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Weak-kneed and anxious, I nod with the sudden urge to move. If I stand here like this I might vomit. I hoist the plank onto my shoulder again and start walking. Pop steps in beside me.
It feels good to have my blood pumping to all parts of my body. Although the relief doesn’t last long.
“And how does Wren factor into all of this?” Pop eyes me as we walk toward the treehouse.
“I love her. I want to be with her but?—”
“Dot isn’t going to let that happen without a fight. That woman was born to make trouble.”
“Yeah. I’ll do everything in my power to?—”
He stops and places a hand on my arm, causing me to halt. “Listen, Oliver. Don’t make declarations that you have no control over.” His hand falls away, and he hangs his head for a beat. “I don’t like any of this. I don’t like that Wren’s in Dot’s orbit. But you can’t stop any of it. Neither can I. If Wren wants to be with you…”
He trudges a few more feet to the treehouse and I wonder if he’s done with me, with this conversation. And somehow this feels worse than if he’d let me have it.
“Pop.” I lumber to his side and drop the two-by-four. “Do you hate the idea of Wren and me?”
Even as I ask, a queasiness rises inside me. I love and respect this man. If he doesn’t want me with his daughter, I’m not sure how I’ll deal with it. I won’t walk away from Wren; I don’t have it in me. She’s all I want and love. But if Pop is against us, where does that leave my relationship with him?
“Nah. You two are meant to be together. It was obvious from when you were kids, but it isn’t for me to decide or to get involved.” He places his toolbox on the grass and squats to open it. “Listen, we’re going to replace that beam.”
He points up at a rotting post on the floor of the treehouse. I’m speechless for a beat or two, trying to process everything he said and make the switch in topic.
“We could also rip those two out as well.” He gets to his feet and surveys the structure from several different angles. “Aw, we might as well tear it down?—”
“No.” My sharp blurt causes both of us to jump. “Uh, what I meant was, you can’t.”
I inch toward the tree and rest my palm against its rough surface as if to feel a pulsating heartbeat—the life force of this tree, the history and memories buried deep within the layers of bark.
“This…” I swallow past the sudden ball of emotions clogging my throat. “The treehouse is special. There’s a lot of memories, and just think, one day your grandkids would have a place to play when they visit their Pop.”
The image flashes through my mind, fast and glorious. Wren’s and my children running, laughing, and playing in this yard, up in the treehouse. Percy’s little ones clambering up the ladder, begging to be included.
Pop nods and something flickers in his knowing gaze, almost like approval or adoring expectation. He sees it too, wants it as much as I do. Then the moment is broken as he turns to his toolbox.
Evidently done with our conversation and my emotional ramblings, he barks orders at me to get to work on repairing the treehouse.
This is how I came to love working with my hands and building things. It was through the many hours and countless projects I helped Pop with. I didn’t realize it at the time, not until I came home from college and was asked by a friend to build a crib for their first child. The wood in my hands, the power to shape and mold, and eventually seeing my vision come to life—all of it transports me to a peaceful and empowering place where anything is possible.
The nick of my hand against the grain jerks me from my musings, and I stare down at my palm. There’s a small gash, some skin broken, and a small piece of wood sticking out.
I pull the piece from my hand. “Pop, you got any gloves?”
He pauses in his task, eyebrow arching. “What? Are you getting soft in your old age?”
I chuckle, rub my palm against my jeans, and get back to work. Of course, he wouldn’t use gloves. I’ll suck it up and check for splinters later.
We work companionably and get a lot done in a couple of hours. As we near the end of the job, I’ve just finished hammering the last nail into place when Pop’s the one to initiate more conversation.
“Why did you let the rift or distance with Wren keep you away?” He doesn’t look at me as he cleans his tools with a rag and drops each one into the box.
“I shouldn’t have. I realize that now. But at the time, I was trying to respect Wren’s wishes. Or what I thought she wanted.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, and a shiver dances up my spine. The air is cooling as the sun dips down in the sky. “We never really talked, just seemed to grow apart, and you wereherfather. The Grill washerfamily’s business. I felt like I’d be intruding if I just showed up.”
“The Grill’s mine.” His finger pokes the center of his chest. “I would’ve welcomed you anytime. So long as you don’t hurt my girls, you’re always welcome.”
While his admission is comforting, if not something I wish I’d heard or known all those years ago, I worry it isn’t enough for our current circumstance. “Pop, what about now?”
“What?”
