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“They were like my parents. My father wasn’t as abusive toward my mother when they were alive, but once they passed away, he got worse.” He thumps his fingers against the steering wheel. “My grandfather wanted me to be in tune with nature. He wanted to show me there was more to life than the fancy cars and glamour, and money couldn’t always buy happiness.”
I try to imagine a young version of Atlas’s eyes lightening up around his grandparents.
“I never met my birth grandparents on my mother’s side, because my father made my mother cut them off because they didn’t fit into his plans of him being successful. You are so lucky to have known yours.”
He takes his hands off the steering wheel, strokes the back of my hair, then places his hands back on the wheel.
“Tell me more about your mother’s upbringing.” He uses his other hand to stroke the back of his neck. “You told me she grew up poor when you chewed me out for firing Gary.”
I tap the button onto the door, and the window slides down, and the wind slaps my face. “She was dirt poor. She told me there were days she went hungry, and she only ate wieners and beans. It’s so good. I used to love it as a kid.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s cut-up hot dog wieners and baked beans cooked together. I’ll make you some.”
He nods. “Go on, Boots.”
“Every Thanksgiving, my mother gave the staff the week off to spend with their families, and she cooked two feasts, one for us and the other for the homeless people.” I swallow, fighting back the lump in the back of my throat. “My mother had a friend who was on drugs, and my father forbid her from seeing him.” I tap my foot on the floorboard. “But she was sneaking behind his back and giving him money because he was poor. His name was Justin, and he was sick with mouth cancer.” I pause. “She paid for his medical and funeral bills.” I shake my head. “My father wanted her to forget where she came from, but she didn’t want to.”
He’s quiet and his mouth is twitchy, and I want to grab his face and kiss him softly. I’ve never shared that story with anyone, and I doubt my father knows she was helping him.
“I wouldn’t know what it feels like to be poor or go without, so I can’t relate, but your mother sounds inspiring.”
“Have you thought about doing volunteer work?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I write out checks to charity organizations.”
“Maybe if you speak to people about it, you can see it from their point of view.”
“You’re right,” he answers.
Atlas pulls up to the side of the road, and we both climb out, and I follow him down a short path and see a fish-and-ski boat tied to a dock.
Once we’re on the boat, he hands me my fishing rod, puts a worm on the hook, then shows me how to toss it in the dark water. We sit here for hours, and I don’t like it. It’s boring. This is what people did back in the day without technology. I fight the urge to grab my phone from my pocket and play on my iPhone, but I don’t want to be rude.
Mosquitoes eat the fuck out of my legs, and Atlas sprays my legs and my arms with a weird-smelling chemical. The lake stinks.
“You’re really enjoying yourself? This is so boring.”
“It’s relaxing.”
My line pulls. “I caught a fish!”
He puts his rod down, stands directly behind me, places his fingers on mine, and turns the knob, reeling the fish in. He grabs the black fish from the hook and holds it up.
“You caught a catfish. You want to hold it and take a picture?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
My eyes widen in horror. “Hell. No. Don’t bring that thing near me.”
He bursts out laughing. “How about you take a picture of me holding it?”
I grab my phone from my pocket, snap pictures of him holding the fish, and send it to him.
Once we get back to the lake house, he guts the fish, and I try so hard not to puke all over the kitchen floor.
“You cut up the potatoes and garlic cloves,” he orders.
I can be useful for something. I grab the knife from the cabinet and a chopping board, then I snag a pack of potatoes from the pantry before I cut them into small squares.
