nonchalance.
“You’re going to miss your ferry.” I nodded toward the clock on the oven.
“I might be the one with the messy life, but you’re a jerk.” She grabbed her bag and slammed the door on her way out.
Happy Fucking Valentine’s Day. At least I didn’t spend the money on lingerie she’d probably wear for Rick. Asshole.
I took my frustration out on the woodpile. I chopped, split, and stacked a cord of wood the week following Valentine’s Day. Diane had enough wood stacked next to the house to last all winter. So did the three neighbors’ houses on either side. That might be exaggerated a little, but I had a lot of pent up anger and frustration.
According to Donnely, those weren’t the only pent up things about me. That’s how he convinced me to tag along with him to Everett to see some band. He promised we wouldn’t run into anyone from high school or any exes. Or for him, “Repeats.” Donnely was all class.
The band played mostly classic rock covers. I may have been born in the 80s, but my music taste definitely leaned a decade or two earlier. Listening to the band crank out Mustang Sally , I got lost in my head. I missed Kelly. Missing her made me angry. Angry about her stupid non-divorce-divorce and marriage. Angry at myself for letting myself start to fall. Yeah, she was a lot of work, but she was Kelly Gordon. The girl who held my teen heart in her hands for four years. She thought I kidded when I told her about my crush. I should’ve known better than to think things would have worked out for us. Second chances in love were bullshit.
Maggie’s face popped into my head. She’d found her second chance with Gil. I blamed her for my current situation. I believed in her fairy tale. Confused it with my own life. What did I have to show for it? A lot of chopped wood and an empty bed.
After draining the rest of my beer, I scanned the room. Fuck second chances. I was going to take a page from the old me and listen to Donnely.
Where was Donnely? I scanned the room. He sat at the bar next to a blonde. At least he had a consistent type. I remembered his attempts to pick up Diane at the Doghouse. Crashed and burned. Yet he continued to put himself out there, thinking eventually he’d hit gold.
I ambled over to him. It turned out the blonde had a friend— a bored looking brunette. She eyed me and then smiled, pleased with what she saw. Worked for me.
Her name was Stacey, with an ‘e’. She worked as a bookkeeper, was twenty-six, and had two cats. That’s all I can remember. She didn’t make me laugh, but she made me miss the last ferry that night.
S UNDAY NIGHTS FAMILY gathered for dinner at my uncle’s house. Every Sunday. Some people attend church on Sundays, I went to my aunt and uncle’s. Honestly, I didn’t mind it. Home-cooked meal, family, and sometimes laundry. My aunt doted on me. My uncle told fishing tales and complained about ferry lines. They were family, and on the island, traditions were important. Opening day of hunting season, opening day of fishing, and opening day of crabbing—time on the island could be measured by what was being hunted, caught, trapped, or the length of the ferry line.
Usually a cousin or two would be there. Maybe a grandkid. The dryer would be clunking in the laundry room next to the small kitchen while my aunt, and whichever female cousin or girlfriend or wife showed up, would make dinner.
Tonight was only the three of us. Quiet. Lasagna baking in the oven and the scent of garlic bread filled the house. Uncle Peter sat in his recliner, his round belly protruding, and told me about the time he had a halibut the size of a VW on the line in Alaska and lost it. Classic Peter. Always about the one who got away. Sometimes I pretended he spoke metaphorically, but more often than not it was about a big fish.
Helen called us to the long, pine dining table and coughed until Peter said grace. Once we were all seated, the grilling of
“You’re going to miss your ferry.” I nodded toward the clock on the oven.
“I might be the one with the messy life, but you’re a jerk.” She grabbed her bag and slammed the door on her way out.
Happy Fucking Valentine’s Day. At least I didn’t spend the money on lingerie she’d probably wear for Rick. Asshole.
I took my frustration out on the woodpile. I chopped, split, and stacked a cord of wood the week following Valentine’s Day. Diane had enough wood stacked next to the house to last all winter. So did the three neighbors’ houses on either side. That might be exaggerated a little, but I had a lot of pent up anger and frustration.
According to Donnely, those weren’t the only pent up things about me. That’s how he convinced me to tag along with him to Everett to see some band. He promised we wouldn’t run into anyone from high school or any exes. Or for him, “Repeats.” Donnely was all class.
The band played mostly classic rock covers. I may have been born in the 80s, but my music taste definitely leaned a decade or two earlier. Listening to the band crank out Mustang Sally , I got lost in my head. I missed Kelly. Missing her made me angry. Angry about her stupid non-divorce-divorce and marriage. Angry at myself for letting myself start to fall. Yeah, she was a lot of work, but she was Kelly Gordon. The girl who held my teen heart in her hands for four years. She thought I kidded when I told her about my crush. I should’ve known better than to think things would have worked out for us. Second chances in love were bullshit.
Maggie’s face popped into my head. She’d found her second chance with Gil. I blamed her for my current situation. I believed in her fairy tale. Confused it with my own life. What did I have to show for it? A lot of chopped wood and an empty bed.
After draining the rest of my beer, I scanned the room. Fuck second chances. I was going to take a page from the old me and listen to Donnely.
Where was Donnely? I scanned the room. He sat at the bar next to a blonde. At least he had a consistent type. I remembered his attempts to pick up Diane at the Doghouse. Crashed and burned. Yet he continued to put himself out there, thinking eventually he’d hit gold.
I ambled over to him. It turned out the blonde had a friend— a bored looking brunette. She eyed me and then smiled, pleased with what she saw. Worked for me.
Her name was Stacey, with an ‘e’. She worked as a bookkeeper, was twenty-six, and had two cats. That’s all I can remember. She didn’t make me laugh, but she made me miss the last ferry that night.
S UNDAY NIGHTS FAMILY gathered for dinner at my uncle’s house. Every Sunday. Some people attend church on Sundays, I went to my aunt and uncle’s. Honestly, I didn’t mind it. Home-cooked meal, family, and sometimes laundry. My aunt doted on me. My uncle told fishing tales and complained about ferry lines. They were family, and on the island, traditions were important. Opening day of hunting season, opening day of fishing, and opening day of crabbing—time on the island could be measured by what was being hunted, caught, trapped, or the length of the ferry line.
Usually a cousin or two would be there. Maybe a grandkid. The dryer would be clunking in the laundry room next to the small kitchen while my aunt, and whichever female cousin or girlfriend or wife showed up, would make dinner.
Tonight was only the three of us. Quiet. Lasagna baking in the oven and the scent of garlic bread filled the house. Uncle Peter sat in his recliner, his round belly protruding, and told me about the time he had a halibut the size of a VW on the line in Alaska and lost it. Classic Peter. Always about the one who got away. Sometimes I pretended he spoke metaphorically, but more often than not it was about a big fish.
Helen called us to the long, pine dining table and coughed until Peter said grace. Once we were all seated, the grilling of
Similar Books
