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And every time, I swallowed my fears…
For his sake.
Every time, I nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s no problem. I have the money.’
I didn’t have the money, but I didn’t want him to worry.
He’s my Little Clay. I remember when he used to call me “Sissy.” I remember pulling him around the house in a wagon. Camping out in the backyard in that old tent my Aunt Lacey used to let us borrow. We used to feel like two little adventurers out on our own in the wilderness, even though we were mere feet from the house. I’d read him Goodnight Moon over and over and over because it was his favorite.
I stand, chuck the phone in my purse, and then add the tablet. “I have to go.”
“You’re seriously letting him pull your strings like this?”
“I have to, Clay. This is my job we’re talking about. My boss asked me if I was up for this extra role, and I said yes. I said I could do it if I worked overtime. And now, he’s asking me to work overtime. I can’t be upset about that.”
And we need the money if we’re ever going to finish this house and sell it, I think, as I glance at the stack of bills on the kitchen table.
The three grand I owe the roofer flickers through my weary mind.
“What about ice cream?” Clay asks.
“I’ll have to take a rain check.”
I pull my cardigan off the back of the chair and shrug it on. Then I shoulder my purse.
There’s a long list of tasks that need to get done around here. I could ask Clay to tackle a few, but the effort feels like more than I can manage at the moment.
I don’t know if I could handle it if he came up with some excuse…
And that’s his specialty.
Excuses.
Clay is sensitive and thoughtful and incredibly caring. He’s also a master procrastinator—the best at finding reasons not to do work.
So, instead of trying to manipulate him into tearing up the remains of the old kitchen flooring, I head for the door.
He walks out onto the porch with me in nothing but his faded jeans and threadbare T-shirt. He never liked wearing a jacket in cold temperatures, even as a kid. His hair’s long these days, and he has it pulled back in a low ponytail.
“Hope you can have some ice cream when you get home,” he says as he walks with me down the front steps. They creak under our weight. “It’s the caramel swirl kind you like. Mom and I got heavy cream from the Simpsons Farm. It’s real fresh. And Mom made the caramel from scratch.”
“Wow. That’s incredible. Thank you.”
The fact that he has time to whip up homemade ice cream from scratch, but he can’t manage to do even one thing around this house makes my blood pressure rise.
I give him a half-smile in an effort to hide my frustration. “Thanks for stopping in. We’ll hang out another time.”
“Cool.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Hey… are you leaving because you’re mad at me or something?”
“No! No. Why would you say that?”
“It’s just…” He scuffs the bottom stair with his shoe. Paint flicks off. “I know I haven’t been the best construction guy. I just—I don’t know how to do this stuff, Gwen.”
You could learn.
I’ve been learning.
He hangs his head. “Maybe if Dad had been around more… Maybe if I… you know, like knew how to use a power saw and all that stuff.” He shrugs, then looks up, but not at me. He gazes out at the street. “Man, I’m useless. I can’t do anything.”
