happy working behind a computer screen for most of the day. He might be my best friend—a brother to me, really—but we couldn’t be more different.
He thinks practically. To him, the truck I've been driving since I was in high school is just something that eats time and money. But to me, it’s the last piece of my dad I have.
He taught me how to drive a manual in it.
I picked up my first date in that truck at 16, hell—I lost my virginity in the damn truck bed.
My mom gave me the keys to it the day after my dad’s funeral, almost thirteen years ago, and I’ll be driving it ‘til it’s turned to dust.
“The game starts in a few; you got the screen up?” Ky asks and I nod, following him to the back yard.
We settled in, stretching out on the outdoor sofa and chairs, the big screen secured to the side of the house.
In reality it was simply a white tarp I found at the thrift store, but I recently splurged on a projector so now I had an outdoor theater.
A redneck version. It was cool for watching games though, and I knew the moment my six-year-old nieces saw it, they’d freak out too.
“Dude, did you see Beck’s wife is pregnant?” Ky asked, and I knocked a beer against the wooden coffee table I made, the cap landing somewhere into the grass.
“No shit?” I didn’t look at Ky but saw him nod from the corner of my eye. For such a quiet guy, he sure gets all the gossip immediately. Almost quicker than my mom.
“Well, good for them.” I take a swig of beer and lean back, trying to focus on the baseball game but I can’t. “So, I guess we are the last two lucky bastards?” I chuckle but Ky doesn’t.
“Last ones standing. We’ll see if they all show up tomorrow.”
I gaze over to my best friend and scoff. “They’ll show up. It’s your birthday.”
We’ve watched our friend group dwindle down over the past few years.
Everyone’s gotten married, had a kid or two, moved closer to the city for work.
Our Friday nights used to be a group of five of us, shooting the shit around the firepit in my backyard.
I couldn’t really be mad; everyone was going their own way. Family came first, I get it.
But now it’s just Ky and me. While I know he secretly worries he will never find a wife and have kids, something he’s always wanted, I don’t worry, which equally annoys him.
Maybe that’s my issue, I’m pretty content with where I'm at, with what I have.
Sure, a partner would be nice, but I spent my early twenties angry at the world and a straight up asshole in my love life.
I spent plenty of Saturday night’s getting into fights, drinking too much, and bringing home women I had no intention of seeing again. It took hitting rock bottom, spending a night in the county jail, and my mom begging me to straighten up my act to turn shit around.
Five years ago, I also started taking my carpentry business seriously, bought this foreclosed farmhouse, and have been turning things around little by little.
“You won’t believe who I saw coming out of the gas station on the corner of Main yesterday,” Ky starts again.
I reached for a wing, being eyed down by my bloodhound who would probably kill me for the basket of chicken.
“Who?”
“Johnny Kent.”
My head whipped so fast towards Ky I nearly choked. “You’re fucking kidding me? I swear if he even comes within a hundred yards of Desi’s house, I’ll run that fucker out of this town.”
“He looked washed up as hell, man. I doubt he was here for anything but to collect money from his parents. He keeping up his end of the deal?”
“According to my sister, he is,” I grunted.
“Good.” Ky threw back the rest of his beer, then walked into the house to use the bathroom.
I shook out my legs, ripping off a piece of chicken for my dog, who swallowed it in a millisecond.
My mind raced thinking about Johnny—the low life who knocked up my sister six years ago then skipped town.
He never met my nieces or spoke to my sister again.
I was there to pick up the pieces, making sure those girls never went without a father figure in their life.
Five years ago, I ran into him in a bar and overheard him saying some choice words about my sister, Desi.
That was the night I ended up in county jail, Johnny right in there with me.
Both of us with black eyes. Not my most proudest moment, but since that night he hasn’t missed a single child support payment.
I can’t say I regret it, though I promised my mom and sister I'd never do something like that again, and I’ve kept my word.
It takes a lot to provoke me now. But I'll always defend my family.
That’s not something you can shake out of me.
Ky came back out, nearly tripping on the loose back steps. “Dude, you want to tell me why your back steps are a death trap when you literally have a woodshop with every tool fifty feet away?”
“You sound like my sister.” I shook my head, eyeing the rotted wood steps. “I fix and build crap all day. The last thing I want to do is fix things in my house. I’m going to get to it eventually.”
Ky looked at me like I was delusional. “You got long legs anyway, jump next time,” I added, and we both laughed.
“You’re a fucking idiot.” Ky cracked another beer as I pulled a cigarette from my front shirt pocket. A habit I was trying to kick. I was down to two a day.
“And yet, here you are, hanging out with me.”
He had nothing to say back. We fought like brothers, but I knew Ky would do anything for me. And vice versa.
It’s why I agreed to go to the Bourbon Barrel tomorrow night for his thirtieth birthday. The bar was a bit too loud and rowdy, even for me. But he wanted to leave his twenties with a bang, so I agreed.
It’s not like I had anywhere better to be on a Saturday night.