Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“Yeah, us too,” Chase said, he and Kellan standing.
It didn’t look like I’d have many options for hanging out tonight, so I stood as well. Everyone paid, and we said goodbye to Griffin and walked out. Kellan and Chase went one way, Knox and I the other.
“You’re good with kids,” Knox said, stopping in front of a big-ass truck. Totally didn’t surprise me that this was what he drove.
“Nice Dodge. She’s pretty. And yeah, I like kids.”
He pushed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the grille. “How’d you know? About Logan? That he wouldn’t be into the party?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t really, I guess. Just a feeling I got. He reminds me of myself when I was his age, only I was a little better at playing pretend.”
Knox closed his eyes and dropped his head back.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say the wrong thing.”
“No, you didn’t. It’s true. I can’t get him to talk to me. Makes me feel like a fucking failure.” He rubbed a hand over his beard again. “Argh. I’ll figure it out. Maybe get him someone to talk to or something. I’m sure you don’t want to hear this. Have a good night.” He turned and went for the door of his truck.
“Hey…I’m always around to talk. I don’t know how much help I’d be, but I’m here.”
Knox nodded, mumbled a thanks, then got into his truck and drove away.
Foolishly, I’d been hoping he would ask for my phone number.
CHAPTER SIX
Knox
Was I supposed to have asked for Callum’s phone number? The stupid question had been in my head all damn night. He’d offered to talk, which had been cool of him. He didn’t have to do that. And when he and Josh spoke about going to Richmond, they swapped phone numbers… “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I grumbled quietly to myself. I was acting like a fool, dissecting our discussion over and over as if it had been something more than a person trying to be nice and make some friends.
Which went back to the phone-number thing. Callum probably thought I was an asshole the way I’d grumbled at him and walked away. I was good at grumbling, though I was a lot better than I used to be at not grumbling too. It was something I’d tried to work on over the years—talking about important shit. I’d been raised not to, and Carol and I had struggled with it in our marriage. I’d done well at being open with my kids because I’d always wanted them to be able to talk to me in ways I hadn’t with my own dad, but the rest of it hadn’t come as easily.
I set down the knife I’d been holding and doing nothing with for a good ten minutes. I was working on a bear carving. It was Saturday. I’d changed my schedule at the hardware store so I worked Monday through Friday when Logan was at school. I took him in, then he rode the bus home, and I was there a few hours later. Today I’d asked him if he wanted to come out to the barn with me, but he’d refused and continued lying on the couch with his book.
On the one hand, it was great that he enjoyed reading. It was important to me that my kids did whatever it was they loved. I didn’t have any expectations, but part of me had been disappointed. He’d said he wanted to carve with me, but anytime I asked him to do that or go fishing or anything else, he said no.
It wasn’t as if we weren’t spending any time together. We ate dinner together every night and watched movies and played video games I sucked at—all things he enjoyed, so did I have the right to be disappointed that he didn’t want to do any of my activities with me? Even though it was him who had mentioned it? I wasn’t sure. There was no manual on how to do this.
“Dad!”
The second I heard Logan’s panicked, breathless voice, I shot off my stool, knocking it to the ground, and started running toward the house. Blood rushed through my ears, my heart thudding against my chest. Logan was standing on the porch, one hand holding the other against his body. Red ran down his arm. He was gasping some, and wheezing, like he couldn’t get enough air and was trying to steady his breathing.
“Hey, it’s okay. Slow your breathing down. Where’s your inhaler?” He nodded toward his pocket, and I fished it out and held it to his mouth. “One, two, three.” On the last number I squeezed the inhaler and Logan took a breath, filling his lungs, trying to open his airway. He held his breath as I counted aloud to ten, waited a minute, before we repeated the same process.