I shudder at those possibilities because I am so fucking tangled up in finding answers; I can’t imagine a scenario where I never get them. How will I be able to move on?
Another hand through my hair, and I stop, remembering the way Beck tugged me as I sucked her, holding her full breast in my hand as I did.
I need answers so I can let go and move forward. I can’t be tied to the past and reaching for a future–not if I expect Beck to move on, too.
We’re doing it together.
I pull up in front of a large farm-style looking house. I grew up in a regular home much like this one because even though my dad was a millionaire, he never lived like one. Sure, I did have all the things I wanted, but I worked for them. Memorized parts from his car guide, watched him take apart a carburetor, then I was tasked with putting it back together, you name it, and I did it. It was because of his work ethic and humble lifestyle that I am now a well-respected mechanic as well as the CEO of Wrench Kings. Had he just given in to all my wants and brushed me off, I’d probably be in a beach house somewhere, living off his money, without a single prospect on the horizon.
There isn't a single thing my dad did that doesn’t make me proud. I only wish he was here to watch me raise my own kids the same way. To be their honorable role model just like he was.
Before exiting my car, I fire off a text message to Beck.
Beau:Got here fine. It’s an old farmhouse. White paint, black lacquer shutters with a red door. Wrap-around porch. Rockers out. Looks nice.
Beck:Sounds gorgeous.
Beau:I grew up in a similar style home
Beck:Do you have any pictures?
Beck:Of your childhood home, I mean
Beau:Yeah, somewhere. I’ll show you sometime.
Beck:I’d love that.
Beck:Good luck. I wish I could be there to give you a supportive hug and kiss.
Beau:I wish you were here too.
Beau:Give Jetpack a kiss for me. Text you when I’m done.
She sends a photo of Jett, his blonde hair standing on end, squishy cheeks pink from sleep. He’s smiling in his high chair, one hand death-gripping an applesauce packet, and the other is gripping Beck’s bra as she crouches down for the selfie of the both of them.
I smile at the photo, knowing I need to do this if I want to have them. Despite the fact I’m shit-your-pants level of nervous, I get out of my SUV and slide my phone into my pocket.
It’s been a week since I last spent time with Beck and Jett.
She brought him by Wrench Kings twice and the three of us had lunch out back, with Miller making googly eyes and finger waves at Jett each time he passed by. Goldie is still staying with Beck so she was helping her get some personal things sorted out in the evening, and had some work going on at her studio.
I had nothing to do but this, and I decided to do it after work on a Friday. Now, standing in my Wrench Kings polo, work pants, and boots on a strangers front porch, I’m wondering if I should have waited until the weekend and wore something a bit… nicer.
I knock a few times and stand back to wait.
When footsteps vibrate through the old wooden porch, coming from the house, I swallow down my nervousness and ready my hand for a shake.
The door opens and I’m surprised to see a man who… doesn’t really look like me at all.
“I’m not buyin’ anything.” He’s gruff and short with me, but he thinks I’m a solicitor, so I understand his attitude. Atticus hates when people try to peddle shit at the shop. He bites their head off.
I shake my head. “No, I’m not here to sell you anything.”
The man says nothing, but furrows his brow further, making my nerves flare.
“Are you Gerald Horsach?”
His gray eyes narrow as he stacks his arms over his chest. I notice gray peppering his dark hair–but still, I don’t see myself in him. His hair is darker than mine, his eyes are set wider, the shape of his face is more round and he’s shorter than me.