ChapterOne
PAUL
Shit, I’m exhausted. The sun is dipping behind the trees now but it’s been hot and humid all day. My yellow long-sleeved T-shirt clings to me, and I take my hard hat off, wiping at my brow as I let out a breath. My muscles ache and the arthritis in my knee is acting up again. God, when did I get so old? I’m not ancient, but some days I feel like it with all the new ailments my body has inflicted upon me, and the work I do doesn’t help.
Honestly, I love working with my hands, and I love being outside regardless of the weather. I couldn’t stand being at a desk all day or dealing with customers. I love machinery, I love seeing a project come together, and I have amazing coworkers.
Sometimes I think I’m getting too old for this, though. My lower back aches, my neck is sore and my hands are cramped. I’ll definitely be icing my knee when I get home, and then probably taking a nice warm bath. God, that sounds wonderful. I sigh just thinking about it.
“Hey,” one of my coworkers, Carlos, says as he slaps me on the shoulder. He’s several inches shorter than me with short black hair and dark eyes. I’d guess he’s in his early forties. His Spanish accent is there when he speaks but it’s mild since he’s lived here in Georgia most of his life. “You ready to get out of here? Some of us are meeting up for burgers and drinks in a bit if you want to join.” We met a little over four years ago when I moved across town to start over and we started working together, and he’s always been friendly, tried to make me feel like a part of the team.
My stomach growls at the mere mention of food, and honestly a drink sounds amazing, so I nod. I’m filthy, however, and I’m under no illusions about how I smell, so I’ll be heading home first to bathe and change before I join the rest of my coworkers.
Carlos smiles and waves as I pull away from the site where we’re working on a new fire station. My drive home is short, thankfully, and I make it in only ten minutes because we worked past rush hour. It was a solid ten hour day. My feet ache and I can’t wait to get out of my grungy work boots.
Arriving home, I step out of my truck, wincing at the pain in my knee as I make my way up the front steps to my ranch-style home. It’s older but in great shape. Small, with only two bedrooms and a single living area and bathroom, but it works for me. It’s in a more rural area, tucked back off the road, surrounded by trees, no neighbors close by, which I prefer. I like my privacy. I’m not big on people, and ever since my divorce I haven’t needed much space. Not to mention, the bigger the house, the bigger the emptiness.
My heart feels heavy with the reminder of how much laughter and merriment used to fill my home when my wife and son were around. The family meals, the game nights, watching movies together; dinner parties with friends, holiday gatherings, and sleep overs, delicious food, music playing constantly, and the sound of our son’s laughter echoing off the walls as he chatted and played games with his friends, or sat in front of the television. The smiles of my wife and son were the best part of my day when I walked through the door. Now silence greets me. Some days I don’t mind it, yet other days it's the loudest thing of all.
I turn the music on on my iPhone to distract myself and keep from wallowing in self-pity. After all, it’s no one’s fault but my own that I’m alone.
Once in the bathroom, I undress and toss my dirty clothes in the hamper. I relieve myself, then wash my hands and examine my reflection in the mirror as the bath water runs. I’ve had people tell me I need to get out and start dating again. That I’m plenty young and handsome enough. I’m in decent shape despite not being to the gym as often as I should be. My job helps with that.
It’s been five years since my divorce and losing my son, but I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship. That would mean opening myself up to someone, airing all my dirty laundry, and I don’t think I can do that, trust someone with my mistakes and failures. Not when they still keep me up at night.
I run my hand through my gray hair. It’s got splashes of white mixed in as well. And although I’m not crazy about the color at my age, at least my hair is thick and full. My fingers brush over my thick stubble. I’ve never had trouble growing a beard, though I do think it’s time for a shave. Rachel used to love it when I shaved. She liked my beard too, but she said the softness of my cheeks after shaving was a huge turn on for her. It was an almost sure-fire way to get her into bed.
My cock perks up at the thought of sex, and I glance down at it, nestled in a thatch of equally gray pubes. I’m not huge, but I’m decent-sized. Six inches maybe? I don’t know, I've never measured. Not that it matters when I have no one around to appreciate it. Though I honestly never liked how much of a guy's confidence in his sexual ability was attributed to the size of his dick, or why society has to make men feel inferior for being smaller. It’s not like it’s a choice. It is what it is. And as far as I’m concerned it’s not the size that matters, it’s what you do with it. Ironic, considering I haven’t done anything with mine in a long ass time.
My phone vibrates on the counter and I peer down as the screen lights up. It’s a text from Rachel.
Rachel: lunch tomorrow?
Me: Yeah, where?
Rachel: same place as always, noon
Me: sounds good see you then
I sigh and shut the water off before sliding into the oversized garden bathtub. Even though it’s a single bathroom, it’s a good-sized one. It’s got a shower large enough for two and a tub big enough for my six-foot-two-inch frame.
I moan as the heat seeps into my muscles, surrounding me as I sink lower, until I’m fully seated. If I had time for a longer bath I’d use bubbles, and candles. God, I love the smell of a good candle, the crackling sound as the flame licks the wick. The woodsy scents are my favorite. They remind me of being a kid and playing in the forest in my backyard, running through the creeks, building that treehouse with my dad when I was twelve, and making applesauce and apple pies with my mom. Sitting in the same treehouse and playing truth or dare with my best friends and sleeping under the stars. Then having a son of my own and building similar memories with him. A firepit in the backyard, roasting hotdogs and marshmallows, telling ghost stories to him and his friends as they ate Rachel’s rice krispy treats. I see his smile in my mind and a tear slides down my cheek.
God, I miss him. I wonder if the pain of his loss will ever go away. The ache, the longing, the guilt. Somehow I don’t think it will, and I’m not even sure it should. I’m not sure I want it to.
I feel another tear sliding down my cheek and wipe it away, feeling like a weight is sitting on my chest. I will myself to relax as I rest my head against the bathtub pillow I bought myself a couple of months ago, taking deep breaths in and out like my therapist taught me to. It’s been five years but there are days the grief is still so acute it feels like I’m losing him all over again. I wonder if it would be any easier to deal with if I didn’t feel responsible.
After fifteen minutes I decide it’s time to get ready to meet my coworkers, so I unplug the drain and climb out. My mind is driving me crazy anyway, and I need a distraction.
I dry myself off and hang up the towel before walking naked through the hall towards my bedroom. My knee is still bothering me but the heat from the bath helped some. I’ll take some painkillers and ice it later tonight.
I dress in jeans and a simple gray T-shirt and slide on my socks and oxfords. Then I proceed to do something with my hair which mainly consists of running some styling gel through it, blow drying it and calling it a day. I grab my keys and wallet and head out to my truck.
It takes less than ten minutes for me to reach our usual hang out. I park and head inside. Carlos and a few other coworkers are gathered around the bar. I join them and order a beer.
I’m not super close with my coworkers, but we get along well enough and I enjoy spending time with them outside of work. They’re decent people, some married, some not, but all loyal and trustworthy. Of all my coworkers, Carlos is definitely the one I’m the closest to, though I still don’t know if I’d consider him a friend. Not sure I really have any of those.
There’s a football game playing on the tv above the bar and between that and the music playing, it’s raucous and rowdy as all get out in here. But what can I expect on a Friday night?
