Page 29 of Grouch-ish

“What?” His head whips in my direction, eyes aimed at me, hot like burning coal.

“Your son doesn’t need to step up like you did, and that’s a good thing, right? But that doesn’t mean he’s stepping down by being what he wants to be.”

“He’s twenty years old and talking about quitting school for the department. He doesn’t know what he wants.”

“Neither do I at times, and I’m forty-one.” Forget that I’ve just given up a job and have no plans for the future.

“You’re an adult,” Brock grunts.

“But he’s not a kid.” Maybe he wasn’t a gainfully employed adult, living on his own, and providing for himself, but he’s not a child. He has choices. His choices, and he needs to make them for himself.

Suddenly, I’m twenty-two myself, recalling conversations with my dad about being my own person, and not always Precious’s twin. I didn’t begrudge being a twin, but she was more dynamic than me. Social. Outgoing. And I’d been in her shadow ever since she was born three minutes before me.

Unfortunately, with the loss of my sister came some of the first choices I made for myself, resulting in a move to Atlanta and an engagement to Reggie. Both mistakes, but mistakes I had to make on my own.

“And you’re not a parent.”

The blow claws into my chest like it was delivered by the notched hammer he’s holding.

“You’re right,” I whisper, defeat in my tone but heat wrapped around the admission. With a nod, I drop the board I’d been holding for Brock, waiting on his instructions, and stalk toward his truck.

“Pear,” he calls after me, but I’m done with this man today. Hot and cold. Up and down. I want off the emotionally loaded, careening out of control sleigh ride.

I should send him packing. Instead, I stomp toward the lane leading back to the house and see myself off. He can fix the three fence posts on his own. Maybe he’ll have time to reflect on his family.

From the sounds of it, he has some mending to do there as well.

Day 4

Four calling bird(houses)

December 29

Chapter 8

[Brock]

Yesterday, I’d messed up. Like royally fucked up. Pear and I had a great time the other night watching movies and drinking too much. Then yesterday morning, her face beamed when I made her breakfast. Those blue eyes as bright as the day. Her cherry-red lips curling like a Cheshire cat, all sultry but sweet. Fuck, when she looked at me like that, the way my heart hammered could crack my chest. Even walking through the home improvement store and setting up to repair a fence in the freezing cold did nothing to cool the warmth inside me as we spent time together.

But then we had to talk about my son, Nick, and I went too far. Damn mouth. Running off the rails again.

Pear wasn’t being intrusive. She was more inquisitive, like she really wanted to know why I was so reactive and why I rode my son about his future. She might not be a parent, but that didn’t mean she didn’t understand that making the wrong decision when you are young could mess up everything.

I didn’t want that for Nick.

I wanted more for both of my kids.

When I finally finished the fence after hammering my own thumb three times, cutting my hand on the cold wiring, and feeling a numbness in my fingertips, I’d wanted nothing more than to call my kids and hear their voices. Unfortunately, today was the day of Melissa and Kennedy’s wedding. I passed on calling as the kids would be too busy to talk to their old man.

When I returned to a cold living room and quiet house, my mood remained at a simmer.

Without a car, Pear didn’t have the means to leave. Still, I panicked when she didn’t respond to the knock on her bedroom door. What if something happened to her on her walk back to the house? What if a cow had already gotten into the orchard?

The ridiculous thought had me cracking open her door to find her curled up on the bed, a blanket over her legs, a book near her head.

I didn’t want to disturb her, although I owed her an apology. Maybe more flowers were in order, but Pear seemed like the type who would be offended further by flowers. Petals on stems didn’t say I’m sorry to her. She’d want action, not reaction; only I didn’t know what that should look like.

And it shouldn’t have been something I’d lost sleep over, but I did.