"Felix, if I find out that you spent your Saturday afternoon doing goddamn paperwork, we are gonna be fighting. I swear to god I'll roofie you, take you to fuckin' Vegas, and force you to have fun for once in your Type-A workaholic life."
I laugh, knowing he's in no way joking. "Fine, fine, I'll find something to do."
"Something that isn'twork. For the companyoryour house."
"Right. That."
"Bye, bro."
"See ya."
I hang up and toss the phone aside with a sigh. What do normal people do for fun on the weekend? I've always worked or found a project. I restored a ’69 Camaro, and that took a few years. But then once it was done, I only enjoyed driving it for one summer, and then I sold it. I have a '73 FJ40 in my garage right now, but it's a project I've never really even started. Even the house where I currently live was a weekend project.
I bought this place from the estate of the previous owner, an old widower who'd lived there alone for twenty years after his wife died. He'd been a hoarder, and the estate—managed by a lawyer, since he had no kids or grandkids—hadn't wanted to spend the time or resources to clean it out. So they auctioned it off for pennies on the dollar just to get rid of it. I'd paid less than what the land itself was worth—a bargain and a half since it was on a corner lot with almost two full acres, less than two blocks from downtown.
The less bargain-y part was the state of the place. The old guy had stacked garbage up to the ceiling in an un-navigable maze. The miasma was unbearable—I'd needed full PPE just to go past the front door. And that wasafterthe body had been removed.
All told, it took me two months of weekend work to get the shit cleared out. I filled two seventy-five-yard roll-off dumpsters and half of a forty-yard one. The walls were riddled with black mold, the floors were rotting through to the subfloor, and the crawlspace was full of rodents, as was the attic. I'd had to tear the place down to studs just to get to a halfway decent starting place.
I spent two years restoring that house—it was my first solo endeavor. I came up in the business working for Dad, the original owner of Crowe Construction. Back then, I was a bottom-rung rookie, fresh out of high school and just learning the ropes of the construction trade, although I'd spent my entire life on jobsites with Dad. I tagged along as a little kid, got put to work sweeping up nails and whatever, and got paid in McDonald’s and ice cream. When I turned fourteen, he officially hired me on the cleanup crew, and I worked after school and on weekends during the football and baseball off-season.
When I graduated high school, I had a D1 full-ride offer from U of M to play ball—both sports. I turned it down to take a position as a foreman for Dad…and primarily because Amy had no intention of leaving Three Rivers. She wanted to be close to her family and friends.
The irony of the thing is that after I drunkenly fucked up my entire life at Ryan Calhoun's party, Amy took a job at a hospital in Detroit, leaving me up here. I don't regret the decision not to go to U of M, but I do sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I'd taken it.
Fuck, I'm maundering. I grab my phone, close the tailgate, and jump into the cab. As I'm easing away from the house to make the U-turn in the cul-de-sac, I pass by a young family coming out of one of the finished and sold homes—the Rogers, if I remember correctly. A young Black couple with a pre-teen son and a daughter about kindergarten age. Sweet family. They're all sporting swimsuits, the kids have swim goggles on their heads, and the mom is carrying approximately seventy pounds worth of coolers, mesh bags full of sand toys, and who knows what else, while the dad wrestles a stubborn back seat down to make room for the gear Mom is carrying.
And suddenly, the beach sounds good. Not the local beaches, though—I've got nothing against tourists, for the most part, but the beaches close to town are swarmed with fudgies this time of year. I'm thinking of what we locals call Secret Beach: a spot a good thirty minutes north of town where I can reliably have the beach to myself, or mostly.
I text Bear:
Me:
heading out of town for a few hours and turning off my phone. Please try not to have any more emergencies.
He gives the message a "haha"and then sends a thumbs-up emoji. Yes, a hahaanda thumbs up. Pro-level texting, right there.
I swing by my house and change into a pair of swim trunks—my favorite pair, mainly because Riley hates when I wear them. They're super short and tight, as in 70s style. I shrug into a muscle shirt, plop a ball cap on my head, and pack a cooler with ice, a six-pack of Local's Light, and a variety of snacks. As a last-second addition, I even pick up the Louis L'Amour western from my bedside table—even though I haven't cracked it open in months.
The FJ40 in my garage is a running project—it needs updated tires and suspension, new upholstery, and the engine needs a thorough overhaul, not to mention some minor rust mitigation and fresh paint. But it runs reliably, and most importantly, I already have a winch system for taking the hard top off from when I owned that CJ. It takes about fifteen minutes since the bolts holding the top in place are stubborn, but I get the top off and the engine running.
Finally, earbuds in my pocket, cooler packed, I head north for a day at the beach.
Alone.
Go me.
Two
EMBER
Iscrape my hair out of my eyes and crank the window down all the way as I cruise the beach parking lot looking for a spot to park Pumpkin, my VW bus. The A/C conked out the day after my run-in with Kayce Dutton—I looked up how to spell his name later that same day, because when Dutchie and I watched the show, I'd been envisioning it as Casey, rather than Kayce. Anyway, point being, Pumpkin, the ungrateful bitch, decided to kill the A/C on me right as we enter the hottest days of summer.
Fixing it is beyond my meager automotive repair skills, and certainly beyond my financial means to have fixed. So, I suffer.
And yes, Felix Crowe does look a good bit like Kayce Dutton, if he were a few inches taller and had a good thirty pounds more muscle.
And a more rugged jawline.
