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Chapter 1
Ryan Fields
Clouds. They’re breathtaking when you take a second to really appreciate their beauty. Fluffy puffs of white that float through the sky without a care in the world, looking down at the people below. I imagine them up there, laughing at our inconsequential worries and shaking their heads at the stupidity of the rat race.
You know, the race where most spend their life working to fulfill another person's dream and make them rich? Yeah, that's the rat race. The ones that put things like starting a family or vacationing on hold to punch a time clock each day. Then, they die.
I almost let it happen to me, trying to build up my business. My heart couldn't handle the stress I put on it day after day. That was my life-changing moment. I quit that shit so fast. No way was I going to die without ever truly living.
My gaze drifts up at the blood orange and hot pink clouds drifting through the sky over my own little piece of heaven. Texas.
I shift my Stetson back in place and continue working on the wood rocking chair I’m trying to perfect. The breeze feels good sitting out here on the back porch. With careful attention, I leave the slider open for Rusty, my dog. He’s a golden retriever, and my best bud. He likes to roam back and forth between the air conditioning and warmth of the Texas heat.
I stare at the chair. It’s been a bit of a struggle to get the angles of the legs just right, but now that I know the rocking chair works, I’m trying to carve patterns into the arms to give it a little flair.
My beer sits on the table next to me. I grab it roughly by the neck and take a long pull. Ah. There’s nothing like a beer, non-alcoholic, of course, after a long day. My doctor doesn’t want me drinking the good stuff, but that’s okay with me. I’m a laid-back kind of guy.
There’s a loud knock at my door as I continue with my carving. I’m sure it’s some solicitor, or maybe someone’s lost. Either way, I don’t have time for any of that. All I care about is my woodworking.
Rusty barks.
“Shh, boy. They’ll go away,” I say, scratching him behind the ears.
The knock grows louder, and I set my beer down. Rusty rushes inside, barking at the door. Fuck’s sake. I stand and stretch my arms over my head, setting my hat on the table. Working long hours on the furniture I create by hand takes a toll on my back, but it’s nothing like the stressful hours at the office ever did. This I can handle.
I move through my ranch-style home and open the front door. “Mom,” I say when I see my mother’s worried eyes looking back at me.
“Ry, I’ve been calling and texting you. I even sent a 9-1-1 message saying I was in the hospital.”
I step aside so my mother can bustle her way into the house. “You were in the hospital?” I ask as I shut my front door.
She lets out a deep breath, looking dejected. “Well, no, but…” Her words fall away as she moves further into my home. She pats Rusty on the head, and he follows her. She settles in the kitchen where my phone is lying forgotten on the kitchen counter. Without hesitation, she picks it up and turns on the screen. “Still works. So, you’re ignoring me?”
Now she appears hurt.
I scrub a hand over my thick beard. She has a knack for making me feel guilty. “Mom, I’m sorry. I was just…” I try to think about what I’ve been doing that would justify not returning her calls. Honestly, I never think about my phone anymore. I used to be glued to the sucker, and now… nope, nothing. “I’ve been busy.”
She turns her nose up at me as she sets the phone down on the counter. “Busy? Doing your woodworking nonsense?”
“It’s not nonsense.” I lean against the counter. “Besides, you never need to knock. My front door is always open.”
She moves comfortably around the kitchen, grabbing two tall glasses and filling them with ice and water. “Have you been taking care of yourself?” She changes the subject.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mom. The heart attack was years ago. I’m fine.”
She raises a brow, handing me a glass. “You don’t look fine.”
I glance down at my ratty t-shirt covered in sawdust and scrub my hand through my beard once more. “I am. I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone.”
Suddenly, my front door bangs open and my younger brother, Parker, rushes in. “Mom! Got your message.” He stops when he sees me in the kitchen, holding a glass of water. “Mother, you said he was dead. He doesn’t look dead.”
Mom moves from around the counter and sets her glass of water down. “No… I said, he could be dead. I didn’t know because he never answers his phone.”
“Okay, what the hell is going on?” I ask, setting my glass down next to my mother’s. “I’m not dead.”
Mom crosses her arms over her chest. “How would anyone ever know? You could die and nobody would ever know about it.”
Parker runs a hand across my mother’s back, comforting her. Now I look like the asshole son. “It’s okay, Mom,” he says, giving me a death glare like he wishes I would have been dead so he would have had a good reason for dropping whatever he was doing today to rush out here.
