“Why don’t you wear real boots?” he asked me, starting the truck.
I looked down at my brown leather combats. The top of the tongue was worn and flopped out a little. I didn’t lace them to the top of the boot because they felt too constricting so I stopped the laces at the ankles. I usually tucked my worn jeans into the top of the boot because it felt practical working in the fields. I smiled to myself. I’d seen a few commercials that showed men in New York were doing the same thing, but I doubt their motivations were the same.
“Cowboy boots feel ridiculous on the foot to me. Besides, I’m a bit more rock’n’roll than country,” I admitted, staring out the passenger window.
He shook his head but smirked.
We got on the road and I rolled my window down. The ride to Skyes was quiet. I used the time to think about what I could do about Finley. She wouldn’t call me and although I’d considered calling her, I’d quickly decided that would offend her. She didn’t like me stepping on her independence. I got that. I didn’t want to force her to come home, necessarily, I just didn’t want her in danger, and since I was used to demanding things from the people I cared for, I didn’t think it an unreasonable a request. I thought her outright refusal an overreaction. Wasn’t it?
Something dawned on me.
I looked at my father. “Dad?”
He glanced at me then back on the road. “Yeah?”
“Do you think I’m a control freak?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
The swiftness in his answer stung. I wrapped my arms around myself. “Seriously?”
He nodded and I thought that would be the only response I’d get, but he spoke again. “You’ve been like that since… Well, since your mama passed, son.”
That wasn’t what I had expected him to say. I figured he’d come back with some smart-ass answer. Delving into my psyche was not only not welcome, it was about to get shot right the hell out of the dang cab. I’d immediately regretted bringing it up and wished I’d kept my distance that morning instead of encouraging the little walk down memory lane. No doubt bringing Sykes up stirred up all kinds of retrospection...on both sides.
I sank into myself a little, wondering if Dad had wanted to talk about Mom. Frankly, I didn’t want to do it. I wasn’t ready. I knew I’d never be ready, ever. My chest throbbed, even my skin seemed to retreat into itself. The mere idea of my mother made me shudder. I missed her with a violence I couldn’t quite voice. I yearned for her with a frightening ferociousness.
I bit down hard, my jaw clenching, refusing to acknowledge the excruciating torment that was the absence of my mother.
But my father had different ideas. “I’m sorry for you,” he said quietly.
“I can’t talk about it yet, Dad.”
He looked at me with pity.
I stared at him hard. “No! Don’t do that. Don’t you dare do that!” His eyes softened, turning almost glassy. I turned toward the window. “Don’t, Dad. Just don’t.”
I heard him swallow. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, Ethan, it means I’ve done you quite an injustice.”
Light tears leaked from my eyes despite my best efforts. “No,” I insisted. “Stop.”
“I didn’t know how to handle your grief because I was blinded by my own. I failed you and-and I’m sorry for that.”
“Stop,” I begged. I sighed, trying to keep myself in check. I dragged my palms down my face then back up again, tugging at my hair to distract myself.
My dad shook his head and focused on the road. “Poor boy,” I barely registered, sending the pain spiraling deep into my belly.
I let anger rise and take over. I clenched my jaw, steeling myself. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” I demanded, my fists balling. “I’m not one to pity, old man.”
He looked at me and his eyes told me he disagreed. He nodded his concession, but it did nothing to settle my unease. I was a control freak with mommy issues. I was pathetic, yes, but I didn’t want anyone’s pity, not even Dad’s. I was going to tow my grief alone because it was what I was comfortable with. To me, nothing beat familiarity, even if the familiar was agony.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We sat in silence at Sykes, Delia buzzing about behind the counter. She eyed us warily, probably reading our body language. Correction, my body language. I was tense because my dad kept looking at me like he wanted to hug me, and I wanted to run the other direction. I loved my dad more than I loved myself but I couldn’t wrap my head around this newfound revelation of his. I was accustomed to the quiet, minimal conversationalist dad. Not that he’d been talking my ear off or anything, it was just more than I was used to hearing.
Delia approached us cautiously. “Can I get you boys anything else?” she asked.
We both shook our heads and she walked off.
“Have you talked to the Dyer girl?” he asked out of nowhere.
“Not really,” I admitted.
He took a sip of his coffee. “Why?”
I sighed. “Because she’s pissed at me.”
My dad winced. “Why the language, Ethan?” he asked before continuing. “What did you do to her anyway?”
I stared at my plate, pushing eggs around with my fork. “I sort of demanded she come home.”
His cup clinked on its saucer, startling me, and I looked at him.
“Why would you do that?” he asked.