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When I finally get home, I immediately go into the workshop behind the shed on our farm. It’s where my dad keeps all his tools. It’s also the only place where I can calm down after a night out.
I throw the plastic bag I bought at the Locklear Stop & Shop on the table and get to work right away. It’s my mom’s birthday soon, so I’m making her something special. A homemade lamp designed and created by Dixie Burrell. I’m not much on the actual designing part, but I do my best. I love fiddling with technical stuff. When a household appliance breaks, I’m usually the one to repair it. Or, at least, I try to before my dad finds out.
He doesn’t like it when I fix stuff around the house. He always says that’s a man’s job, and that I’m taking his work away from him, but I just like helping out, that’s all. Besides, work on the farm can get kinda boring. Plowing, planting, harvesting, rinse and repeat. It’s always the same tedious work. And here in my dad’s workshop, I can let my creativity run loose and make whatever I want. The sky’s the limit. One tutorial is all I need to watch to know exactly how to do it.
I grab the items from the bag and throw them on the workbench. Then I fetch the rest of the tools I need; some leftovers from my dad’s stash. Some bolts and nuts, and of course a lightbulb.
The items I got at Brandon’s dad’s shop lie scattered on the bench, ready to be used. A massive smile spreads on my face. It was so nice of him to give those to me for free. I don’t think he knew why I wanted them, but he didn’t even ask.
He’s not like the other guys I know. He doesn’t judge and always minds his own business.
I wish I had more friends like him.
Derek could learn a thing or two from his generosity.
And his friendliness.
Like that smile.
God, that smile.
I stare at the hardware in front of me. It feels as if it’s all staring right back at me.
Did I just …?
I shake my head. Why am I even thinking about this?
I don’t have any time to waste. I grab some tools and a large block of wood and start working on my gift.
“Dixie. What the hell are you doing here?” my dad suddenly hollers.
He’s standing in the doorway, giving me a stern look as he hangs a bunch of keys on a rack.
“Just working on a gift for Mom,” I say, trying to mind my own business.
However, before I can continue, he steals my tools right out of my hands. “In here? I never gave you permission.”
I protest, “But Dad—”
“No!” He chucks the tools away so hard they make a dent in the metal lining of the door. I jolt from the scare. “I’m tired of you wasting my time. You’re supposed to help your brothers out there on the farm, not play around with my tools in the fucking shed.”
He snatches away my stuff.
Why does he always have to be so mean? Fuck. I really hate my dad sometimes.
“I’m not playing around,” I say, folding my arms. “Give me back my stuff.”
“Why are you doing this? Can’t you just buy a normal gift for your mother?”
“Like what?” I scoff.
“Perfume. Flowers,” he suggests. “Hell, you can even make her some breakfast in bed for all I care.”
I roll my eyes. “No.”
I wanted to give her this. This was my thing. My idea.
His idea is to cook for her. I can’t even fucking boil an egg, let alone make an entire breakfast.
Working with my hands is what I’m good at. Technical stuff. But my dad won’t allow it.
He thinks it’s a waste of time, and that I should spend more time doing things on the farm for the family. It’s always about the family.
“What’s wrong with breakfast in bed?” Dad asks.
“It’s not my thing,” I say.
“Well, this isn’t it either,” he replies, throwing all my hard-earned stuff in the plastic bag again. “You’re a girl, Dixie.” He shoves the bag into a closet, locking it away. “Act like one.”
Fuck, I hate it when he says that. As if girls can’t like different things. “Why do you always have to be like that?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says.
Fuck, that hurts.
After all these years, he still doesn’t accept me for who I am. He still thinks he can make a better woman out of me and that I’ll change. I won’t. I am who I am.
I take in a big breath, eyeing the key in his hand. No point in shouting. Then I’ll never get that gift for Mom done. “When will I get my stuff back?”
He looks pissed, just like me. “Not until you start doing the right thing. Which is?”
