Page 5 of The True-Blue Romance

I’m exhausted by the time I climb into the truck to head home. The sun is low in the sky, and I’ve been working since I woke up with the moon. All my muscles ache and I’m starving. Food is a complicated thing for me. Growing up fat, I started to hate food at some point because no matter what I did, I always gained weight. At some point I started to love myself though.

I’ll never be like Beau, tall and broad, muscles brought on from hard work. I’ll never be like Joey, the kind of muscles from working out and eating a well-rounded diet. I’ll always be a fat kid inside, and I’ve made peace with that. I love my body for what it does for me, but it took me a long time to get there. Doesn’t mean I have the greatest relationship with food though. Maybe that’ll come with time.

I’m halfway home when my cell phone rings. Caller ID shows the bar on the other side of town and I let out a deep, heavy sigh. It’s not even dark out yet.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Lee, I’m sorry to do this, man, but I had to cut your pops off. He says he can drive but I don’t think he can. I either had to call you or the cops.”

Great. “I’m on my way.”

By the time I arrive at the bar, I’m halfway wishing I’d let them call the cops. My dad has been steadily getting worse the past few months. Almost to the point that I think maybe I need to drag his ass to the doctor. Sometimes he forgets my name, forgets where he lives, forgets the day of the week, but I’ve written it off as a symptom of his alcoholism. Not like the man likes being cared for anyway.

I park next to my father’s car, knowing I’ll have to find a way to pick it up for him tomorrow. He’s retired now, so he doesn’t work, just spends his Social Security check on booze. I stock his fridge with groceries the best I can, but he barely eats anything besides a grilled cheese, and I’m constantly worried he’s going to catch his kitchen on fire when he cooks drunk.

The bar has an overwhelming smell of beer and stale peanuts. David waves at me from behind the bar, pointing in the direction of my father, who appears to be crumpled to the ground, his head resting on a barstool. Epic. I head toward my dad and grab him under the armpits, lifting him up until he’s leaning heavily against me. I toss some bills onto the bar, hoping that’s enough, and drag my father out the door. He smells like a few days’ worth of body odor and beer.

He appears to wake up a little as I shove him into the back of my truck, a little too hard probably, but I’m honestly just fucking tired. He blinks slowly up at me, eyes glazed from alcohol, white beard scraggly and wet from beer.

“Who are you?”

“It’s Lee.”

He blinks slowly again. “Where am I?”

“I picked you up from the bar again.” I slam the door shut and make my way over toward the driver’s door, only to climb into the truck to find my dad freaking the fuck out. He’s trying to get out of the truck, screaming like he’s seen a fucking ghost. Jesus hell. He’s usually an angry drunk, not a crazy drunk.

“Jesus, Dad, calm the fuck down.”

He reaches forward and punches me in the face. Fuck. I rear back and jump out of the truck, rubbing my bleeding nose. God. I hope he didn’t break it again. He calms down when I get out of the truck. I watch as he falls asleep, then climb back in to make the slow drive back toward his house. When I try to unload him, he seems more like himself, but he also doesn’t seem to recognize me. Gone are the days of me helping him shower and showing him any ounce of kindness, so I dump his ass on the couch and leave him be. I grab some paper towels from his messy-ass kitchen and press them hard against my throbbing nose.

My hands are tight around the steering wheel the entire drive back to my place, the familiar leather creaking under my grip. He’s sure got some nerve. I need to stop bailing his loser ass out. Unfortunately, I live in a small town. If I stop helping my drunk dad, I’ll surely be met with scorn, so this is the lot I’ve been left.

By the time I get home, the sun is set, and I don’t have the time or energy to plant like I’d planned. I spend a few minutes with the goats, giving them pets and making sure they’re good on food and water for the evening. They must sense a shift in my energy because they don’t egg me on to stay like they usually do.

I take a shower, drag on a pair of old sweatpants, and fall into my bed. I curl around the pillow, tugging it close, and inhale the scent of Joey’s faded cologne. Despite the war of worry waging in my head, I’m finally lulled to sleep by the soft scent on my cool pillow.

2

JOEY

The weekends are always so quiet when Savannah isn’t filling the house with her joyous laughter and knock-knock jokes. But it’s the lot I’ve been dealt since I’m the one who divorced Danica. At least, that’s what Danica says. The trade-off of not having Savannah for three weekends out of the month is that I get her during the week and can ensure she has a stable environment for school. Danica isn’t evil, and I don’t hate her, but I hate that I couldn’t make it work with her for Savannah’s sake. Still, I think it’s better that Savannah has two homes than live in one where her parents can’t stand the sight of each other because they’re just so vastly different.

Savannah is the product of a one-night stand. Danica was attractive and sweet, meeting me toe-to-toe in the flirtation game on the hookup app. We’d split ways at the end of the night with no plans to see each other again, twin smiles on our faces from the easy chemistry. Eight weeks later I’d gotten the scariest text of my life. I hadn’t asked Danica to do anything, just supported her, and somehow that had ended with us impulsively getting married and trying to make a go of it. We realized pretty fast that chemistry in the bedroom doesn’t equate to a long-term relationship or a marriage, but she didn’t make it easy, wanting a custody arrangement that I refused.

All that to say, the weekends without Savannah around are tough. Most of the time I work at whatever event is going on at the farm, enjoying the distraction. Since I work most weekends, I get two weekdays free, which gives me a lot of time for Savannah. I’m very lucky that Beau is my boss because he’d give me anything I want to keep me happy. The curse of long-term best friendship.

I’m in the middle of cleaning up the food truck after a long Sunday of work when Beau shows up at the window with one of his don’t be mad at me smiles. I purse my lips and narrow my eyes his way before going back to cleaning, and he lets out his big ol’ chuckle that always makes it absolutely impossible to be irritated with him.

“I need a favor,” Beau says carefully, like he’s thought over each word.

I return to cleaning the counters. “Don’t look at me. I am not in any place to fulfill wishes right now.”

“Haha.” Beau taps the metal counter of the window to get my attention. I glance up at him to find he’s very serious now, contemplative even. “I want you to let Benji help you in the truck. Teach him how to be a chef, help get him into the local culinary school. Once the restaurant is up, maybe he’ll be good enough to help you for real.”

“Those are a lot of favors, Beauregard,” I say seriously, because what the fuck?

Beau looks sheepish, dipping his face down to hide behind his baseball cap. “Please, Joey. It’s a favor for me and Trevor.”